Archive of Our Own ^beta

There are two ways to get to the Afterworld.

The first and simplest is death, when a Keeper will come to guide your soul to the Afterworld. It is a journey that everyone eventually makes. It is also inherently permanent.

The other way, for those who wish to visit the Afterworld but not to remain there, lies inside a small, rundown house on the riverbank at the edge of town.

The damn TV is broken again.

Yoongi sinks back further into the couch and glowers, spinning the remote in his hands. He’s tried turning the TV off and back on, a technique he learned from Hoseok the first time the hulking piece of useless technology went haywire, to no effect. The tiny button on the remote labeled “HELP” has done nothing of the sort. Yoongi is stumped.

“Punk ass piece of shit,” Yoongi grumbles. He should have just stuck with his old radio. At least he knew how the radio worked.

But Hoseok had insisted that the TV would be better. He said it would have the weather reports and—after Hoseok put some work into it—still intercept all the signals from the Afterworld Yoongi needs to keep an eye on. And his promises have all held true, Yoongi will admit. The problem is that he can’t see anything at all if the TV is fucking broken.

Yoongi’s head throbs. He wants coffee. It’s one of the few things guaranteed to calm the annoyance bubbling inside his chest, but a glance at the clock above the TV tells him it’s quarter to eleven. A tiny voice inside his head that sounds annoyingly like Hoseok says that it’s too late for caffeine. But Hoseok isn’t here to judge him, and won’t be for another week at least. Which also means the TV won’t be fixed for another week—a thought which in turn intensifies the throbbing in Yoongi’s head and makes his coffee craving even stronger.

Yoongi hauls himself up off the couch and tosses the remote back onto the cushions. He groans, and the house groans with him. The walls sigh out a quiet complaint against the weight of the protections that coat them.

His house isn’t large or particularly hard to navigate, but things are complicated by the way his shop bleeds from the entryway into the living room. Yoongi sidesteps chairs and tables and desks with practiced ease. Trinkets and knick knacks are stacked on every available surface, glinting and glimmering at the corner of Yoongi’s eyes, begging for his attention. Look at me, look at me, I’m just the thing you need.

Yoongi ignores them. He does need them, will need them at some point—otherwise they never would have found their way into his shop—but at the moment the only thing he truly needs is some damn coffee.

Yoongi is extricating himself from the edge of the clutter, where the entryway splits off into the kitchen, when there’s a knock at the door. He fumbles, trips, and nearly crashes into a model of the solar system that is balanced precariously on a chair. He catches himself at the last second, and then holds perfectly still. Curse customers who think they can show up at any old time. If Yoongi ignores the door and waits, maybe whoever is on the other side will decide to come back in the morning. Very rarely are things actually urgent.

The person at the door knocks again, loudly. And then again, and again.

“Fine,” Yoongi sighs. “Fuck, fine, I’m coming.”

He stalks to the door and yanks it open, a demand to fuck off already on the tip of his tongue, only to have the words die on his lips.

The guy on the other side of the door is reminiscent of a number of Yoongi’s previous customers. The small minority, who show up wishing for something other than a physical object. Yoongi can see it in the determined set of his chin and the desperation in his eyes. In the winter parka he wears despite the balmy August night.

It is common knowledge that the Afterworld is cold.

Very rarely, things are actually urgent.

Yoongi exhales slowly. “Come in,” he says, opening the door wider and moving aside. The guy hesitates for just a second before stepping over the threshold into Yoongi’s house. Yoongi shuts the door behind him.

Inside, in the softer light, Yoongi takes a good look at him. The guy is in his mid-twenties, taller than Yoongi, with hair dyed a light brown. A pair of round glasses sit on his nose. His expression is carefully neutral, for all that his mouth looks like it smiles often.

They stand there in the entryway, sizing each other up in silence. Yoongi doesn’t miss the way the guy’s eyes flicker to the tattoos that run from Yoongi’s fingertips up to his neck—the protections he has had inked into his very skin. He doesn’t say anything, though, or recoil like some other customers have. It’s a relief; one less difficulty for Yoongi’s evening.

“Well?” Yoongi asks after a moment. He crosses his arms and quirks a brow. “Are you gonna tell me why you were pounding on my door at fucking eleven at night?”

“I need help.” The guy’s voice is deeper than Yoongi was expecting. Warm, but not like the sticky heat outside. Like the comforting warmth of a fire on a cold winter day. Yoongi wraps his arms more tightly around himself.

“Don’t we all,” he mutters, then clears his throat. “What with?”

“I need to go to the Afterworld.” The guy holds his ground, watching Yoongi’s reaction carefully. “There’s someone there I have to get a message to—”

“No offense,” Yoongi breaks in, “but no one who’s dead is going to give a fuck about a message from the living.”

“He’s not dead,” the guy says with calm certainty. Yoongi raises an eyebrow, and the guy continues, “He’s just… there for a while. But something came up and— he said that if I needed to, I could come here, and you could help me.”

“Who?” The word jumps from Yoongi’s throat before he can think. Word-of-mouth is the lifeblood of Yoongi’s business, but whose words are incredibly important. The person who this guy needs to see, who knew about Yoongi’s shop is in the Afterworld but isn’t dead. That means they must be a Keeper, and Keepers knowing about Yoongi’s shop is bad, bad news.

