Archive of Our Own ^beta

There was a boy in the arcade.

Which wasn’t something new—there were always boys in the arcade—but it was nearing half past 10pm, and whatever boys there had been here earlier had likely hit the hay by now. Gone was the raucous noise of teenagers cheering their friends on at Dance Dance Revolution, or the squeals of young schoolgirls crowding around the claw machine. The arcade was deserted, because everyone had gone home.

Except for Yoongi.

And, well, the boy. Of course. He was slouched in one of the racing consoles, hands clasped over his stomach with his hood perched over his head, unmoving. Sleeping, maybe?

Yoongi sighed. The place should have been empty long ago. He shuffled out of the counter, but not before double checking that he locked the cash register. Shaking his head, he made sure to let his footsteps land a little heavier, a lot louder than usual to alert the boy that he was approaching, but Grey Hoodie didn’t stir. What a deep sleeper.

“Oi.” With one finger, Yoongi poked the boy’s arm. “Psst.”

Grey Hoodie jumped with a start, like a startled dog.

Yoongi stepped back. Against the neon lights of the arcade screen, what was visible of the boy’s face was colored in blinking hues of purple-cobalt-rose, and wisps of hair framed his face in strands of finely spun gold. He blinked up at Yoongi, rubbing at his bleary eyes. “Why’d you wake me?”

With a snort, Yoongi crossed his arms. Seriously? “Wah. What, do you think this is free real estate?”

Grey Hoodie looked around, frowning. If he noticed how empty the place was, he made no mention of it. “But the arcade is public space.” He leaned forward to rest his head against his forearm on the console, yawning.

Wow. The fucking audacity. Public spaces didn’t mean they were open 24/7. Didn’t this guy notice that it was closed? The beginnings of irritation tugged the corners of Yoongi’s lips down. 

“Hey,” he said, poking the boy again.

He snored louder.

“Hey,” Yoongi called out again. “Arcade’s closed. Time to go home.”

Perhaps something in his words seemed to hold a trigger point, because the boy in the grey hoodie bolted up straight, sending his hoodie backwards to reveal his face in full view. He turned to Yoongi with a desperate mewl.

“Please,” his voice was brittle and soft, “let me stay here.”

Yoongi could hardly register his plea though, because he could only gawk at him, mouth ajar.

Whoa.

No, he wasn’t admiring the boy, although he was certainly very good-looking despite the bare face. Without his hood obstructing the features of his face, Yoongi finally realized just who the young man before him was. Here was a face plastered on every poster across shopping malls; the face that smiled out of Yoongi’s TV screen during commercials.

Nightingale, his fans had lovingly dubbed him. Others knew him by his netizen-granted title: Park Jimin, The Nation’s Sweetheart. Chiseled jawline, full cheeks. Bright hair, even brighter eyes. Warm-honey-on-caramel-macchiato kind of eyes. Get-lost-in-your-gaze kind of eyes.

“Uh.” Licking over his dry lips, Yoongi drew in a slow breath and asked, “Are you, by any chance... are you Park Jimin?”

“Shhh!” Grey Hoodie shot forward and pressed a finger to Yoongi’s lips, eyes wide with alarm, hissing, “Don’t say that name out loud! You can’t let anyone hear.”

Yoongi blinked, pulse stuttering. So he was right, then. His eyes darted around. Only the low hum of the air vents and the occasional 8-bit music from arcade consoles rang filled the empty air.

Because it was 10pm on a Thursday night, and the throng of regular customers had retired to their homes and the place was empty. With a sour face, Yoongi jostled Jimin’s wrist away, prying the singer’s fingers off his lips. “I don’t know if you were listening to me, but like I said, the arcade’s closed.”

Jimin stared at him, like he’d just witnessed a miracle. Or seen a ghost. Or maybe both.

“What?”

“You’re not...” Jimin looked like he was sorting through puzzle pieces in his head. “You’re not gonna ask for my autograph or take a selfie together or something?”

Yoongi folded his arms and said sternly, “I’m still on shift duty, which means I gotta be professional.”

Truth be told, he was a little bit more than a casual listener of the nation’s sweetheart, having bought an album or two in the past. But the workplace wasn’t a playground, and Yoongi meant business. “So if you don’t mind, let me finish cleaning up here so we can go home. Call your manager or something.”

Jimin eked out a yelp, eyes growing wide. “No!”

“What, ‘no’?”

“Listen.” Jimin hesitated, fiddling with his hands in his hoodie pockets before pulling the hood over his head. “That won’t work. My manager doesn’t exactly know I’m... out.”

