Archive of Our Own ^beta

Yoongi was carved out of marble as old as time itself, long, long ago, when the woods around him were nothing but saplings and the train tracks to the east didn’t dare to be built. If he thinks far enough back, he can remember the heavy tick of the carving tools against his marble as his creator worked, day after day, sometimes leaving him for a week or two, or even months at a time, but always coming back to work on him, to form him from the rock whilst singing beautiful things to him.

He sits, now, completely surpassed by the centuries-old trees he’s watched grow, moss growing on his north-most face, ivy beginning to creep up one of his legs. The sounds of nature, the consistent melody, seem empty without his creator’s singing.

It’s been long since he had left, but the emptiness tastes new. It seems unfamiliar, though he’s had hundreds of years to get used to it.

In the spring, he has company in the form of the soft rabbits that dart around in front of him, brown eyes so big and noses quivering curiously.

In the summer, he has the humming of cicadas, the swoop of early-morning birds, splaying their feathers against the sky before the sun fully rises and warms the world.

In the fall, he has the deer that pass through, heading somewhere warmer for the winter, in which he only has his thoughts and the occasional bird.

Somewhere nearby, perhaps directly behind him, or maybe to the side, a creek has formed, sudden though it may seem, and he hears what he can only assume are late deer splashing their way through it and crashing through the underbrush. He feels like sighing.

Every now and again, birds like to nest in his outstretched palm. They keep him company. They sing for him, like his creator used to. It’s lovely.

But it seems like instantaneously, they die and their nest is abandoned to the weather’s discretion.

He’s had a lot of time to contemplate life, or at least the idea of ‘life’. It seems like, though very short, it is beautiful, but his perception has become warped over time.

In the beginning, Seokjin, whatever magick lay in his hands, had sculpted him from unyielding white marble with intent to lure, had told him, once he was complete, that true love’s kiss would set him free; that he’d be able to love back, without hesitation, without doubt.

Seokjin, caring, gentle Seokjin, carving tools then forgotten, had cupped his face in one warm hand, so human, and leaned forward so so slowly. His lips were warm, too, soft against Yoongi’s marble, and Yoongi would have blinked if he could.

But it was all he could do to hope that, after leaning back onto his heels, Seokjin would look at him, tell him he was free; instead, he frowned to himself, letting out a heavy sigh, and stood briskly.

“Ridiculous,” he chides himself. “I’m ridiculous.”

Yoongi sits, now, completely surpassing Seokjin and his warm human hands, moss growing on his north-most face, ivy beginning to creep up one of his legs, over the slight pedestal he is carved onto. He sits, listening to the sounds of nature, before there is more noise from the underbrush.

Perhaps the deer stopped, he reasons. Is that why it’s so silent?  

Even the birds stop singing.

That’s when a low whistle registers, a few heavy steps following. They seem cautious.

Yoongi can only hope that it’s Seokjin. He knows that it’s a waste of time to hope for such things, but he’s wasted hundreds of years just by existing- what’s the harm in existing in hope instead of loneliness?

The steps continue and Yoongi is surprised to say that the man in front of him- the boy in front of him, really,- looks entirely different to what he expected.

His tunic is dark, layered too close to his neck, gaudy and awkward patterns splayed across the breadth of his chest. On top, there’s a cloak of some sort, barely reaching his hips, made of a dark, tightly woven fabric that looked to be the same as his black leg attire, which traced his legs downward, ending in large, dark shoes, very much unlike the sandals his creator wore.

The boy’s eyes are wide, his hair is dark, his nose is rounded and his lips are full. They’re parted as he looks at Yoongi, his eyes taking in all of his decrepit state, and Yoongi at least has the decency to feel self-conscious at his nakedness, though he was created this way.

The boy pulls the ivy away from Yoongi’s leg, standing back and looking at him again afterwards.

“That’s better,” he says softly. After so long, his voice was the sweetest thing Yoongi has heard in his existence, and he’s so thankful. He continues to perform some sort of maintenance, apparently, brushing the leaves and dirt from the creases of his body, pushing them away from his feet, disentangling the rest of the ivy from his leg and letting it drop limply to the ground.

He smiles, taking out a rounded square-ish object, a vibrant bright pink that reminds Yoongi of Seokjin’s blush. He points it at Yoongi, and there’s a slight movement that he can’t really be sure of, then a disgusting sound as something white slides out of the bottom of the pink square. The boy wiggles it in the air with an impish grin, glancing at it before tucking it into his trousers- a pouch of some sort, perhaps.

He’s the first person Yoongi has seen in years. Yoongi wishes he’d linger in his field of vision for longer, his cute lips parted, his eyes wide and shining in the muted forest lighting.

The boy whispers something before smiling, very much like a rabbit, eyes crinkling.

Yoongi could have sworn he said something close to ‘you’re beautiful’ but it’s been so long that he can’t trust it.

The boy outstretches his hand- oh, how Yoongi has wished for this moment! How long it has been since he’s had a human interact with him!

The boy’s fingers weren’t calloused and warm like Seokjin’s working hands had been. They were soft, clammy in the dank atmosphere of the woods, perhaps dipped in the stream at some point. They were warm, almost too warm, but they were real and solid and human, smoothing over the slight decay of his marbled surface, and Yoongi for once felt like maybe Seokjin had not been lying when he said Yoongi had been made to lure, to love.

Yoongi sits, now, moss growing on his north face, ivy pulled away from his leg, surface warming from the boy’s hand, curiously brushing over his form, over the cool marble tinged gray with age and green with moss. The boy’s fingers run across Yoongi’s mouth, the button nose, the empty stare of marble- they bless Yoongi with their presence, shower him in silent praise, whisper-faint promises of love and a kiss.

But soon enough the boy is gone, and so are Yoongi’s hopes for the future. The boy left without promise of return, without a farewell or a glance in his direction- he simply pulled a glowing box from his trousers, cussed under his breath, and jogged away.

Oh, how Yoongi longed! His loneliness seemed amplified in the shifting whispers of the forest, the soft swipe of leaves across the surface of another, the muted sounds of animals going about their business and living their very short lives- he longed to do the same!

He longed to be free of his stone confines, to stretch out his body and become limber like the wild cats that passed by him, to open his mouth and speak, to praise those who had praised him so! He longed to return the touches to the boy’s skin, to feel the silken strands of his hair pass between his fingertips as effortlessly as silk brushed past Seokjin’s hands and puddled on the floor.

Yoongi sits, now, completely surpassed by the longing creeping up his veins, moss growing on his north face, ivy no longer creeping up one of his legs, standing on the precipice of a new emotion.

It soon becomes apparent to Yoongi that this is a routine for the boy. Every few sunsets he returns, anywhere from two to seven passing before he emerges from the trees once again, but he always does, sooner or later. He sits in front of Yoongi, he sings to him.

Though he is young, he sings of love. He sings of lives lost to love, he sings of loving music, he sings of love lost- but he sings about love all the same. Yoongi can feel a tug in his chest, where he approximates his heart would beat- he feels out of place, here, listening to the boy’s wonderful music and standing immobile whilst he wants to swing to the melody; he feels out of place, here, completely naked and exposed whilst the boy sits fully clothed before him, his strange garments clashing with the greens and browns of the foliage, drawing even more attention to his form.