“Jimin,” the guy says simply, as if he expects Yoongi to know who that is.

And the thing is, Yoongi does know. He remembers all his customers, albeit some better than others. The memory of a chubby-cheeked teenager, eyes burning with fire, is clear in his mind. The kid went by Jimin, and for sixteen years he had believed his mom to be dead. After finding out the truth, that his mom belonged to the ranks of the Keepers, he decided he wanted to see her. Needed to see her. And so he had shown up at Yoongi’s shop.

Although relationships between Keepers and humans are explicitly forbidden, they are not uncommon. Children born of these relationships are not uncommon, either. They and their children are the world’s fortune tellers and herb witches, the teachers who seem to have eyes on the back of their heads, and the venture capitalists who have a sixth sense about what hot new company to invest in. They are the magic in a world that shouldn’t have magic, and the Keepers resent them for it. There are even Keepers whose job it is to find these children and bring them back to the Afterworld.

That had been Yoongi’s job, once.

“Shit.” Yoongi’s throat goes dry. The thought of that kid who was scared shitless but fiercely determined, who had smiled so brightly when Yoongi agreed to ferry him over, being stuck under the Keeper’s watch makes his chest ache. “They got him?”

The guy nods, gaze serious. “They did, but it’s not permanent. Jimin is—” He cuts himself off.

Jimin is what? Yoongi almost asks, but he has better sense than to pursue a secret that isn’t his to know. “All right,” he says instead. “I’ll help you.”

The guy brightens. He takes an eager half-step forward, but Yoongi holds up a hand.

“What will your payment be?” he asks, and the answer is quick.

“Anything,” the guy says, eyes burning with earnestness. “I’ll pay anything.”

A gust of wind slams into the the house. It whistles beneath the eaves, rattles the windows. Wind chimes clatter and clang, combining into a single cacophonous chorus: caution, beware, danger danger danger.

The guy nearly jumps out of his skin, but Yoongi doesn’t so much as flinch. He closes his eyes, inhales deeply through his nose, and thinks.

The offer is tempting. Yoongi could ask for anything. A heart, a soul, a lifeforce. He could have more power than he’s had since he left the Afterworld all those years ago—but Yoongi isn’t cruel, nor is he stupid. The imbalance would be too great. Magic requires that the cost and the reward always be equal, or the universe will forcibly balance things out. Even if Yoongi were greedy enough ask for a soul, in the process he might lose much, much more that what he gained.

Yoongi opens his eyes.

“Never make an offer like that, especially while you’re in the Afterworld,” he says, voice ice. “You will lose your life, or worse.” He looks the guy over, eyes narrowed. The guy gulps, but doesn’t look away. Yoongi nods once. “Your name,” he says. “I’ll take your name as payment.”

The guy doesn’t hesitate. “Okay.”

Yoongi nods again. He leads the way not into the maze of trinkets, but to a desk in the entryway that holds an assortment of brushes, pens, and ink, and a wasteland of empty coffee mugs. Yoongi clears some space, and then grabs a sheet of the paper he uses for writing charms and wards from a drawer. The mugs rattle when he nudges the drawer closed with his hip.

The guy watches with fascination. “Will you need my name in blood?” he asks, and Yoongi snorts.

“Nah, pen will be fine.” Yoongi spreads the sheet out, then grabs a stray ballpoint pen a cup full of markers. He goes to hand the pen over before thinking better of it. “You do know what power this will give me over you, right?” he asks, holding the pen back. He’s not about to let this guy sign away part of his autonomy without knowing it.

“Having my name will allow you to call me at any time, and I will be required to answer,” the guy recites dutifully, as if he’s memorized it from a book or something. Maybe he has. “If I gave it to you in blood, you would also have the power to control my actions.” He raises an eyebrow, challenging.

Yoongi shakes his head and hands the pen over. “You knew, and yet you still offered,” he says, incredulous. The guy chuckles, a deep rumble that Yoongi can feel in his bones, and takes the pen.

“I’m not completely clueless about magic,” he says mildly. “I knew what I was offering earlier, too.” He uncaps the pen and leans over the paper. “Do I just sign?”

“Print, and then sign under it.”

The guy nods, and within seconds it’s done. He puts the cap back on the pen and Yoongi picks the paper up.

“Kim Taehyung,” Yoongi reads. He glances up and gives a crooked smile. “Nice to meet you.”

“Same,” Taehyung says brightly.

Yoongi nods, satisfied, and folds the paper neatly into eighths. Later it will go into the book he keeps for such things, but for the moment it will be better to have on hand—especially when they’re in the Afterworld. He tucks it into his pocket.

“We can leave in about an hour,” Yoongi says. He steps away from the desk, socked feet shuffling across the hardwood floor. “At midnight.”

“The witching hour.” Taehyung says softly.

Yoongi gives a half-shrug. “Sure, if you believe in those things.”

“I do,” Taehyung says, smiling bright and wide.

Yoongi looks back over his shoulder. The corner of his mouth twitches as he says, “Good,” then turns away again. “You can make yourself comfortable.” He gestures toward the couch, just visible on the other side of the clutter of knicknacks. “Do you want coffee or anything?”

Now that the excitement is over, Yoongi’s coffee craving has returned in force. He’ll need the caffeine now anyway, what with the night ahead of them. He starts for the kitchen.