Yoongi raised an eyebrow, a wild guess already brewing at the corners of his mind.

“Don’t give me that look.”

“What look?”

“The judgy look. Okay, fine. I snuck out.” Jimin looked away and pursed his lips.

There it was. Yoongi had half a mind to probe and ask why, but at the rate things were going, he would never be able to close up shop. So he turned around to tread away. “Well, whatever. You can leave with me—“

A hand caught his sleeve.

“Please,” Jimin said, desperate. “Let me stay here overnight?”

“No.” Yoongi was firm.

And at that, Park Jimin, the nation’s sweetheart, acclaimed popstar-dubbed-Nightingale, let out the biggest whine and gave Yoongi what he would call from then on the Major Puppy Dog Pout. If he had dog ears they’d be flattened against the side of his head by now.

And fuck, he was... cute.

Perhaps Yoongi’s ass— er, heart, clenched the tiniest little bit. He sighed wearily. “That’s blackmail.”

“Hmm? What is?” Another pout, sans the innocent eyes. There was a knowing glint in the singer’s eyes now. Park Jimin seemed to be on a mission to make a man falter, and he knew damn well when to crank up the charm.

Yoongi clenched his teeth so hard he feared they’d fall out. Still, he tried not to sway. Keyword being tried. “My manager would kill me if I let you.”

“That makes two of us then, no?” Jimin glided back and slid one hand up from Yoongi’s wrist to rest on his shoulder. “My manager doesn’t know. Yours doesn’t have to, either.” He stepped closer to whisper, breath warm: “This could be our little secret.”

If he didn’t know any better, Yoongi would think the guy was talking about something else entirely. His heart thudded in his chest. Who knew the nation’s sweetheart, the male equivalent of darling starlet IU, could be so naughty?

“Look,” he croaked. “I don’t know how I can possibly help you. Hell, I don’t even know your reasons for—“ His words were cut off by the sound of rumbling, like thunder, only it came from the direction of Jimin’s stomach.

Just like that, the seductive ante switched off as the singer’s face turned pink. Clutching his tummy, he pursed his lips and shot Yoongi a sheepish grin. “Oops.”

It came so suddenly, without warning, that it broke through Yoongi’s mounting annoyance and he let out a bark of laughter. “I can’t believe this.” Here he was, standing with one of the country’s most popular idols in the industry in the middle of an empty arcade. What a wild world.

Jimin dropped his hand from Yoongi’s shoulder and shrugged. “Hey, I know I’m like a fairy, but I’m human, too.”

“You haven’t eaten?” Yoongi regarded him wearily.

The singer’s face grew bitter. “Eh. I ran away from dinner.”

Now, Yoongi was a responsible college kid. He liked to take care of himself, and others, too. Once, when his cousin left for a trip to Jeju last year, he’d dutifully dropped by her place every day at exactly two o’clock in the afternoon to feed her cat. He did his assignments on time, and showed up for work not a minute later than he had to. So he could honestly only fault that responsible streak of his when he asked—

“Do you like tteokbboki?”

They weren’t in Seoul, so the streets were far less busy and crowded. Nightlife wasn’t a typical affair here, but Yoongi did know one place that stayed open through the night, partly because he was friends with the owner. Overhead, the moon grinned down at them like a Cheshire cat, slabs of silver illuminating the concrete sidewalks.

“Why are there so many galbi restaurants?” Jimin asked as they wound their way down the sidewalk.

“Welcome to Gapyeong,” Yoongi huffed, keeping both hands tucked into the pocket of his pants. Although spring was fast approaching, the nights were still cooler.

“If galbi is your town’s specialty, then why are you taking me out to eat tteokbboki?”

The nerve of this kid. “Quit complaining and be grateful I’m not screaming your identity out for everyone to hear.”

Fear flashed across Jimin’s eyes, but it lasted only a brief second before it cleared up. “Eh.” He looked around. “But nobody’s here. Who’d hear you?”

Yoongi scowled. “Fine. Let’s just say I’m pretty broke.”

“There you go.” Jimin’s answering smirk made Yoongi simultaneously want to punch and pinch his cheeks. “You’re cuter when you’re honest, you know.”

“S-shut it.” Yoongi tsk-tsked. He was, at that moment, wondering why he’d bothered to bring this brat out. He was by no means the most altruistic person in the world, and he didn’t care much for famous people (even if said celebrity was one he was a fan of). So what was it about Jimin that brought them here?

Jimin smiled. “Don’t worry, I have my credit card to pay for— oh?” He patted around his jeans pockets, growing frazzled.