He feels out of place, here, beginning to love someone whose name he does not know, who does not know his own name either- but it fits that they are both unknowns. It makes them similar, like Yoongi’s growing love for the music the boy practices.

Yoongi doesn’t mind being the practice subject for his singing- it sounds lovely, even if he doesn’t recognize most of the objects or any of the places the boy sings about, nor the people. They are as unfamiliar to him as the new emotions beginning to bubble in his chest, but he associates the unknown now with the boy, the soft curve of his nose, the round doe-like eyes that glance up at him whilst singing, the smile so quick to remind him of the springtime rabbits.

Some days, the boy comes with bruises blooming under his skin like the wildflowers Yoongi watches wither. They are angry bruises, purple at the center and yellowed at the edges, they are intentional bruises.

Some days, the boy comes only to cry at Yoongi’s feet.

These are the days on which Yoongi longs most for the boy to kiss him, if only that he comfort him. But the boy doesn’t kiss him, he sits sniffling and shaking against Yoongi’s calves, and it’s the most Yoongi can hope for. He’s thankful that the boy is here at all.

One day, he brings a friend.

“It’s this way, Taetae, I promise it’s really cool!”

Yoongi is drawn from a slightly meditative state of thinking by his companion’s voice, glee apparent in his words. He’s addressing something as a Taetae, which Yoongi is unsure of. Perhaps an animal for him to play with? In the while that the boy had been visiting him, he’d never brought someone along- never even spoken his own name, but Yoongi loved the newfound sense that he was no longer alone; it made him feel that much closer to being human.

Yoongi ponders this for a second before the boy comes through the underbrush with a slightly taller boy in tow, hands clasped together as he pulls him along.

They can’t be more than teenagers, at this point, tilting dangerously on the verge of adulthood. The boy has come to Yoongi for what he thinks must be a few years now, though the seasons tend to blend together behind the boy’s wonderful singing.

“Whoa,” the newcomer sighs, his mouth falling open as he regards Yoongi’s decrepit beauty. Though the ivy had been pulled away many times, it has begun creeping up his calf again, an uncomfortable sensation that he longs for the removal of.

“How did you find this, Jungkook?” he asks quietly, his eyes comically wide. The boy, Yoongi’s boy, Jungkook, smiles.

“I was on a walk, one day. I was trying to find a place to practice singing, to practice controlling my voice, and I just sort of… found him.” Jungkook smiles, something like pride in his voice, his eyes crinkling and the same bunny-like smile peeking out at Yoongi. He feels like smiling too.

At last, another admirer! Was this person what he’d referred to as Taetae?

There was a small twinge of anticipation that churned in his stone gut before dissipating. He trusted Jungkook’s judgement.

He could trust his judgement... right?

After an agonisingly long second of silence, the newcomer shut his gaping mouth, blinking hard a few times but unable to tear his eyes away from Yoongi.

“It’s… he’s.. Lovely,” he said. Yoongi felt pride swell within him.

His creator had intended for him to be lovely, and here he was, receiving praise just as intended! Oh, even the summer sun could not comprehend a warmth close to the one that curls within him!

If Yoongi were animate at all, he would be smiling as widely as he could. As it were, he was here, in the woods with two teenage boys, moss growing on his north face, ivy beginning to once again creep up his leg.

And, as it turns out, both boys sing to him that day, sitting closer than they should, hands still woven together and resting on Jungkook’s leg.

Jungkook doesn’t bring Taetae back for a while. Taetae’s real name, as it turns out, is Taehyung. Jungkook talks about him a lot, and Yoongi has a dawning sense of realization, the more he listens to the boy talk. But he pushes it aside in favor of the hope he’s been holding onto so stubbornly.

One day, a little more than a week later, Jungkook studies him silently instead of talking. He runs his eyes over all of him, every groove finely carved, every smoothed or rounded joint, even the detailed cracks in his palms.

He sits, and he watches. His eyes are appraising, warm. Familiar.

Yoongi feels like weeping with joy. To be under the scrutiny of such loving eyes! It’s on days like this where the hope doesn’t seem so ridiculous to keep.

Jungkook’s eyes run over his face especially, and strangely, Yoongi’s eyes feel misty. He feels the drops run down his cheek before he registers Jungkook’s shock, but at that moment, the skies open up into a downpour, and his tears are dismissed as raindrops.

Easy.

One such day, where Jungkook only talks, he stops himself, looking up at Yoongi, who had been paying more attention to the sunlight turning Jungkook’s hair into spun gold than his words. He stands slowly, looking determined, a slight frown creasing his eyebrows.

He walks up to Yoongi just as slowly. His steps are light in the chilled air, crunching crisp through the dried leaves scattered about the forest floor. He stops just in front of him, looking up at him. They’re almost the same height like this, Yoongi notes, though he is standing on a carved pedestal and Jungkook stands on his own.

Yoongi’s heart would be thumping dangerously loud, if it could. He would be moving to lean into the hand Jungkook places on his cold cheek, nuzzling into the warmth of his palm and smiling at him.

But he can’t, and he doesn’t. He stands, scared, cowardly. Jungkook whispers something he can’t quite catch that sounds dangerously close to “Taehyung-ah,” leaning in slowly, and this is what Yoongi has been waiting for! The boy with the beautiful voice and soft words, who came to him just to talk and sing and sometimes sit quietly, who cleared the creeping ivy off of his leg; the boy with the smile reminiscent of the springtime rabbits that would hop near his feet, the laugh brighter than the sun, melodies contained behind his lips just waiting to spring free and bless Yoongi’s ears; the boy, Jungkook, whose lips were now barely an inch from Yoongi’s marble ones, parted slightly and hesitant.

Please, do it, Yoongi silently urges. I’ve waited so long. Kiss me, bring me to life, sing to me!

Jungkook’s eyes flutter, pressing closed as he kisses Yoongi softly, warm and plush, not unlike Seokjin’s kiss, full of love and hesitance. Yoongi feels it, then, a warmth building in his core, heating him up as Jungkook pulls away.

It spreads outwards, to his fingers and toes, and he can feel his organs forming, and dear gods, it hurts.

Is this dying? Is this death, this pain? It would be worth it to die for true love’s kiss, he reasons, feeling his carved fingertips begin to separate into separate digits, quite similar to a ripping feeling.

As soon as his mouth is warmed, he can move it, ripping as well, and the first thing he does is let out a pained grunt, letting himself drop into a ball, insides shifting and forming and a throbbing in his chest. What was that throbbing? Was that his heart???

Jungkook turned at the noise, yelling when he sees the statue crumpled on the ground, yelling even more when the statue is a person.

Yoongi curses in his mind at the hideous throbbing in his chest, a throbbing that won’t seem to leave him. The warmth of the transformation is fading quickly, and this is the first time that being naked in the winter has ever bothered him. He shudders.

Jungkook steps forward cautiously.

“H-Hello?” He asks. Yoongi grunts, unable to form words just yet.

“You.. the statue… you were a person? You.. are.. A person…?” Yoongi swallows, a new sensation that he grimaces at.