“Wait!”

Taehyung reaches out for Yoongi, then catches himself at the last second, his fingers inches from Yoongi’s wrist. Yoongi gives him a curious look and Taehyung smiles again, sheepish.

“What can I call you? Jimin didn’t tell me.”

Yoongi hesitates. He doesn’t usually give out his name to customers, but that’s primarily because most of his customers don’t care. They’re here for the services he provides, not for Yoongi himself. His name is no more consequential to them than the name of the poor hungover college kid who makes their triple shot mocha with extra whip at six in the morning every Monday.

It’s not that he can’t give his customers a name to call him by. He can, and has, every now and then. He gave a name to Jimin, all those years ago. He’s a little surprised that Jimin had the discretion not to pass the name on to his friend.

“You can call me Yoongi,” he says after a moment. It’s his most common name, out of the many he keeps for different occasions. It’s worn and familiar, much more comfortable than the true name his parents had given him at birth. At this point he hardly even remembers what his true name was. “Do you want coffee or not?”

Taehyung shakes his head and Yoongi shrugs, suit yourself, before resuming his trek to the kitchen. When he returns with a mug of steaming coffee in hand, he finds Taehyung sitting stiffly on the very edge of the couch. Yoongi settles carefully onto the opposite end. He always means to buy a few chairs, for when customers end up having to stay for a while, but he always forgets.

Taehyung is staring at the TV with his eyebrows furrowed. The TV is still glowing just as obnoxiously as it had been doing before Taehyung arrived. Yoongi shoots it a glare.

“Sorry, it’s gonna be a pretty boring wait. TV’s broken,” Yoongi says. He clutches his mug tightly, letting the warmth sap away some of his annoyance at technology.

“Broken?” Taehyung turns his confused gaze to Yoongi.

Yoongi nods into the rim of his mug. He takes a sip before pulling a hand away to gesture vaguely at the screen. “It’s been like this since last night.”

“Oh,” Taehyung says. His eyes flicker to the TV before coming back to Yoongi. “Um, I think it’s just on HDMI mode, actually.” He speaks cautiously, trailing off as he watches Yoongi’s expression change to one of perplexion.

“HDMI?” Yoongi pronounces each letter slowly. “Is that a… whatsit… one of those virus thingamajigs?”

Taehyung’s face is doing strange things. First his eyebrows shoot upward in surprise, before swooping back down and pulling together as he bites down on his lip. If Yoongi didn’t know better, he might think Taehyung was trying not to laugh. “No,” Taehyung says, voice slightly strained. He coughs. “It’s a, um.... can I see your remote?”

Yoongi watches Taehyung suspiciously from the corner of his eye as he grabs the remote from where he had dropped it on the coffee table and hands it over. Taehyung takes the remote with a small smile. He pores over the buttons for a second before letting out a soft a-ha! and pressing something.

Just like that, Yoongi’s TV comes back to life. The weather channel is on, with a lady using the green screen to point out weather trends across the nation for the upcoming week.

Yoongi gapes. “You fixed it,” he says, voice tinged with awe. He had spent hours trying to figure out what button to press on that damn thing before giving up. Taehyung had found the right one in seconds.

“I didn’t fix it,” Taehyung insists, but he’s grinning anyway. He holds out the remote and Yoongi takes it back reverently, careful not to press any of the buttons. Taehyung is definitely holding back laughter now. “It was just on a different setting.”

“Amazing,” Yoongi mutters as he sets the remote down carefully on the coffee table. The meteorologist zooms in on their region, highlighting a storm front that is moving in. It grabs Yoongi’s attention, and he leans closer, careful not to spill his coffee. Thunderstorms will be hitting the area within the hour, the meteorologist says. The radar shows heavy precipitation passing right above them.

Yoongi’s lips pull into a smile and he sets his mug down on the table. A storm isn’t necessary for passage to the Afterworld, but it does make things easier. He stands, shoulders suddenly feeling much lighter than they did five minutes ago, and saunters behind the couch toward one of the shelving units pushed up against the wall. Yoongi closes his eyes, reaches his mind out, and feels.

The object he’s looking for calls to him from closer to the entryway. Yoongi follows its voice, trailing his fingers along the edges of the shelves. He bypasses a a pair of beat up sneakers, a mask, and a magnifying glass before finding what he’s looking for. Despite being halfway hidden behind a box of faded polaroids, the object still contrives to catch the light. A spectrum of blues spangles Yoongi’s hand as he reaches to pick the pendant up.

When Yoongi turns he finds eyes on him. Taehyung has twisted around in the couch to watch, his eyebrows once again pulled together in confusion. Yoongi shuffles back over to him and holds out the fist the pendant is enclosed in. Taehyung automatically cups his hands and holds them out. Yoongi lays the pendant lightly against his palms and says, “Payment.”

Taehyung blinks. “I didn’t even do anything, though!” he protests. “The TV wasn’t broken, I just changed the setting—”

Yoongi ignores him, making a beeline back to his coffee. “I wouldn’t have been able to figure it out on my own,” he says. He wraps his hands around the mug, letting the warmth seep back into his fingers. “You got my TV running properly for me. That’s a service, and every service requires payment. Otherwise things go out of balance.” Yoongi brings his mug to his lips, only to pause at the second to shoot Taehyung a look over the rim. “Unless you want the weight of an uneven deal to come back and bite me in the ass later?”