Yoongi slowed to a halt. “What?”

Jimin’s fingers fumbled with his hoodie’s pockets, then rummaged through the black backpack slung over his shoulder. “My wallet, I think—“

“Don’t tell me it’s—“

“—gone.” Jimin gasped, one hand covering his mouth. “Huh. I must have dropped it.” He sounded far from devastated. If it were Yoongi, he’d be scrambling to search for his valuables by now, but the boy just shrugged and mumbled, “Oh, well.”

Yoongi’s mouth hung open, flabbergasted.

“What? I only have my credit cards and a some spare cash there. Everything else is at home.”

At home. He said the word as if he was sure he’d be back. Yoongi eyed his light backpack and mused, “You’re not actually running away, are you?”

Jimin snorted. “I’m not that irresponsible. I’m just out for some fresh air.”

“Then why’d you ask to stay the night at the arcade?”

“I asked for one night, not forever.” There was a smile playing at Jimin’s lips, one that made Yoongi wonder if he should be intrigued or frightened. “Just to keep them on their toes.”

“Who’s ‘them’?” Yoongi said, shivering against the cold chill biting into his exposed hands. He shoved them in his pockets, then glanced at Jimin. He was only clad in that grey hoodie and jeans. Wasn’t he freezing? Without realizing it, the both of them had started walking again.

Jimin pointed at a bright orange sign ahead of them. “Is that the place?”

Yoongi followed his gaze. Tteokki Tteokki, the sign read, wordplay on phrase ‘doki-doki’. The owner was a Japan-raised young man called Shunji, but he preferred to go by his Korean name, Seokjin.

“Rabbit-rabbit?” Jimin asked, translating the sign from Korean.

“No, it’s a pun.” Classic Seokjin, making jokes only he found funny.

Jimin shot him a curious look, and Yoongi shook his head. “Yeah, nevermind.” He glanced at Jimin’s empty hands. “Anyway, don’t worry about your wallet. I’ll search for it in the morning.” Maybe they’d left it back inside the arcade.

“Awww.” Jimin beamed at him, bright and blinding, and for a second Yoongi wanted to forget that he was dealing with the country’s beloved idol singer here. Something about Jimin’s smile made him curious to see what lurked behind it. Questions prodded at the back of his mind—whatwhyhow—but he stayed silent.

He had no place to be poking around others’ business. Yoongi turned on his heel. “Let’s go.”

The air inside the restaurant was a warm reprieve from the late winter chill outside, and every seat was vacant. On a quiet Thursday night in a small town like this, business was slow—everyone would rather head home than eat out.

“Oh-hoh!” greeted a booming voice. From inside the kitchen door, a head with a mop of bleach blonde-hair poked out. “If it isn’t Min Yoongi. To what do I owe this visit?”

“Hey.” Yoongi nodded once in acknowledgement, stepping through the door’s threshold. To Jimin, he mumbled, “That’s Jin. The owner.” Out loud, he ordered two servings of spicy tteokbokki before the two of them picked a table by the floor-to-ceiling glass window.

“I’ll pay you back,” Jimin offered meekly, sitting across him.

Yoongi wrinkled his nose and waved a hand. “Nah.”

“But you said you’re broke.”

“I’m a gentleman, too.”

The words were out before his brain could filter them. Yoongi pressed his lips in a tight line. Oops. Hadn’t meant to say that aloud.

Jimin went quiet, and he started wondering if he’d said something wrong. Overhead, the speakers switched to a more mellow song, something about falling in love without meaning to. Serendipity.

“Why?” Jimin broke the silence.

“Why what?”

“Why’re you being so nice?”

Yoongi half-snorted, half-laughed, tugging at the collar of his pullover. “What, people in Seoul don’t treat their friends to free meals?”

Jimin’s fingers fiddled with the strings of his hoodie, eyes lowered to a point on the table between them. “Yes, but also no. Not when you’re in my career field, not really. I’m just saying. ‘Cause you don’t have anything to gain from being nice to me.”

“People can be good for the sake of being good.” Yoongi poured them both cups of water from the pitcher that was already on the table. “To the world, you might be idol Park Jimin, but to me right now, you’re Kid With No Wallet.”

The doubt creeping into Jimin’s face gave way to laughter, and Yoongi decided he liked that look on him better. Crescent moon smile on crescent moon eyes fit for a crescent moon night.