“I am as much a person, now, as you.” Jungkook startles at this and Yoongi stands, slightly smaller without his pedestal, goosebumps breaking out on his skin. Jungkook covers his eyes, squeaking.

“Dear god, you’re naked,” he mumbles. “ Oh my god, you’re NAKED.”

Jungkook takes off his outermost layer and slides it onto Yoongi’s shoulders, the warmth instantly seeping into his skin.

It smells like Jungkook, like wind and the slight tinge of smoke and something spicy he can’t identify. He grips it around himself and looks up at Jungkook, who looks… concerned. He doesn’t look grateful for Yoongi’s human presence, as he expected, and this makes Yoongi feel incredibly small. He looks confused, and concerned, but not scared, not anymore. He’s so curious, and he’s trying to hold it back, but a frown still creases the space between his brows. Yoongi finds that the intense gaze makes him feel even smaller- insignificant.

He doesn’t like the feeling.

“My name is Jungkook,” he says slowly. “Do you know where you are?”

Yoongi feels, strangely, like he is being talked down to.

“My name is Yoongi,” he answers back evenly. “I, we, are in the forest.”

Jungkook looks a bit taken aback, but the expression evens out before he speaks again.

“You’re.. A statue?” he asks.

Yoongi shakes his head. “I was, but no more. True love’s kiss has freed me.” His voice goes smaller at the end, almost unsure. He feels like shaking his head again.

Jungkook scoffs, smiles a little, hoping he’s joking. But the smile slips off of his face when he realizes that Yoongi hasn’t shifted, that he’s so convinced- and Yoongi watches as he frowns again, a nasty twinge lighting up in his gut.

“I’m sorry, I… think there’s a mistake?” Jungkook sounds even more hesitant.

Yoongi frowns now, the feeling unfamiliar but instinctual.

“Only someone truly in love may bring a change like this,” he says quietly.

For a long second, Jungkook looks perplexed, and Yoongi feels like huffing. But then a realization lit up his face, followed by an expression Yoongi couldn’t place- worry? Sadness?

“It’s your Taehyung, isn’t it?” Yoongi asks, voice still bordering on too quiet. Jungkook looked up sharply, face turning a bright pink, and it wasn’t because of the brisk air.

“No,” he says. “I- Well, no, I don’t.. Think so…” he trails off, uncertain, and the feeling that had been lingering in Yoongi’s subconscious comes to light and solidified.

He’d known, the whole time. He’d seen the way they leaned into one another on the day that Jungkook brought him to the woods. He’d seen the way he guided him by the hand into the clearing, how they’d laced their fingers together; how, when Taehyung wasn’t looking during their songs, Jungkook looked at him as he sang, as if he was singing for him.

He’d known, but he’d wanted to believe.

“The song,” Yoongi says. Jungkook blinks, startled.

“Song?”

“The one you both sang, a bit ago. How did it go?”

Jungkook flushes deeper.

“You.. saw that? Or uh, you, um.. Heard?”

Yoongi nods to both.

“You looked at him as you sang it. I remember hearing words of love, as you usually sing, but it was different when you were together. It was… not as sad.”

Jungkook looks away, rubbing awkwardly at his arms, doing his best to keep his eyes away from the (almost) naked man in front of him.

“I.. really like him.”

“You love him.”

Jungkook makes a small noise, possibly an affirmation.

Yoongi’s mind makes the connections, then.

“You are truly in love,” he said, “and that is why I stand before you as human. But it is not me that you’re in love with.”

Jungkook swallows, glancing at him from under his bangs.

“We should get you some clothes,” he says under his breath, changing the subject.

He gestures to Yoongi and they begin walking, past the underbrush and heading into the woods. Yoongi glances back at the pedestal he was abandoning only briefly.

“I didn’t think this through,” Jungkook bemoans. They stand at the edge of the forest, facing a long line of buildings made with equal, white-coated bricks. There are large, unfamiliar objects placed randomly on the stretch of gravel in front of them, wheels supporting them and large glass openings in the body. Above them, the skies are blue as always, crisp and clear, free of clouds.

“Can’t we simply go to your house and get them?” Yoongi asks.

“Dude, you’re naked, ” he groans. Yoongi frowns.

“What is Dude?”

Jungkook makes a muffled noise, dropping his head into his hands.

“Stay here, okay?” He says. Yoongi looks confused and nods, placing his feet side by side and watching as Jungkook runs, as quick as the sparrows that would swoop before Yoongi in the summer.

He finds out very quickly that standing as a human is more tiring than standing as a statue. Almost within a minute he is overcome with curiosity, and he begins moving.

Jungkook would be able to figure out where he was, right?

He starts by moving his body. He wiggles his fingers, finds out in delight that his toes could do the same- crinkles his nose, scrunches up his face in every way he could think to do.

He stretches out his legs, the same way he’d seen Jungkook do- standing on his feet and leaning down, until his palms are flat on the ground and his legs burn. New sensations, how lovely they were!

His feet feel as if they’re being pummeled when he jumps on the rough ground, and he lets out a squeak, stepping back into the leaves of the forest edge. He follows it to the side of the buildings, towards one of the large objects on wheels- a dark green one with a short front half and a long, hollowed-out bottom half. He sniffs hard in the brisk air and is startled to find that there is a person inside the object.

They are also naked, like he, with an almost identical jacket on, mirrored to his.

Triangular, sleepy eyes peer at him, soft greenish gray hair like the faint beginnings of moss, a small nose rounded to a point- and they follow his movements to exactness.

If he were to lean left, the person inside would also lean left- and the same to the right. When he opens his mouth, so does the person inside.

It becomes a kind of game, him dodging side to side and making faces, trying to confuse the other person- what a delight it was, to be able to think of himself as a person!- but they follow him every second. He smiles, wide enough to see all of his teeth, and so does the person.

He hears running steps and a slight whoosh of air, followed by Jungkook’s voice:

“Yoongi?? Damnit, if he left I swear to god..” the boy says. Yoongi glances at the strange object and the person within before peeking around it to see Jungkook with a new jacket on, an arm full of clothes, looking confused as he was before he left.

“Jungkook, there’s someone in this… thing.” He says, and Jungkook’s head whips around to look at him. He walks over quickly, shaking his head as he does.

“There’s nobody in the car, Yoongi, they’re working.”

“Car?”

“The thing you’re looking into is a car. A truck, technically.”

Yoongi repeats the new words, tasting them on his tongue.

Jungkook shoves out his arm, presenting the clothes to Yoongi.

“Here, these are for you to.. Uh, wear.” Yoongi takes them curiously, seeing that almost everything was black, and it feels so soft under his fingertips, reminiscent of the birds that would nest in his palm every few years.

He shrugs off Jungkook’s jacket as the boy directs him, telling him what to put on and how- sometimes he gets confused, seeing as certain things look the same in the front as they do in the back, and Jungkook is getting a bit uncomfortable, but Yoongi takes it in stride.

The boy had brought him to life, into human existence. It was the least he could do to make him feel comfortable.

Once he’s dressed, even wearing shoes as Jungkook was, (which the boy had to tie for him, strange strings zig-zagging across the top,) he stands straight and looks around.