Taehyung’s eyes widen and he shakes his head. Satisfied, Yoongi breaks eye contact and takes a sip of his coffee. Taehyung stares down at the pendant nestled in his hands. He carefully grabs the chain and holds it aloft. The pendant, a clear blue butterfly made of a material not known to the human world, dangles and catches the light, and Taehyung gasps.

“This is—” he starts to say, whipping his head around to Yoongi again. “Jimin said he lost this. His dad was furious. He grounded him for months.” His voice is low and hoarse. Yoongi doesn’t miss the accusing undertone.

“It was his payment,” Yoongi says simply. He keeps his eyes on the TV, pointedly avoiding looking at Taehyung. Even without looking, he can tell Taehyung is gaping at him.

“That… explains a lot,” Taehyung finally says. From his peripheral vision, Yoongi sees Taehyung reel the pendant in and hold it closer to his face. He turns the small blue butterfly over and over, and the blue refractions shift over his hands, across his face. After a moment, he turns toward Yoongi and holds the pendant out. “I can’t take this,” Taehyung says. “All I did was press a button. This is worth way too much.”

“I’m not giving it to you.” Yoongi resists the urge to roll his eyes. Sometimes dealing with humans is amusing, but other times it’s tiring. Like hell he would hand over a Keeper’s pendant for the sake of something so trivial as a TV. “I’m letting you borrow it. It’s a protection charm, the strongest kind out there. It will help you come back safe—at which point you will give it back to me.” Actually, it’s almost guaranteed to bring him back, but Yoongi doesn’t say that. No need to encourage Taehyung into taking unnecessary risks.

Taehyung still looks unconvinced, but he nods and wraps his fingers around the butterfly. He holds it tightly for a second before hesitantly slipping it over his head. The butterfly rests against his sternum. Taehyung tucks it carefully into the winter jacket he still hasn’t bothered to take off.

“Is there anything else that you need to take care of before we leave?” Taehyung asks.

“Not really,” Yoongi says with a shrug. “I’ll probably head out back in about half an hour to start getting the boat ready.”

“Boat?” Taehyung’s eyes widen.

Yoongi smirks. “What? Did you think we were going to fly there?”

It takes Yoongi a couple tries to get the boat’s motor running. Taehyung sits at the front end of the boat, facing Yoongi and looking uneasy. The storm had rolled in right on time, the skies opening not even ten minutes earlier. Outside the cover of the tiny makeshift dock Yoongi has constructed behind his house, the rain pours down. Thunder rolls in the distance.

“There we go,” Yoongi huffs as the motor finally jumps to life. The noise grates on his ears, making him grimace and hasten to navigate them away from the dock. As they leave the cover, Taehyung scrunches his face in anticipation of the downpour. Yoongi smiles.

The roar of the motor is abruptly replaced by the muted sound of rain pounding against glass. Taehyung cautiously opens first one eye, then the other, and then gapes.

A bubble, shimmering in the weak glow of the electric lantern sitting in the middle of the boat, stretches above and over them, enclosing their boat in a halo of hazy reflected light. Their own images stare back at them, slightly distorted by the splash and slide of the rain, like looking out the window on a stormy night. The rest of the universe falls away, leaving only Yoongi, Taehyung, and their tiny boat. They could be going anywhere.

Taehyung twists to look all around, only to be met with his own awed expression at every turn.
Enthralled, he reaches out a hand.

“Don’t mess with it,” Yoongi snaps.

Taehyung immediately yanks his hand back, but continues to stare around with his hand cradled against his chest. “What is it?” He asks, voice hushed and almost reverent.

“Magic,” Yoongi deadpans.

Taehyung jerks his head back and looks at him for a second, then bursts into laughter. It’s the same laugh from before, deep and rumbling and echoing straight into the deepest corners of Yoongi’s soul.

“Of course,” Taehyung says, soft and amazed. “Magic.”

His eyes are still wide, shining as if they contain a multitude of stars and perhaps, Yoongi thinks distractedly, when the universe had fallen away it had dropped straight into Taehyung’s eyes. Yoongi has ferried many people over the years. Some had been unnerved by the magic barrier, hunching down into themselves and keeping their gazes fixed firmly on the floor of the boat. Others hadn’t so much as batted an eye. Very few had reacted with the pure wonder that Taehyung has. Yoongi finds himself enraptured.

The motor gives a particularly strong, albeit silent, splutter. The familiar vibrations ground Yoongi and bring him back to the present. “Behave,” Yoongi scolds it. Now that he’s paying attention, Yoongi realizes they’re closer to the Afterworld than he had thought. There’s already a telltale fog forming along the inside surface of their bubble as the temperature outside drops.

Now Yoongi scolds himself. Spacing out on a passage is just about the most reckless thing he could possibly do. All metaphors aside, they haven’t actually left the universe; they’re right on the brink of this world and the next. The tipping point is critical, and a smooth crossing requires Yoongi to be aware of exactly where they are.

The fog blooms in earnest, obscuring any last glimpses of the outside world. Taehyung watches it curiously, and Yoongi is hit with a sudden pang of anxiety. Yoongi’s job is to get his clients to the Afterworld—and then back, if they make it by the arranged meeting time. That’s the extent of it. Who they are, what they are, and what they do in the Afterworld is of no consequence to him.