Seokjin arrived to serve their order, but not before glancing between the both of them and remarking, “And who is this young man you brought with you, hmm?” He turned and appraised Jimin, eyes bright with curiosity. “You look familiar…”

Yoongi gulped and cleared his throat, racking his brain for an explanation. What was he supposed to say? Yeah, I just happened to come by with one of the country’s top idols. No big deal. Not likely. He could feel the unspoken agreement between him and Jimin to keep the singer’s identity under wraps, palpable in the tension that stretched between them like a taut string. “Uh...”

But before he could blurt anything, Jimin surprised him by looking Seokjin straight in the eye and standing up with a polite bow. “Hello. Nice to meet you, I’m Jimin,” he said, voice confident and steady. “Park Jimin.”

Yoongi froze in the midst of breaking apart his chopsticks.

O..kay? So much for secrecy? Did Jimin fucking forget who he was? This was not exactly incognito behavior. He nudged the singer’s foot in alarm, and Jimin grinned at him with ease as if to say, It’s okay, I trust this one.

Seokjin blinked, and eyes his raked over Jimin from head to toe. “Park Jimin as in, that idol singer?”

Jimin smiled expectantly.

Instead of keeling over and gushing excitedly like Yoongi expected, Seokjin snorted. “Yeah, right. As if.”

When Jimin’s face fell in sheer disbelief, Yoongi had to keep from bursting into snickers.

“Yah, if you’re him, then I’m Yoon Ah In,” Seokjin sassed, planting his hands on either side of his hips. “Park Jimin, my ass. Why would he even be in Gapyeong? Aren’t idols always busy?”

“B-but it’s true!” Jimin insisted, nostrils flaring. He nudged Yoongi under the table lightly and turned to him. “You tell him. I really am the nation’s nightingale!”

Yoongi said nothing, only watched with an amused grin, and that only prompted Seokjin to throw his head back and laugh louder. “Yeah? Prove it. You got your ID with you?”

“Of course! It’s right—“ Jimin seemed to realize the reality of losing his wallet at the same time as Yoongi, because he went still, shoulders deflating. “Oh.” He glanced at Yoongi. “Oops.”

Seokjin reached out and patted Jimin’s shoulder good-naturedly. “No worries, cutie. You’re a great lookalike. I bet people mistake you for him all the time.”

Yoongi let out a snort, and Jimin rolled his eyes but didn’t protest further, choosing to sink back in his seat to eat. As Seokjin glided away muttering something along the lines of “kids these days, always imitating their idols”, Yoongi watched, amused, as Jimin practically attacked the poor rice cakes using his chopsticks, lips curled into a pout. “The one time I actually decide to be chill with revealing my identity, nobody believes me.”

“Think of it like this,” Yoongi finally piped up, smirking. “At least nobody will mob you.”

“Ugh, crowds,” Jimin lamented mid-chew. “Don’t get me wrong, I love my fans, but I get so uncomfortable when there are cameras in my face everywhere. Even airports. I can’t pick my nose anywhere, damn.”

Yoongi grinned, and took a sip of water. It seemed like Jimin was turning out to be a lot more than just a doll manufactured by entertainment companies. Setting his chopsticks down, he leaned against the back of the chair, wondering just how much of a celebrity’s onscreen persona was real and what was sculpted into an image of perfection.

“You’re giving me that look again.”

“What look?” Yoongi asked.

“That look, like you can’t believe I’m real,” Jimin said mid-chew. “Well, newsflash, I’m just like you, man. And I know what you must be thinking.”

“I wasn’t even saying anything.”

“No, but your face screams, ‘Why is this weirdo even in front of me and what is he doing here’?”

Leaning forward again, Yoongi picked up his chopsticks and popped a rice cake into his mouth. “Alright, you got me, mind reader.”

Jimin glanced up at him, and had Yoongi been paying attention, he would’ve caught the hesitant gleam in his eyes. He paused, before setting his chopsticks down and resting his forearms on the edge of the table. “My manager set me up for a meeting with this songwriter earlier.”

“Uh huh, and?”

“And the guy seemed super eager to work with me...”

Yoongi nodded, and said after chewing, “Isn’t that a good thing?”

“...if I did him favors in return.”

It took no longer than three seconds for the words to sink in. Yoongi put his chopsticks down, almost forgetting to chew. A heavy, bitter silence followed Jimin’s words, hanging in the air between them like a suspended pendulum. Somehow Yoongi found mustered enough voice to croak, “What?”

And then Jimin was wiping at his eyes, looking anywhere but into Yoongi’s gaze as if he was ashamed of what he was about to say, or maybe of himself. “You can guess. All idols go through it.”

Yoongi inhaled sharply, and fingers curled into fists, tightening until his knuckles went white.

“That’s why I ran away and came here,” Jimin added with a sniffle.