“What now?” he asks.

“I’ll take you to my house, I guess,” he says, sounding unsure.

“What about the person in the… truck, was it?”

“Yoongi, there’s nobody in the truck, that’s your reflection.”

“Reflection?”

Jungkook sighs.

Yoongi had been in a house once before, when Seokjin had carved no more than Yoongi’s body down to his torso- it was a small wooden place, a thick mat in the far corner covered in a sort of blanket, a large work table to one side and a separate room for personal business off to the other side. It had been quiet, sheltered from the wind, warm and stagnant, but not unpleasant. It had made it feel isolated, the creak of the wind outside becoming a rhythm for Seokjin’s distracted singing.

Jungkook’s house was similar, but at the same time, very different.

It is, again, quiet and sheltered from the wind. It is warm, and it is isolated. The interior is dark wood paneling, beneath their feet was a sort of false grass, cut very short and an off-white color similar to the feathers of a finch’s breast. There are odd fixtures in any direction he looks, even upwards, and the air is not stagnant, for one such fixture spun on a sort of axis.

The air is soft in his nose, and it smells like Jungkook and something he didn’t know how to place. They pass two entryways, blocked off by wooden doors, before Jungkook opens one and ushers him inside.

“This is my room,” Jungkook says. “Uh, make yourself at home, I guess.”

Yoongi doesn’t know what his words mean, but he sinks to sit on the floor anyway, leaning back against the bed’s wooden sides and taking a long look around.

Though the walls were dark wood, there are very many pieces of paper stuck to them, some vibrantly colored with a cacophony of designs, others very simple, monochrome with bold lettering sprawled across. Yoongi recognizes the papers themselves from Seokjin’s designs for him- they were always scattered across the work table, the floor, sometimes even the bed.

A lot of things in Jungkook’s housing echo with Yoongi’s memories of Seokjin, hardly faded over time; after all, they were all he had to hold on to for a long while.

There’s a knock on the door, and Jungkook opens it, standing in the doorway and murmuring in a low voice to whoever stands there.

A lower voice replies, and Yoongi recognizes it as Taehyung’s. Why was the other boy here?

Jungkook steps aside, and Taehyung steps inside, stopping in his tracks when he sees Yoongi sitting on the floor, slumped against the bed.

“Whoa,” he breathed, just like when he’d first seen him.

Yoongi blinks at him, at a loss for words. He wants to explain to him why he was human, the magic that lay in Seokjin’s hands, the love that Jungkook has for Taehyung and why it was a necessary loophole for his human existence- but the words die on his lips as Taehyung gapes at him. In their place rise a hard-to-conceal snarl.

“He’s… real.” He says, rather than asking. Jungkook lets out a small breath.

“Yeah, he’s real, I told you I wasn’t crazy.”

“How.. what?”

“I don’t know,” Jungkook lies. The weight of his words settle like acid in Yoongi’s throat.

“Is he.. Does he know, like, what’s going on, where he is, and things?”

Yoongi frowns up at them.

“Yes, he does, and my name is Yoongi,” he says. He can’t help the bitter tone in his voice. Taehyung had unknowingly been the reason for his life, yes, but he was also the reason that Jungkook couldn’t, didn’t, love Yoongi as Seokjin promised someone would. He feels a sickening resentment towards him, undeserved but prominent.

Taehyung looks taken aback, and a bit sheepish, actually.

“Sorry, Yoongi,” he mumbles, offering a hand towards him. “My name is Taehyung!”

Yoongi frowns at his outstretched hand until he retracts it.

“Erm… sorry,” Taehyung says again. Yoongi gets the feeling that Taehyung doesn’t know how to act around him; it is more than mutual.

“Did you bring some clothes for him?” Jungkook asks.

“I did, but I didn’t think he’d.. Be real,” Taehyung answers. He pulls a large bag from his shoulders and retrieves more clothing items, including a package of what Yoongi recognized as ‘underwear,’ according to Jungkook, and two or three pairs of these tight pants.

Whilst he doesn’t want to wear Taehyung’s clothes, he is grateful for the warmth that clothes granted, so he accepts the pile handed to him with a small nod.

Jungkook leans close to Taehyung, a little closer than a whisper would usually warrant, and whispers something to him. Taehyung whispers back, and they stayed like that, whispering for at least two minutes. Finally, after a final deliberation, Jungkook pulls away, glancing quickly at Taehyung before turning to Yoongi.

“We’re gonna take you to the store,” he says. “It’s like a very large building, and it has a lot of clothing and food in it, and backpacks, and shoes, and everything, kinda. We’re gonna let you choose what to buy, okay?”

Yoongi doesn’t know what backpacks were, or buying, but he agrees.

They go outside again to see a small and rusty truck, something red dangling inside. Yoongi sits between the two boys, their shoulders pressed uncomfortably close to his own, and leans back against the cool glass of the back window. He frowns as he thought.

“I can’t believe this is happening,” Taehyung murmurs, starting the truck. Yoongi tries to school the panicked expression off his face at the vibrations and noise, but he can’t help the protest that escapes once they start moving.

“This isn’t a safe place,” he says. “We’re falling!”

Taehyung giggles, flashing a boxy smile at him.

“We’re driving! It’s okay, you’ll see,” he says. Yoongi narrows his eyes at the smile, finding his resolve to hate the boy already fading. (He blames it on the warmth where their shoulders touched, working against the cold coming in through the open windows.)

The store is, again, unlike Yoongi had imagined.

There are large stands of fruits, some that he recognized from the late summer, when they hung heavy and ripe on their branches and often fell to the ground, untouched except for a few animals- but there are others he didn’t recognize, and he picks up a large spiked one, investigating it. The green sprouts on the top are stiff, and so were the pleated scales, similar to a snake’s. He finds that gripping it tightly hurts his hand, so he holds onto it loosely as they walk.

Behind him, Jungkook and Taehyung snicker, but he doesn’t notice.

He wanders around the store, finding that it was, indeed, a very large building. He sees clothing items like the ones Taehyung and Jungkook had given him and ignores them in favor of different items. No use in having more than one of something, he rationalizes.

Why would he need more shirts?

He picks out at least four packs of socks, wrapped in the same clear crinkly stuff that the underwear Taehyung had given him was in, and turns back, helpless now that his hands are full.

Jungkook has a sort of basket in his arms, and he nods at Yoongi. He places the items inside tenderly, only glancing at the divot-like pattern left on his hand for a second before continuing.

Taehyung tries to make conversation with him, but after so long unable to speak, Yoongi finds that he is starting to prefer choosing his words carefully and slowly, only speaking when he thinks it important.

In the case of Taehyung, he doesn’t want to think it important.

Jungkook steps up to him after twenty minutes spent browsing more socks.

“Yoongi, do you want a backpack?”

He frowns at Jungkook, unsure what he means.

“It doesn’t sound pleasant. No thank you.”

Taehyung giggles and Jungkook shoots him a glare.

“It’s not unpleasant, a backpack is the kind of bag that Taehyung wore on his back when he came to my house, the one he had clothes in.”

“Am I.. required to wear one too?” he asks. Jungkook shakes his head.