But Taehyung—

Yoongi is worried for Taehyung. Wants him to be safe, wants him to come back. It’s a feeling he rarely experiences, and that knowledge makes his chest tighten even further.

“You know the rules, right?” Yoongi blurts out. His breath forms a cloud and then disperses. Yoongi, born into the Afterworld’s unforgiving cold, barely even feels the chill, but Taehyung is hunkered down into his heavy winter jacket.

“Of course,” Taehyung says, smile still dreamlike. “Jimin drilled them into me, back before.”

Yoongi frowns, the fluttering worry in his chest unconvinced. “No—” he starts to say.

“—Names,” Taehyung finishes for him. “No food, no contact with those who have passed beyond. No lingering. Stay only as long as you absolutely need to.”

Yoongi’s anxiety is hardly appeased, but he gives a reluctant nod anyway. Taehyung reaches out and pats his knee. The action startles Yoongi, and he jerks back. Not once in his long, long life has he been comforted by a human, yet here Taehyung is, grinning at him and saying, “Don’t worry, I’ll be fine.”

Yoongi clears his throat. “Hope you’re right,” he says, “because we’re here.”

Yoongi’s tattoos tingle unpleasantly, the magic etched into his skin activating as their boat passes through the last barrier and into the waters of the Afterworld. Yoongi reaches forward to switch off the lantern. His eyes close for a moment, and the bubble around them vanishes.

The edge of the Afterworld is calm, not so much as a raindrop in sight. Everything is wrapped in the fuzzy darkness of a room lit only by distant street lights seeping through the window. The boat cuts through the water without leaving any ripples. Soft spots of light appear in the distance, and Yoongi gently steers in that direction.

As they approach, the lights take on the shape of other boats, larger and nicer than their own motorboat and all gliding silently toward the same destination. Soon Yoongi and Taehyung are sailing straight into the middle of the crowd. One of the other boats passes by them so closely that Yoongi could easily reach out to touch the smooth metal side. Taehyung startles and shies away from the hull, shooting Yoongi a concerned look.

“It’s okay, they can’t see us,” Yoongi says quietly. They can’t hear them either, but there’s something about the being back in the Afterworld that always leaves Yoongi choked up, a kind of automatic anxiety that presses down on his chest. He keeps careful watch on the boats around them, making sure there won’t be any collisions. His free hand holds tightly to his boat’s hull. The sigils for silence, invisibility, and safety scratched into the sides are comforting beneath his fingers.

Eventually they reach a harbor of sorts, and the boats peel away to head to different docks. Yoongi steers them straight to a dock at the far end. There’s a mooring there, tucked in right up close to the boardwalk, that has been marked off with caution tape. It’s unsafe, has some loose boards, needs repair—it’s been that way for years now, but no one ever comes to fix it.

The mooring had been the one concession Yoongi had been able to beg off of Seokjin before he left. It’s not much, but a safe place to land and Seokjin’s silence following Yoongi’s disappearance from the Keepers’ ranks had been much more than Yoongi had any right to ask for.

Yoongi eases up to the mooring, kills the motor, and gets them tied up with the ease of years of practice. Boat secured, he gives Taehyung a quick, appraising once-over. Taehyung’s expression is serious now and his shoulders are squared. He has his bottom lip pulled between his teeth, but he doesn’t seem scared, not in the way that many of Yoongi’s prior clients have.

“All right,” Yoongi says. “You know the drill. You have three hours to do your thing and get back here. You won’t be able to see the boat, but I’ll be here.”

Taehyung nods and stands. It takes him a second to find his balance, then he treats Yoongi with another one of his bright smiles.

“Thanks,” he says. “See you soon.”

As Taehyung starts to step out of the boat, the emotions Yoongi has been trying to suppress surge in his chest. He reaches out, fingers grasping the slippery fabric of Taehyung’s puffy coat. Taehyung looks back at him, his eyes full of questions Yoongi doesn’t want to answer.

“Good luck.”

The words come out more gruffly than Yoongi had intended. The Afterworld is still pressing down on him, tangling his vocal chords into knots. He clears his throat and lets go of Taehyung’s sleeve.

For a second Taehyung’s face is impossible to read. Then he flashes another smile and gives Yoongi a thumbs up before climbing off the boat. From the dock, he waves back to Yoongi, despite the fact that Yoongi knows Taehyung can no longer see the boat. Then Taehyung is gone, following the instructions Yoongi had given him earlier and climbing the stairs from the dock to blend into the stream of people on the boardwalk.

Yoongi sighs and slumps back into his seat. His tattoos sting. He rubs his arm absentmindedly as he closes his eyes and tips his head back. He, more than anyone, should know the importance of words. Dropping a luck charm like that, in a place where it’s absolutely imperative for him to go unnoticed, was a mistake. He knows better than that, and yet—

“Shit,” Yoongi mutters. He can’t afford to care about his customers, not in this line of business, and yet his mind is full of worry for Taehyung. He’s gone and gotten attached; climbed right to the top of that slippery slope and made himself at home. His blood pulses in his ears: stupid, stupid, stupid.