Though he knew it was none of his business, and that he was so far removed from the situation anyway, Yoongi couldn’t help the white-hot anger that lanced through him like a bolt of lightning. He couldn’t not care. This was beyond just idols and the music industry. Because at the end of the day, it all boiled down to basic humanity. Jimin might be a stranger to him, but he was a person.

Not some ragdoll to be toyed around with.

And nobody deserves to be treated like they’re less than human.

“That’s not legal, is it? Surely you can do something about—“

“I can’t,” Jimin interjected, eyes misty and voice soft. He tilted his head to the left until it was leaning against the restaurant’s glass windowpane, and Yoongi watched his own reflection frowning at him. “I can’t. I have a contract. I ran away tonight while on a toilet break when my manager stepped out of the restaurant for a bit, but I can’t avoid it forever.”

Yoongi couldn’t just leave it at that. Something at the back of his mind roared for him to save this soul sitting before him. “You could- you could say no.”

Jimin’s gaze snapped to his. “There’ll be consequences. Much worse.”

Like what? Yoongi felt sick, like he’d been sucker-punched in the gut. His head spun. “That’s fucked up.”

A half-hearted shrug. “It’s my life.”

How many? A quiet voice at the back of his mind wondered how many times Jimin had had to face something so cruel. How many other idols were going through the same thing? How many other aspiring artists were slaves to this vicious system?

Fame is a lie.

Like makeup, the glitz and glamor was nothing but cover-up to sugarcoat the inner workings of the vile show business. Yoongi had heard of such stories, but more often than not, they were swept under the rug. It seemed that South Korea was first-world in every way except for socially.

The plates of rice cakes sat between them, cold and forgotten. “I’ve always wanted to write my own music,” Jimin murmured, picking at stray loose ends of thread on the sweaterpaw of his hoodie. “Write my own lyrics, turn them into songs. Hell, why am I even telling you this-“

“You don’t have to be ashamed,” Yoongi cut in quietly, chest heavy, and he physically had to restrain his hand from reaching for the singer’s trembling fingers. Jimin looked so small, shoulders hunching in as if he wanted to hide from the world. How alone he must’ve felt. How scared. “It’s okay.”

Jimin sent him a wary look that crumbled into glassy eyes and a broken smile. “I worked so hard to have my voice be heard by this many people. I always thought…” he swallowed. “I thought as long as I could step on a stage, then my dreams would come true, you know? Turns out it’s not that easy. I’m really stupid, aren’t I?” He gave a shaky laugh that held no ounce of humor.

“Isn’t there a way to void the contract?” Yoongi asked, jaw tight, not understanding the twang in his chest. Why was he so worried?

“Only if I pay the bond fee,” Jimin answered. “But it’s impossible. It’ll take me years. At most, I can only hope to stay out of indecent offers as much as possible until my contract ends.”

“What will happen if you reject the collaboration?”

Jimin looked weary, and Yoongi stifled the urge to reach out and bubble-wrap him. “Then I’d lose a big name to feature in my next single. I’d flop.”

“You’re making it sound like you have no choice,” Yoongi noted lowly.

“That’s because I don’t—“

“No, I don’t think so.” Yoongi grabbed his cup, swishing the cold water in it, watching it swirl unto itself. He dared not lift his eyes to meet Jimin’s gaze. “I think maybe some part of you is afraid.”

“I-I’m not scared!” Jimin fired back. “It’s just that there’s so much at stake. You can’t possibly understand. So many idols like me keep quiet because this fucked up showbiz relies so much on maintaining a clear image, don’t you see?” He paused to release an angry huff. “If we so much as dare to report anything, they’ll twist the story against us. Then we’d lose everything we worked so hard for.”

Yoongi did see his point – he was well aware that the entertainment industry was slithering with bigoted fucks that abused their power for all the wrong reasons. But he was trying to prove a point here, and so he feigned nonchalance with a shrug.

“Sure, you could say so, but it just baffles me why you seem to think you need others to lift you higher up in your career. You’re already a well-established artist with a solid fanbase.” He raised his gaze, and found two glassy pools of frustration glowering back at him. He tilted his head to one side, and asked, “Tell me: why do you sing, Park Jimin?”

Jimin pressed his lips into a thin line, opening his mouth and closing them like he couldn’t the right words to say. “I… because…” he trailed off, staring at Yoongi like they were teacher and student, and he had just gotten assigned to answer an impossible exam question. Confusion and realization flickered across Jimin’s eyes, and to fill the sudden silence between them he made a grab for a cup to gulp down mouthful after mouthful of water.