“You only have to wear it when you want to bring something with you, but you don’t want it in your hands.”

This sounds like an incredible idea to Yoongi, and he nods.

Jungkook gestures to him over his shoulder, leading him down the glossy pathway to a section with many, many of these backpacks lined up on a wall.

For a long moment, none of them catch Yoongi’s interest. They are mostly black, like the clothes he’d been given. However, there is one in the far corner of the wall that pulls him closer.

It’s black like the others, but there’s a face embossed on it in glossy white and red. It has little ears at the top, rounded pieces curving up. Yoongi asks Jungkook in an excited voice what it is called.

“The character?”

Yoongi frowns.

“The backpack. What is its name?”

“I don’t think the backpack itself has a name, but the character on it is called Kumamon.” Yoongi repeats this name curiously, reaching out to pull it off the wall. It’s a good size, at least he thinks so, and Jungkook shows him how to put it on, helping his arms through the straps.

Yoongi grips the straps and turns around excitedly, finding both Jungkook and Taehyung concealing smiles.

“What?” he asks. Jungkook laughs, shakes his head.

“Nothing, Yoongi. The backpack looks good.”

Yoongi shrugs it off his shoulders and places it in the basket, which is completely full.

“Is that the last thing?” he asks. Jungkook nods.

“Unless you want something else?”  

Yoongi frowns, thinking.

“Socks?”

Jungkook sighs, the sound lost under Taehyung’s incredulous laugh.

It’s deep into winter when Yoongi asks to see the town. Living with Jungkook had proven to be difficult, because as a human, everything made Yoongi so tired, so easily. He often slept late into the day, tucked warm and safe into the blankets of Jungkook’s guest bed.

When he asks, Jungkook looks surprised to say the least.

“You’ve been in bed for three days and suddenly you want to see around the town?” He asks, curious over a bowl of a thick oat mixture that smells sweet.

Yoongi nods.

“Well, okay,” Jungkook mutters. “It’s not like either of us have anything to do today, so I don’t see why not.” Yoongi smiles wide, walks back to his room to grab Kumamon. Inside the bag lies a change of clothes, a bottle of water, (a miracle, really! Portable water? What a concept!) and an extra pack of socks.

Just in case.

Yoongi had found out in ‘simple’ terms that Taehyung was the only one of the pair of friends who owned a car- the same truck they’d ridden to the store in. They wait together for him, and he pulls up after a short minute.

As it turns out, the town is not nearly as big as Yoongi’s two companions had made it seem. There are a total of five large buildings placed side by side, so closely that they more resemble one single building; there are, at most, four other cars, three of which were also trucks; behind the one single building, Jungkook tells him, is where he waited after being turned human.

It is very quaint, very quiet, very small. He finds that he’s relieved at the sight of it.

Jungkook leads him first to the music store, and Yoongi is sure he’d found unknown- thing heaven.

Inside are strange things he’d never pictured in any of his long thinking-sessions, complex stringed things and hollow thumping things, but what piques his interest is the large, glossy square-ish object sitting in the corner, shining in white ivory just as he had. He walks over to it immediately, sitting on the small bench.

There are quite a few different things for him to press, he notes. There were a lot of white bars, slender and parallel, intercepted on occasion by thinner black ones.

He touches them, surprised when they sink beneath his fingers and cause a sound, a beautiful sound that resonates within his soul. He looks down at it in awe.

“Oh, that’s our Steinway Upright!” A young man says, walking up with a heart-shaped smile plastered onto his face.

“Steinway?” Yoongi quietly repeats.

Off in the corner of the store, Jungkook and Taehyung are talking. Yoongi looks up at the man from where he sits, eyes curious.

“Mhm!! It’s the only piano in the store, but usually people are too scared to approach it.”

“Why?”

“I guess they’re just scared of hurtin’ it, darlin’.”

Yoongi blinks at this strange man. He has a different accent and temperament from anyone else Yoongi knows, all three of them, his words tilting and lilting to create an odd emphasis.

“I haven’t seen you around,” the man says, smiling down at Yoongi.

Yoongi shrugs softly, allowing himself to smile. “I’m… new,” he mumbles.

“Nice to meet you, new. My name is Hoseok.” Yoongi takes a second to process this before blinking.

“My name is Yoongi,” he says, feeling like he should clarify. Honestly, who would have the name new?

Hoseok’s grin widens a bit, and he extends his hand, like Taehyung did when he first introduced himself. He supposes it’s an introduction thing.

He takes it gingerly in his own hand, finding that he quite enjoys the feeling of another warm palm against his own, and lets Hoseok shake it gently up and down, his grip firm but not suffocating. It’s nice.

Hoseok retracts his hand, then, and gestures to the piano.

“Do you play?” Yoongi shakes his head.

“I’ve never seen a piano before,” he says quietly, then quickly adds, “not like this.” Hoseok laughs, the sound cacophonous but soft, echoing in the small music shop. Yoongi smiles, actually smiles, wide and gummy and pure.

A smaller man with black hair walks up behind Hoseok, and Yoongi swears, he could have been carved from marble himself. That was the only explanation for his beauty.

His eyes were narrower than Hoseok’s, his lips full and pouted, his cheeks rounded but his jaw sharp- Yoongi wonders how such duality can exist. His smile is soft, like his skin appears to be, and small hands peek out of his sleeves to rest on the edge of the piano. Yoongi feels his face heat up uncomfortably.

“Everything good over here?” He asks, mostly to Hoseok. He nods, smiles a bit.

“Just showing, uh..”

“Yoongi,” Yoongi mumbles.

“Just showing Yoongi our piano!!”

The beautiful man grins, too, narrowing his eyes into tiny crescents, and, on Seokjin’s magick, Yoongi’s never felt a pull so strong towards a human.

The pull towards his creator was strong, yes. Undeniably so. The pull towards Jungkook had been strong, almost as strong as Seokjin’s. But this man, this beautiful, lovely man, whose name Yoongi didn’t know, whose story he had yet to listen to-

This man drew him in in the worst (best?) of ways.

“You’re new in town, right?” he asks. Yoongi finds that his voice is incredibly soothing to listen to, the more he talks.

“Yeah, I guess I am, but everyone else seems to know that.” Yoongi chuckles shyly, looking down.

“Can I tell you a secret?” He asks, humour in his voice. Hoseok looks on, amused.

“What?” Yoongi asks.

He leans in, lowers his voice as if they’re telling real secrets. “It’s because you’re cute.”

Yoongi doesn’t know what this means, but if the sparkle in his eyes is anything to go by, it was a form of a compliment- and that knowledge in itself made Yoongi’s cheeks burn.

“Thank you,” he says, laughs, really. He finds himself smiling a bit too much and bites down on his lip to try to reign it in.

In the background, Jungkook and Taehyung are talking in muted voices and continuously glancing over, but Yoongi ignores this and focuses on the crinkle of the man’s eyes, the easy smile on his face, his small hands and the front teeth that don’t quite match up correctly- Yoongi focuses on these and completely fails to realize as Hoseok steps away.