Taehyung should be reaching the end of the boardwalk now, cutting away from the crowd to go whichever direction he believes will lead him to Jimin. Yoongi itches to turn and try to catch a glimpse, but he knows he can’t. He has rules of his own to keep here: no lights, no looking back, and no venturing beyond the confines of his boat. The second he breaks any of those rules, all the sigils and charms and magic in the world won’t be able to save him. Yoongi’s former supervisors would love nothing more than to get their hands on him. There’s no fucking way he’s going to give them that chance.

Yoongi settles back on his seat and shoves all thoughts of Taehyung from his mind. All Yoongi can do now is wait, so that’s exactly what he does. Yoongi knows the rules, but he also knows how to bend them. He pulls his cell phone from his back pocket—a flip phone Hoseok had bestowed upon him a couple years back—and opens it. There’s no technology like this in the Afterworld; magic is, in fact, rather resistant to electronics. The no lights rule completely overlooks the glow of his phone screen.

Yoongi has an uneasy truce with his phone. It has yet to fail him like his TV is wont to do, but he doesn’t really understand it either. He has two contacts, Hoseok and Namjoon, and he can get the phone to call whichever one of them he needs. One time Namjoon had texted him, and Yoongi had performed an exorcism on his phone, thinking something had possessed it. Texts are off limits now.

There’s one thing aside from phone calls that Yoongi knows how to do, though. He found it one day by accident when he clicked left instead of right and ended up in the games menu. Curious, he had opened the first option. The name of the game is a lie—the line of black pixels hardly resembles any of the snakes Yoongi has ever met—but it’s an amusing way to pass time.

Yoongi opens the game and gets to work chasing down pixel dots. Time ebbs and flows around him. It works differently here, running sideways and backwards, jerking around corners or flowing in circles at will. The first hour passes in a minute, and the second minute lasts an hour.

The third hour starts out slow then gathers momentum under the surface, rolling in like a wave about to crest. Yoongi keeps his eyes on the game, ignoring the part of his mind that screams about how Taehyung is running out of time. His fingers slip, sending his snake careening into the wall.

When footsteps approach along the dock and then stop by his boat, just a few minutes before the third hour is up, Yoongi lets out a sigh that feels suspiciously like relief. He snaps his phone shut and glances up. Taehyung is standing at the very edge of the dock, looking around nervously as if afraid someone will spot him on the wrong side of the caution tape.

Yoongi stands and tucks his phone into his pocket. As long as his feet stay firmly planted in the boat, touching someone in the Afterworld doesn’t technically count against him, so he bends the rules again and carefully, carefully stretches out a hand. He taps Taehyung lightly on the wrist then snatches his hand back. One time a lady had jumped backward and nearly pulled Yoongi out of the boat with her. Taehyung’s head jerks in surprise and he looks down at his hand. Encouraged, Yoongi gives him another warning tap, then gently wraps his fingers around Taehyung’s wrist.

Taehyung allows Yoongi to carefully guide him back onto the boat. The second his feet connect with the boat’s floor, Taehyung blinks rapidly, as if clearing the remnants of a dream from his eyes. Then he glances from Yoongi’s hands on his up to Yoongi’s face, smiles tiredly, and says, “Hey.”

“Welcome back,” Yoongi says. “Find what you were looking for?”

Taehyung’s smile falters. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah I— I found him.”

Yoongi notices now the exhausted slump to Taehyung’s shoulders, the worry etched across his face that draws his eyebrows together. Taehyung looks like he’s been gone three years instead of three hours.

“What happened?”

The second the words leave his mouth, Yoongi regrets them. He’s already crossed too many invisible lines tonight—lines that need to be upheld for the sake of his work and his sanity. But what he regrets more than more than breaking any of his personal rules is the way Taehyung immediately closes himself off. The smile disappears from his face, replaced with a mask of careful neutrality.

“Nothing,” Taehyung says. He pulls his hands from Yoongi’s hold and takes a small step backward. He brings one hand to his chest, fingers digging into the padded fabric of his jacket over where the pendant is hidden. “It was fine.”

Yoongi can only watch, at a loss, as Taehyung settles onto the bench, carefully avoiding Yoongi’s gaze. I’m sorry, Yoongi wants to say. I know what the Afterworld is like, I’m sorry. But the words stick in the back of his throat, so he settles for a horribly insufficient, “Okay.”

Yoongi frees the boat from the dock and then returns to his own seat. The motor puts up a fight, as usual, and Yoongi hisses curses at it under his breath until it eventually leaps into life. There’s no sound this time, just vibrations radiating out through the hull. Yoongi glances up. Taehyung still has a hand pressed to his chest. He’s staring, unseeing, out into the semi-darkness beyond the docks.

A heaviness settles into Yoongi’s chest that he hasn’t felt in years. Not since a teenage Jimin sat on the floor of Yoongi’s boat and cried his fractured heart into numbness. For a price Yoongi can ferry people to the Afterworld and back again, but the Afterworld has a price of its own. It takes and takes and takes, not used to having to give things up again. Every single person who leaves the Afterworld also leaves part of themselves behind. Yoongi is no exception. The Afterworld has taken more from him than he cares to think about. His friends, his family, his very name.

The boat pulls away from the dock, and Yoongi steers them back out into the open waters. The only sound is the gentle swish of the other boats they weave between and the pounding in Yoongi’s ears.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

Yoongi is ashamed to admit that he’s relieved when the TV breaks again.