“You don’t have to answer me now,” Yoongi said gently, eyes never leaving him. “You’ll find it yourself eventually.”

With a resounding smack, Jimin’s cup rested on the wooden table between them, and he wiped his mouth with the back of his band before mumbling, “With or without an answer, it won’t really help my situation, will it? I’m still here. Stuck in a nightmare version of my dream.”

“Then I’ll write you a song.” Yoongi gasped and clamped his mouth shut. Fuck. The words had flown past his lips before he could hold himself back.

Jimin paused, and cocked his head to one side. “What do you mean?”

“I mean...” Heat warmed Yoongi ears, and he brought up a hand to rub sheepishly at the back of his neck. Suddenly the ceiling looked very interesting. “…only if you want to. I’m a music composition major, see. In uni.”

In an ideal world, Jimin’s eyes would light up and he’d say yes straight away. But this wasn’t a fairytale, and Yoongi was nothing more than an aspiring producer-to-be, grasping for whatever opportunity he could get to pursue his own ambition.

“That’s sweet of you,” the singer cooed after a second. “But I’m not sure—“

“Give it a listen.”

“Huh?”

“My music.” Yoongi swallowed thickly, rubbing his clammy hands against his knees under the table. In front of Jimin, he put on his best brave face, as if he wasn’t laying his entire soul out on the table for him. “Don’t say no unless you’ve heard it. I’ll write you a song, Park Jimin, and it’ll be so damn good that you’re gonna want to say no to that fucktard of a producer.”

He was probably promising too much, too recklessly, but the offer was already out there. Suspended in the air between them like a giant invisible question mark. Yoongi might as well roll with it.

And what was this - were his eyes deceiving him, or was that hope he caught crossing Jimin’s eyes? The singer remained wary, and Yoongi’s anticipation waned. He almost dropped the subject, but then he nodded once and said, “Fine. Lead the way.” 

Yoongi’s eyes turned as round as full moons, heartbeat spiking. This was surreal. “Really?” He leapt from his seat. “Don’t be too blown away.”

“For your information, I have standards.” A small smile curled Jimin’s lips, and it only served to quicken Yoongi’s pulse further. Here was a chance.

He grinned. “I say throw your standards aside, because genius Min Yoongi is coming through.” This was fucking music they were talking about. His home turf, sanctuary, comfort zone. While he disliked blowing his own trumpet, he didn’t want to deny something as innate as his ability to create beats and melodies. And something about the timbre of Jimin’s voice told him he’d enjoy this one.

“Genius, you say?” The singer stood. “We’ll see about that.”

The subway platform was close to empty when they went up to board - much to their relief, because it helped to cloak Jimin’s incognito act. They kept his hood up for cover, and Yoongi lingered closeby, not enough to touch, but just so that if somebody made a grab for the singer, he’d be able to swat their hands away.

Who would’ve known he’d grow so protective in such a short time?

The inside of the subway cabin wasn’t as empty as they’d hoped, though. Commuters sat and chatted amongst one another, and some were half-asleep. Others remained standing, deeply immersed in their phone screens.

Yoongi’s house was one stop away. Surely they wouldn’t run into any trouble on the way, right?

Wrong.

Just as the train was slowing down to a halt at the next station, a red-faced, drunken man blabbering gibberish shoved past them, shouldering his way through the commuters and bumping into Jimin so hard that the singer stumbled forward. Yoongi caught him just in time to prevent him from sprawling across the floor. “Oi.”

Too bad he caught the fabric of Jimin’s hoodie instead of his arm.

And pulled it back to expose Jimin’s face.

Although Seokjin didn’t recognize him back in the restaurant, the same didn’t go for everyone else in the train cabin. All around them, astonished whispers and gasps erupted as commuters jolted into sudden wakefulness. Yoongi’s chest seized with alarm as Jimin fumbled to yank his hoodie up once more.

“Look, look! Omo.”

“Isn’t that Park Jimin?”

“No way, what’s he doing out here this late at night?”

Yoongi could practically feel the dread radiating off Jimin in waves. People stood up, whipping their phones out, and started snapping photos. A flash here, a shutter there. He wanted to curse them all to hell. Beside him, Jimin stiffened, and when Yoongi glanced down, his hands were trembling. The singer ducked his head, burying his face deeper in the folds of his hoodie.

Yoongi ought to yell at them all to back the fuck off, but he didn’t want to cause a scene.

At that moment, the train doors slid open. Before the crowd could flock and corner them like wild hornets, Yoongi acted out of instinct. He slid his hand to grip Jimin’s, and muttered, “Run.”