“Are you here with anyone in particular?” The man asks, all cheeky smiles and soft black hair that falls just above his perfectly manicured brow-

“Here, in the store? Or here, in town?” Yoongi asks. He has no idea where he got the confidence to respond in such a manner but he can’t seem to help himself.

He smiles, laughing a little.

“In town, really, but either would work.” Yoongi feels himself smile, too.

“I don’t really know why I’m in town, but I came to the store with Jungkook and Taehyung, over there.” He gestures to the corner, where the two are leaned close, talking in whispers.

“Ah, the love birds!” The man says. Yoongi hums. They are close, like the doves nested together in the high boughs of the trees Yoongi used to call home.

“How do you know them?” The man asks. It should be considered prying, how many questions he’s asking, but Yoongi has never really been the one to answer questions- he’s usually the one asking them, the one learning, the one with unbridled curiosity. He’s glad to finally be able to tell things about himself- even simple things.

“They, uh… found me, I guess.” He nods, processing.

“I mean, this town kind of.. Popped up out of nowhere,” Yoongi continues, “at least, it did to me. I spent a long time searching for other people, I guess you could say, ones that I felt like I could be around.”

“And now you’re here,” the man grins.

“Now I’m here,” Yoongi repeats.

They both smile.

“Yoongi,” Jungkook calls. Yoongi drags his eyes away from the attractive employee to look at him.

“When do you wanna go to the other stores?”

Yoongi frowns. He doesn’t want to leave this one.

“Do we have to?” He asks. It comes out more petulant than he expects, and the man next to him looks down at him, smiling.

Jungkook looks taken back.

“Well I-I guess not,” he mumbles, audible across the small shop.

Yoongi smiles. “I’d like to stay for a bit, then.” He glances up at the attractive man. “I’m in the middle of something at the moment.”

The man leans down towards him and Yoongi’s heart skips three beats.

“My name is Jimin,” he says. The syllables bounce around Yoongi’s head until they make their way back to his tongue.

“Jimin,” he repeats. “I like it.”

Jimin grins at him, wide and pretty, and Yoongi swears, if this is what it means to be human, he’s so, so glad that Jungkook was in love when he kissed him.

Yoongi ends up spending quite a lot of time at the small music shop, and he gets to know both Jimin and Hoseok very well. He’d also gotten more than familiar with the keys of a piano, and found that expressing the confusing things he couldn’t yet put into words was a lot easier when he was playing.

He learned the basics from Jimin, a song he called “chopsticks,” and a few others, and from there, he hadn’t stopped playing. He’d figured out what the pedals below were for, and pressing them helped his songs along- he was beginning to put melodies together, and he found that sheet music was the only thing he can read- and he took great pride in being able to read it, too.

He was halfway through the instructional book of songs, a complicated piece that sounded classy. It reminded him halfway of Seokjin, and he tamps down the longing. He couldn’t focus on that now.

Instead, he focuses on Jimin, who was leaning against the wall opposite the piano, smiling at him as he listened to him play. His cheeks are soft and his eyes almost disappear whenever he smiles, and it never fails to set Yoongi’s heart beating fast- a feeling he didn’t think he’d ever get used to, frankly.

“Jungkook,” Yoongi blurts, startling the boy sitting on the bed. Jungkook looks up from his book and cranes his head to see Yoongi, who’s sprawled out on the floor of his bedroom.

“Yeah?” He asks. It takes Yoongi a moment before he responds.

“I.. Can you, you know.. Canyouteachmehowtoread?” He breathes. There’s a long pause that hangs heavily in the air and Yoongi swears he can feel Jungkook frown, but he chooses to look at the ceiling above him with resolute stubbornness. He will not give in and look at him, especially now that he can feel his cheeks burning.

Jungkook huffs lightly, amused. Yoongi blinks.

“Sure,” he says.

Yoongi tamps down the surprise at Jungkook’s easy compliance and instead angles his head back. Jungkook is upside-down in his vision, but he can see him smiling, anyway.

“Just… That easily?” Yoongi asks.

Jungkook’s smile gets a bit sad.

“It’s my fault you’re here in the first place. Might as well get you up to date on things.”

Yoongi wrinkles his nose. He wants to protest, but he finds that he can’t- Jungkook is right, in principle. He’s the reason Yoongi is alive, he’s right about that. He can’t shake the feeling that he should dispute the statement, though.

“When do you want to start?” He asks. Yoongi swallows and relaxes his neck, letting the ceiling slide back into view.

“As soon as possible.”

That ends up being less than an hour later, and Jungkook ends up inviting over another one of his friends, this one named Namjoon. He’s tall and lanky and he reminds Yoongi of the small brown eggs that birds used to lay in the nests nestled into the curves of his hand- but he can’t exactly tell him that, so he just mumbles, “I like your… egg.”

Namjoon laughs loudly, his face scrunching up, and Yoongi doesn’t know why his words came out dumb, but he frowns anyway.

“That’s not what I meant to say,” he says. Namjoon wipes away a tear and nods at him.

“I can tell. That’s why it was so damn funny.”

Yoongi discovers that writing is a lot more difficult than reading, even if he can barely recognize the characters at this point- but he’s getting better at it, quicker, and he’s starting to find little ways to tell which comes first in order or which should go next to which to create a sound- Namjoon looks, for all the world, like he’s teaching someone with a skill set a lot smaller than Yoongi.

But he doesn’t comment on it. He’s kind, and patient, and his voice and words make it easy for Yoongi to understand the points he’s getting across.

He speaks almost as if he’s from Yoongi’s time, too- he’s profound, would have been one of the excellent philosophers Seokjin always talked of visiting one day. He speaks with stars in his eyes, even about the mundane, such as which consonants can and can’t follow each other sequentially, but do follow each other in other cases. Even when he’s mumbling about checking his phone and then explaining to Yoongi the concept of phones, even though Yoongi has, by now, become vaguely familiar with it.

Namjoon is knowledgeable, and if Yoongi’s heart weren’t already set on Jimin, he could see himself easily falling for the other.

But his thoughts keep trailing back to Jimin, the lips so similar to Seokjin’s, the slightly crooked front teeth, the promise of a body like Adonis beneath his baggy work clothes- his hands, so small and delicate, across the top of the piano as Yoongi plays.

“Namjoon,” he mumbles, breaking the other out of a tangent about the societal perception of beauty- fitting for his thoughts of Jimin, he supposes- and he glances at him.

“What’s up? Do you need help? I know there are like, two or three vowels that are really really similar, if it’s those I could-”

“No,” Yoongi says. “I want to write names. My name. Everyone’s names.”

Namjoon looks a bit surprised.

“Well.. okay. You have your name, Yoongi, which is only five characters. Put it together piece by piece and I’ll help you if you need it, yes? The tools are already in your mind.”

Yoongi’s eyebrow flattens into a frown.

He glances briefly at the notes he’s taken before writing, with much effort, the yoo, followed in succession by the n. These are the easiest part. He glances at the notes for a longer second before adding on the combined gi, and his eyes flicker up to Namjoon, knowing he’s already watching, waiting quietly for his approval.

Namjoon is smiling.