Hoseok isn’t supposed to stop by any time soon, which means that Yoongi has the perfect excuse to call Taehyung. It makes sense, he tells himself. It’s logical. The season finale of Interior Design Wars is on tonight, and Yoongi wants to be able to watch it properly—not with the screen all stretched out sideways like it is right now, as if the images are taffy being pulled from either side.

Of course, that same logical part of his brain also informs Yoongi that he is absolutely calling Taehyung because he wants to see him and not because his TV is broken; because he can’t help but remember the nervously optimistic Taehyung who showed up at his door, and contrast that with the careful, blank expression Taehyung had maintained the entire way back to Yoongi’s house.

Because it’s been two weeks and Yoongi can’t help but worry.

So he sits on his couch, in front of the broken TV, and invents justifications. He thinks and thinks and thinks and hesitates and turns the remote over in his hands until he finally can’t take it anymore.

He tilts his head back against the couch and tells the ceiling, “Kim Taehyung, I need you.”

It feels like something big should happen after he speaks. After how big he’s built everything up in his head, it seems like there at the very least there should be sparks or a jolt of magic. Of course, there’s nothing of the sort. The stretched out episode of Flip That House! continues to play on the screen; the windchimes still jangle softly outside. Yoongi lets out a shaky breath and stands.

It will most likely be a while before Taehyung arrives, so Yoongi abandons the TV and heads for his kitchen. He might as well get started on dinner while he waits.

Cooking is calming. The methodical chopping of vegetables helps him clear his head. He forces himself to focus on the food and the recipe, and by the time there’s a knock at the door Yoongi is just about ready to add the finishing touches to his meal.

“Coming!” Yoongi calls out as he finishes mixing pasta into sauce. He moves the pot to the back burner and makes for the door.

Taehyung is standing on Yoongi’s porch, relaxed with his hands in his pockets. He’s wearing a white dress shirt that pulls tight across his shoulders and slacks. A tag with his name on it is still pinned to his chest. He grins at Yoongi in greeting, then suddenly his eyes widen comically.

“Were you cooking? It smells wonderful in here,” he says.

Yoongi fights back the warmth that rises in his cheeks and shuffles out of the way so Taehyung can come in. “Yeah, well,” he says. He shifts his gaze to Taehyung’s name tag and frowns. “Sorry, did I call you out of work?”

“It’s fine, the bank closed hours ago,” Taehyung says, stepping over the threshold and shutting the door behind himself. “We were just doing a bunch of tedious paperwork, which I got out of thanks to you.” He beams. “I told them I had a family emergency.”

Yoongi nods slowly. Taehyung seems better today. Relaxed. The quiet, contemplative man Yoongi brought back from the Afterworld has been once more replaced by the cheerful personality that had shined through when Taehyung first showed up at Yoongi’s place. It’s a relief. The worry that has been weighing Yoongi down for the past two weeks eases slightly.

“So,” Taehyung says after a long moment. He still has one hand in his pocket, casual. Completely comfortable in Yoongi’s home. “Did you call me all the way over here to invite me to dinner, or…?”

“Ah, right,” Yoongi says. “The TV is broken again.”

“The TV?” Taehyung quirks a brow and Yoongi scowls, nodding. Taehyung’s smile transforms into a cheeky grin. “All right, then. Let’s take a look.”

He heads to the living room, dodging around the haphazard piles of odds and ends, with Yoongi trailing behind. Taehyung plops down onto the couch as if he belongs there and grabs the remote from the cushion. He looks up at the screen and lets out a small laugh. “So it’s the screen dimensions this time.”

Yoongi perches on the arm of the couch, watching Taehyung with trepidation. It takes a little longer this time. Taehyung brings up a menu and clicks through a couple options before finding what he needs. The image on screen makes several alarming jumps in size, from wide to tall to small, before going back to normal. Yoongi watches with wide eyes.

“How did you even manage to change that?” Taehyung asks, amused, when he closes back out of the menu.

“I didn’t! It changed itself out of spite.”

“Uh-huh.”

Taehyung’s voice is doing that thing Yoongi remembers, where it gets deep and warm. Yoongi keeps his eyes fixed firmly on the TV screen, where an interior designer is waxing poetic about restored hardwood floors. Not having to put new flooring in saves so much cost, she says and that’s when Yoongi remembers—right, costs.

“Your payment,” he says, standing.

He hesitates. None of the items on his shelves give him the right feeling. Not one. Yoongi frowns. That’s not how it’s supposed to work, there’s always something—

“How about dinner?” Taehyung asks, interrupting Yoongi’s thoughts. Yoongi startles and finds Taehyung smiling at him sheepishly. “I’m starving, and whatever you have cooking smells really good. If you have enough to share, I think dinner is a fitting payment.”

Yoongi turns the idea over in his head, and Taehyung is right. This feels much better than any of the things collecting dust on the shelves. Yoongi’s eyes dart back to Taehyung, sitting on Yoongi’s couch, looking like he belongs there, and finds that his mind is already made up.

“Yeah,” he says. “I have enough to share.”

It snows heavily during the new year. The snow creates a heavy blanket of silence that deters all but the most desperate of his customers, and Yoongi is grateful. He spends his days floating, creating charms in the calm, bright light that filters into his home. Some of his creations are talismans, like Jimin’s pendant; others are words are drawn in ink on translucent paper. They offer protection, mostly, and secrecy. He sets them aside in piles for Hoseok to take the next time he stops by.