He tugged the blond singer into a sprint, and the crowd followed, their exclaims escalating into shrieks that nearly shattered Yoongi’s eardrums. Fame does that. Turns rational people into starstruck shells of themselves.

And so it happened, that at 11pm KST in the quiet suburbs of Gapyeong, two boys raced down the subway station’s stairs, blood surging in their ears and a raging storm of fans hot on their heels. There was a shortcut that Yoongi always took back to his flat – a narrow alleyway tucked away from plain view. So he veered left, pulling Jimin along with him, and once again wondered what forces of the world were at play here that he should be running with someone like motherfucking Park Jimin, beloved Nightingale. He ran like he was a participant in a triathlon race, until his legs felt weighed down by lead.

They slipped into another narrow alley – the kind that you wouldn’t notice at first glance. Once the cheering and screaming faded, they deemed it safe to slow down. Yoongi let go of the singer’s hand, not appreciating the cold air that made it all the more difficult for him to catch his breath. Panting, he bent over and rested both hands on his knees. “What… the actual fuck…”

“Told you,” Jimin muttered darkly, though he wasn’t breathing as raggedly as Yoongi. “Welcome to my life. And this isn’t even Seoul.”

“Don’t get me started on that.” Yoongi liked his small-town environment just fine, thank you very much.

“Not that I don’t trust you,” Jimin said, glancing around. “But like, how do I know you’re not some sasaeng luring me into your home?”

Yoongi barked out a disbelieving laugh, and straightened his spine. He mused that they were, in every manner of speaking, in the perfect setting for a kidnapping – quiet night, dark alley, no eyewitnesses present. He shook his head with an unwitting smile.

“First of all, you’re the one who barged into the arcade,” he pointed out, striking his statements one finger after another. “Secondly, if I really were a sasaeng, I wouldn’t care about keeping you safe like this.”

Following his statements, the air between them went still and quiet again, save for their ragged breathing, and Yoongi glanced up.

Jimin was flashing him the most shit-eating grin on the face of the planet.

Yoongi groaned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Hmm?” Jimin batted his eyelashes, feigning innocence. He licked his lower lip and stepped closer. “What are you talking about?”

Rolling his eyes, Yoongi inched away from proximity, and marched forward. He supposed he would likely never be able to pin the Jimin’s behavior down. There was no point talking to him like this – the boy would only dance whimsical circles around him, and what irritated Yoongi was the gnawing sense that he would probably willingly let him.

“Hey,” Jimin called out from behind, tailing doggedly after him.

“What.”

“Can I ask you something?”

“What?”

“Wanna compare hand sizes?”

Yoongi paused, then turned around, careful to arrange his features in a mask of calmness. “Why?”

Jimin shrugged. “Just curious.”

He hated to admit it, but Yoongi was kind of a sucker for hands, and holding them. Back in pre-school, he’d always been the last to let go of his buddy’s hand during school field trips. And when the nation’s nightingale was asking to compare hand sizes with you, no wasn’t an answer. At least, he couldn’t find the will to. So almost begrudgingly but not really, Yoongi raised his right hand.

“This is stupid,” he muttered, eyes downcast.

Jimin was more frank. The moment their palms touched, he grinned. “Ohh? You have big hands. Mine are really small.”

He had a point. “Huh. They are,” Yoongi observed. Cute and chubby.

“And you know what they say about men with big hands.” Jimin waggled his eyebrows up and down. “They also tend to have-“

Yoongi almost choked on his own spit.

Jimin laughed, loud and carefree. “…big hearts! Big hands, big hearts. What were you thinking, huh?”

“N-nothing, fuck, you’re impossible,” Yoongi stuttered, feeling his ears turn hot. They must look so red by now. How embarrassing. He wanted to withdraw his hand and shove them back into his pockets, but just then, with a small smile, Jimin curled his fingers over Yoongi’s palm, locking their hands together.

The singer kept them interlinked, and Yoongi’s heart thundered in his chest. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to collapse or ascend to the next life.

Get a grip, Min Yoongi.

“So, shall we?” Jimin said lightheartedly, walking once more. Even in the shadows of the alleyway, hi eyes sparkled with unguarded mirth – a nebula of its own making.

Yoongi had to force himself to blink out of his reverie. Where were they going again? Ah. Right. His place. “Yeah. Come on.”

“Oh, wait. Just a sec.” Jimin paused, pointing to a vending machine that was glowing at the side of the pathway. He turned to Yoongi and pasted on his Puppy Dog Pout in full blast again.

Yoongi squinted his eyes.