“You did really well, honestly, the level at which your capacity is for learning is astonishing. However,” Namjoon delicately takes the pencil from Yoongi, his large hands dwarfing it, “You forgot the silent bit before the vowel. It’s difficult to remember sometimes, but a necessity unless you’re writing shorthand.”

“Shorthand?”

“...another time. It’s a shortened, condensed version of words and phrases to help you remember them quickly, and you usually write it very quickly and in haste, messily. Shorthand is not a pretty way to learn to write.”

Yoongi nods in understanding and practices writing his name again, this time adding the same silent character that Namjoon had drawn on top of the original. He tries to make his as smooth and quick as Namjoon’s, but finds that his fingers much prefer being spread out on the keys of a piano than curled over a pencil, and his hand is beginning to cramp painfully.

But he continues on.

He sounds out Seokjin’s a few times before hesitantly writing it under his own, surprised to find that it fits neatly in line, the characters lining up almost perfectly, if a bit crooked.

He wonders if Seokjin had ever written Yoongi’s name anywhere before remembering that he hadn’t been named then, had been no more to Seokjin than a lovely figure. He scrunches his nose and pieces together Namjoon’s name next. Namjoon nods at him to continue, meaning that he’s getting them right, and they all seem to slot in beneath each other with ease, the same amount of syllables.

Taehyung’s and Jungkook’s names prove to be more difficult, but after a small consultation with Namjoon about the dynamics of the characters and the vowels he’d have use for each, he manages.

Almost as an afterthought, he writes down Jimin’s name, finding that he quite likes how it looks and satisfied that he got it right.

Namjoon pats his back once he’s finished.

“Your mental capacity is quite amazing,” he says lowly, in awe. “I’ve never met anyone able to pick up writing so quickly, let alone characters as complicated as this.” His eyes flit over the papers Yoongi’s been practicing on, full of awkwardly-drawn characters and dark parts where the pencil had pressed too far down in frustration and gotten smudged. His hand is probably the same startling shade of metallic gray, but he chooses not to focus on that.

Yoongi just shrugs.

“Astonishing as it isn’t,” he says, “Educated it still remains to be. I’ll continue to practice, and hopefully through repetition, continue to learn. I’d love to have another lesson next time you’re available to?” The last bit comes out more as a question than he’d intended, but Namjoon only smiles and nods.

“Of course! My schedule is never too crowded, so I’m positive that there will be some time for more lessons in the future.”

They both smile, small, and Yoongi feels like he can conquer the world, starting with this one town.

“Busan was just too interesting,” Jimin sighs, fingers dangling delicately over the glistening edge of the piano Yoongi’s playing at. He’s currently behind it, though more accurately he’s sprawled halfway across it, listening to the vibrations of Yoongi’s playing as well as the notes themselves.

“It sure sounds like it,” Yoongi comments. “Why don’t you ever visit?”

Jimin smiles at him, cattish and pretty, lips stretching almost as softly as Seokjin’s, and Yoongi feels his heart skip more than one beat.

“If I went back, Yoongi, I don’t think I’d ever come home.”

“Home.” Yoongi repeats. “Home is here, and not Busan?”

Jimin stops smiling and frowns to think, resting his cheek on his arm and wiggling his fingers to the tune Yoongi plays.

“I suppose,” he says. “I’ve come to think of home as wherever my bed is, because I’m only really ever at home to sleep.”

Yoongi frowns and almost falters in his playing, but glances at the sheet music to continue.

“Home is supposed to be a place to be for fun. Somewhere where you can go for safety, not just sleep.”

Jimin shrugs as best he can in his position before rolling more onto his chest to look at Yoongi, strands of his hair falling into his eyes.

“What about you, Mystery Man? Where are you from?”

The woods out back, naked as the day you regular people were born.

Yoongi feels something cold slither down his spine as he considers, for even a quick second, telling Jimin that he has been here since before this town had even been a thought. He tamps down on it quickly instead, choosing to smirk in what he hopes is a mysterious way.

“Around.”

Close enough, right?

Jimin smiles widely at him and Yoongi has to force himself not to smile back.

“Around, hm? Have you actually lived here in Daegu or were you too busy being… around?”

Yoongi allows himself an actual smile at this, eyes crinkling at Jimin.

“I guess you could say that,” he gives. “It’s usually been more… rustic places,” he chooses. “Close to the woods and stuff.”

No, most definitely in the woods. I held bird nests.

“Woodsy, hmm? I’ve always preferred the beach, the water, you know? It’s so wonderful.”

“There’s a stream in the woods, if you wanna go sometime,” Yoongi offers. “It’s no.. beach, but it’s pretty wonderful itself.”

Jimin smiles at him again and Yoongi feels his emotions slip into something he can only describe as pink.

“I’d love to,” he says. “When?”

Yoongi is actually at a loss for words in general, so he shrugs, looking away from Jimin’s smile to save himself the chaotically warm cheeks he’s come to associate with him. Instead he glances occasionally at the sheet music to make sure he’s on course for the piece he’s playing.

“I’m free,” Jimin checks the small clock on his arm, “In around twenty minutes, if you want to go then?”

Yoongi has no concept of ‘minutes’ or whatever, but the sooner he can show the woods to Jimin, the sooner he can feel like he, too, is coming home.

He smiles up at Jimin.

“Sure.”

Yoongi takes more deep breaths than he reasonably should, but that’s excusable when Jimin holds onto his hand for support as they climb through the trees that are so familiar to Yoongi he feels as if he can cry.

He points as much out to Jimin as he can. The seasonal birds and where their nesting spots are, the tracks left by the deer that come through the bank of the stream, the area in which the sun rises and the area in which it sets, across. He points out which rocks have been weathered the most by the elements and why, he points out the different bushes and which have fruits that attract skunks.

Jimin is enthralled by it all. He holds onto Yoongi’s hand now, even when he no longer needs the support, and his hand is small and warm in Yoongi’s cool palm.

“Yoongi, oh wow, look at that! What do you think it is?” Jimin says suddenly, tugging on Yoongi’s hand to pull him towards something that his body blocks from sight. But he freezes when it does.

It’s the pedestal he had been positioned upon when he was made, the one he had stumbled off of not too long ago, the one where he was kissed  to life.

His steps slow as they approach it, the moss covering the north face, the ivy that no longer touches his legs. The ghosts of ivy that touch his legs instead, pulled away not too long ago.

Oh, lovely Jimin, walking slow around the platform as if it were to be revered. Yoongi feels something catch in his throat and he feels now is as good a time as any to wish to kiss Jimin, but- he doesn’t voice this. Can’t bring himself to.

Instead he focuses on the way that Jimin stalks around the pedestal, his eyes locked onto it and his gaze as unwavering as it had been when they first met each other in the music shop- he’s focused.

“I think there was something here,” he says. Yoongi looks up sharply, but Jimin is smiling. He’s not serious about it.

A breath catches in Yoongi’s throat and sticks there, and he offers a shrug. His heartbeat flutters as quickly as the hummingbirds darting past him in the springtime and he feels, for the first time since being human, slightly sick.

“There used to be a house somewhere around here,” He says. “If that’s what you meant.” Jimin laughs.

“Nobody’s lived here for hundreds of years, Yoongi, how would you know that?”