Hoseok transports the charms to those who need them the most—people with Keeper blood in their veins, who are constantly at risk. Yoongi pays the price himself, in blood, and then spends days sleeping off the effects. It’s the least he can do, the smallest step toward making amends for his years among the Keepers’ ranks. Hoseok frowns in tight disapproval every time he stops by and finds Yoongi muzzy and disoriented, but takes the charms regardless. They’ve argued about this too many times for there to be any words left.

Yoongi drifts from one day to another and both loathes and longs for the approach of spring.

He calls Taehyung, more often than he should. Sometimes he actually needs his assistance, but more often he’s just making up excuses. The blessed solitude of the snow has started to give way to loneliness, and sometimes Yoongi can hardly stand it. Having Taehyung over helps. He’s always willing to play along with whatever bullshit reason Yoongi has invented, and never complains about the summons or the weather. He makes snowmen outside Yoongi’s house; Yoongi starts to keep Taehyung’s favorite hot chocolate stocked in the kitchen.

One day Taehyung calls Yoongi his friend and Yoongi gets so flustered he nearly drops his mug of coffee. The idea that he and Taehyung are friends warms him from the inside out and leaves his ears tinged pink. Taehyung grins and bumps their shoulders together, and Yoongi can’t remember the last time he was this happy.

That realization scares Yoongi. He’s being selfish. Calling Taehyung away from his everyday life just so that Yoongi can feel less lonely for a while. Mixing a regular human up in magical business. He’s not only causing Taehyung inconvenience, but potentially putting him in danger. Stupid, his brain chants at him. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

So he stops calling as often.

He doesn’t cut it off completely. Just scales it back, tries to ask for Taehyung only when he actually needs help with something. Ignores the indecipherable looks Taehyung sometimes gives him.

Today, though, Yoongi didn’t call Taehyung. He knows he didn’t. So really Yoongi has no idea why Taehyung is currently standing on his porch, snowflakes dusting his hair and dressed in the same winter jacket he’d had on that night in August.

Yoongi stares.

There are spells on Yoongi’s home, very powerful spells, that make sure it can only be found by people who have business with him. Anyone who doesn’t explicitly need his help can wander the neighborhood for days and never hear so much as a tinkling of wind chimes on the breeze. The only exemptions to that rule are Hoseok and Namjoon.

Taehyung shouldn’t be here—can’t be here—unless either Yoongi called him, or he needs something.

Yoongi didn’t call him. Which means—

“Can I come inside?” Taehyung asks. His hands are tucked into his pockets, and his cheeks are rosy from the cold.

Wordlessly, Yoongi steps aside. Taehyung removes his jacket and circumvents a basketball to hang it on a hook. Yoongi stands there, watching him, unsure what to do. If this were any other day he would gesture vaguely toward the living room and tell Taehyung to make himself at home—not that Taehyung really needs to be told anymore. Today, though, everything feels weird, tilted on its side and out of focus.

Maybe, Yoongi desperately thinks, he called Taehyung in his sleep. Maybe he said his name without realizing it. Maybe this isn’t—

“I’m here for something,” Taehyung says, and Yoongi’s heart sinks.

“Is it Jimin?”

The words catch in Yoongi’s throat, unwilling to take shape. He thinks of their trip to the Afterworld, how Taehyung almost didn’t make it back in time. He thinks of the risks Taehyung would face going back again. It’s dangerous, truly dangerous, and all the protection charms in the world might not be able to help him.

Yoongi realizes with sickening clarity that he doesn’t want to lose Taehyung.

“No,” Taehyung says. He’s still smiling. “It’s you.”

For a second, Yoongi’s world stops turning.

“Me?” he eventually croaks out. “What about me?”

“Just you,” Taehyung says. “I’ve missed you.” He ducks his head and he seems almost shy.

“You missed me?” Yoongi’s voice cracks. He feels bare, vulnerable in a way he’s completely unused to.

“Yeah.”

Taehyung shrugs and smiles, as if it’s really that simple. He missed Yoongi, so he came to see him.

Yoongi swallows hard.

“And what would you be giving in return for my company?”

“Myself,” Taehyung says, smile widening. “I like spending time with you.”

Yoongi’s heart is in his throat. He shouldn’t do this, he knows he shouldn’t, but Taehyung is looking at him with eyes full of hope and a smile full of warmth, and Yoongi has been cold for so, so long.

“Okay,” Yoongi says. The word is heavy, but Yoongi finds that once he says it a weight immediately lifts from his shoulders.

“Yeah?” Taehyung brightens further, shoulders straightening and eyes going wide.

“Yeah,” Yoongi confirms.

Taehyung laughs and rushes forward, wrapping Yoongi in a hug. Yoongi stills, frozen in his grip before slowly wrapping his arms around Taehyung’s waist. It’s been a long, long time since Yoongi’s hugged anyone. It feels unfamiliar, but like another kind of protection, too. Another kind of magic.

“Let’s go make hot chocolate,” Yoongi mumbles into Taehyung’s shoulder, and when Taehyung laughs happily Yoongi could swear that the bitter winter finally blooms into spring.