Again, Yoongi feels sick, but he blinks and forces himself to take a big breath, picturing the air pushing down the sickness and confining it to his stomach.

“Just a guess,” he says. Jimin seems to find this answer to be enough, because he smiles and turns back to the marble, running his fingertips over it reverently, and- oh.

Oh, how Yoongi remembers being touched like that. Were it not Seokjin’s gentle caress, it were the feeling of Jungkook’s fingers, memorizing with curiosity unbridled the contours of his face.

But all of that seems insignificant now, in comparison to the soft, gentle sweep of Jimin’s delicate fingers over the marble, the skittering of leaves as they’re removed from their perch, the dying tangles of ivy on the side, no longer clinging to anything but life.

Yoongi considers that he might be in love with Jimin.

After hundreds of years, apparently, his love for Seokjin has faded- he no longer feels the longing for his creator as badly, although he does wish he had a chance to meet him as a human- to talk to him, to feel the warmth of his palm against his own, without the permanence of turning human for Seokjin. There’s something that twists, ugly, in his stomach, when he considers the possibility of being with either Seokjin or Jungkook- both of which had kissed him, one of which had found the loophole.

“Jimin,” he starts, softly. It’s almost inaudible over the swishing of the leaves, above them, around them, sealing them in place.

Jimin looks up, sunlight mottling over his skin.

“Yeah?”

Yoongi walks slowly to the pedestal, sitting on the edge of it and offering for Jimin to sit next to him.

The scene is familiar, a mirror image of Jungkook and Taehyung sitting at Yoongi’s feet, not too long ago.

The marble is cold under him, but he sits anyway, shoulder pressed warmly to Jimin’s and sharing some heat, soothing.

“Wanna hear a story?”

Jimin smiles and bumps his shoulder into Yoongi a little more.

“Since when are you a storyteller, Mystery Man? I’d love to hear one.”

Yoongi smiles, just a little. His stomach is turned to the clearing in the early summer, butterflies flitting and cicadas humming. He’s nervous, but he doesn’t know how to classify that.

He takes a deep breath.

“Once, long, long ago, there was a carver. He lived here, in these woods, and there was a magick that lay in his hands, reserved only for when he worked.”

Jimin looks at him curiously.

“He created a statue, right here, on this pedestal. Carved him from a block of marble as old as time itself, imbued upon him the most delicate features he knew- he sang, and he told the statue, as he was carving him, that he would turn human, if only for true love’s kiss.”

“A kiss?” Jimin asks. Yoongi nods.

“But not any kiss. The kiss of someone truly in love.”

“Okay.”

“The creator, himself, kissed the statue, but nothing happened. After finishing the statue, in his grief, the creator left, taking his company and magick with him. And so the statue waited.”

“He waited for hundreds of years, watching the seasons pass. In the spring, his hands became the base for bird nests, and in the summer, he was kept company by the cicadas. Moss began growing on his north face, and ivy crept slowly up his legs.”

Yoongi’s hand brushes idly against the ivy still clinging to the side of the pedestal. Jimin is silent.

“For hundreds of years, he was lonely. The birds and cicadas were temporary friends, because at the end of every season, they passed away. The deer always migrated. The only consistencies lay between the plant life clinging to him and the hope that he clung to.”

“This sounds sad,” Jimin whispers. Yoongi is tempted to hold his hand, and his fingers twitch with the need.

“Not forever,” he says quietly. “One day, a boy wandering through the woods came across this statue. He thought he was beautiful, and he said as much. He brushed away the leaf debris and cleaned him off, pulled the moss from his legs. The statue was so relieved by this, so happy to see another face!”

“This boy sang to him, every day, for years. Some days he would show up with bruises blooming under his skin, ugly bruises, intentional bruises. He came to sing to the statue, in front of the presence of someone. One day, he brought another boy, and he, too, sang for the statue.”

“This first boy was, and is, madly in love with the other. The boy wished to kiss him, more than anything. So he decided, one day, to practice. Can you guess how?”

“He kissed the statue,” Jimin says softly.

“He did. And it was there that a loophole in the magick was found- the statue was kissed to life, by true love- but it was not love intended for him.”

Jimin is silent.

“He was disappointed, but now he had a chance to find the love that had evaded him for centuries- he was a human, and he had a new town to explore, new people to meet.”

Jimin reaches silently for his hand. Yoongi’s throat feels tight, his breaths come shakier than he expected.

“He was human, and he had so much to learn. But he made friends in the town, even in the little music shop. He met a boy who he really liked, and one day they came back to the woods, and sat on his pedestal.”

He squeezes Jimin’s hand uncertainly.

“Y-Yoongi?”

“They sat, and the statue told him about his life.”

There is silence. Jimin’s breaths don’t even make noise, and Yoongi finds the possibility that he’s holding his breath to be harrowing. The silence almost seems to blanket the trees and underbrush as well, pulling everything down into a quiet that seems foreign for nature.

There is an inhale. Jimin breathes uncertainly inwards, a shaking rasp that threatens to rattle around in his chest like it was made of his very bones.

“Yoongi,” He whispers, again. Pleading.

Yoongi shuts his eyes, and there is darkness.

“The statue told the boy that he wants- he wants-”

His voice breaks and he can’t even be embarrassed because he’s so scared.

“He wants to know if he would have freed him with his kiss, too.”

He’s afraid to look at Jimin, to face the reality of what he’s just spoken out loud, for the first time. He’s afraid to feel the beating of his heart pick up when Jimin shifts closer, his hand still clasped tight around Yoongi’s own, sides pressed gently together and shoulders touching completely.

There is uncertainty.

There is a hand cupping his jaw.

His eyes fly open, and there is Jimin.

Yoongi can feel the tremors racking Jimin’s body through his hands, his earthquake exhales. He can feel him shaking like the most fragile of newly blossomed leaves.

His eyes stray more than once to Jimin’s lips before he realizes that, slowly, he’s getting closer. Yoongi can see how soft his lips are, barely see the front of his imperfect teeth, his perfect smile nowhere to be found. He was nervous and Yoongi’s stomach felt like it was full of hummingbirds again as he leaned in the rest of the way.

Their lips meet, and it’s soft. Jimin’s lips are smoother than the spiderwebs in the early morning, misted with dew drops. They’re softer than the first snow of winter, falling in meandering golden streams through the gaps in the branches of the trees.

Their lips meet, and it’s perfect.

This is what it should have felt like when Seokjin kissed him. This is what it should have been, but it wasn’t, because this is so much more.

Their lips meet, and it’s everything.

It’s assurance and it’s comfort and it’s more than anything he could have asked for. He pretends that this is the kiss he was meant for-  the kiss truly turning him into a human.

But he doesn’t have to pretend that Jimin is perfect.

They pull away and Yoongi sees millions of stars reflected in Jimin’s shimmering eyes. His breathing is a little stunted, a little shaky. Yoongi laces their fingers together, a small form of comfort, as he can sense that Jimin wants to speak. He hopes it’s encouragement enough.

“Yoongi,” Jimin murmurs. Around them, the trees shift in an unseen wind, eager to hear him speak, and Yoongi feels the same. “You told me your story… can.. can I tell you mine?”