The pout grew desperate.

He sighed, long and deep. Fucking Park Jimin. “Fine. What do you want?”

Jimin’s lips pulled back to reveal pearly whites, eyes filling with triumphant glee. “Yaaay.”

What was it about this rabid fairy and his crescent moon smile that made him so hard to resist? “No cold drinks for you though, you’re a singer,” Yoongi said, feeling like a babysitter. An underpaid one. Maybe he should set up a special service called Babysitting For Free.

Fishing through his pockets, he found spare change and handed them to Jimin, who gracefully bounded up to the vending machine and slotted the coins. As he watched the singer’s slender form from behind, he wondered—

What the fuck have I gotten myself into?

Yoongi’s apartment building wasn’t far from the vending machine, and so a couple more turns and dimly-lit narrow alleys later, they came face to face to with small and squat, six-storey building. It was one of the older complexes in the area, but it was cheap, which meant everything.

“There’s no elevator,” Yoongi warned as they stepped inside the heated lobby. “Sorry some of us aren’t so privileged.”

Jimin made a face. “Pah. During my pre-debut days, I survived with a 10,000 won budget everyday and dormed with over ten other trainees. Don’t underestimate me.”

His flat was on the third floor, and as Yoongi keyed in his passcode, he wondered if he’d taken time to clean up at least the living room. Not that he was trying to impress anyone, but he didn’t want a guest think he was sloppy. He considered himself neat; it wasn’t him who lived like a slob.

“Oh, and by the way.” He cast a surreptitious sideways glance at the singer. “I live with two other guys. But they’re not here.” Earlier, they’d texted saying they would be burning the midnight oil near the university for an upcoming presentation, so he had the place to himself.

Jimin shrugged, shifting his backpack to rest more comfortably on his right shoulder. In the low-lit hallway, he was but a silhouette, and Yoongi could barely make out the guy’s expression. “That’s fine. I’m sorry to intrude at all.”

“Nah. S’better than getting mobbed in public.”

The singer released a wry chortle. “Some points were made.”

Yoongi turned the doorknob and let them inside. Shrugging off his jacket and toeing off his sneakers, he said, “Make yourself comfortable. You can, uh... stay here in the meantime.”

Thank goodness the living room wasn’t as cluttered as usual, save for the occasional strewn pieces of discarded laundry, half-eaten cups of ramen, and unwashed bowls by the sink. The apartment didn’t even smell that bad (yet).

So overall, not too shabby.

(Yet.)

Jimin padded in and lowered his backpack on the floor by the dining table. “Well, this is... cozy.”

It occurred to Yoongi then, that he had no clue what Jimin’s purpose for coming to this particular town was. Sure, he was trying to ‘escape’ his management, so to speak, but did he really have to go this far? Why Gapyeong, of all possible places?

“Do want a drink?” he offered to break the awkward silence, already heading to pantry on the counter and fumbling through assortments of instant tea and coffee. “Some tea? To improve digestion from just now.”

Jimin’s eyes darted to him. He nodded, sauntering towards where Yoongi was. “Yes, please and thank you.”

“So.” Yoongi cleared his throat, handing him a mug moments later. They were sitting on the kitchen table, where he’d managed to make space for their teapot amidst dirty dishes and used water glasses. “What’s the deal?”

“Hmm?”

“Like, why come to Gapyeong at all?” Yoongi probed. For most of his life, he knew that only tourists bothered to come here: in the daytime, to visit nearby tourist attractions. Rarely did big-name celebrities swing by. “How’d you even get here?”

A sheepish grin curved up Jimin’s mouth as he sipped from his mug. “I hopped on a bus to anywhere.”

So it was an impulsive move then. “You weren’t really planning to come here at all, huh.” Yoongi eyed the singer’s light backpack. “Wait, did you just think you’d walk around at this time of the night?” Did Jimin not realize how dangerous that was, especially in an unfamiliar town?

“Well, I thought I’d just wing it.”

“Sounds reckless to me.”

“Listen, I got mad, okay?” Jimin reasoned. “You know when you get so angry you do crazy things at the spur of the moment? I wasn’t thinking clearly until I reached your arcade and realized how stupid this has been of me.”

Yoongi regarded Jimin thoughtfully, and he chided himself for secretly hoping that the singer wasn’t regretting coming here. He let out a slow whoosh of breath. “You’d be surprised. One time I got so mad I punched a man and wrote an entire cypher diss track.”

“How come?”

“Fucker ripped my demo song off.”

Jimin’s unreadable gaze snapped to his. “I’m sorry to hear that. People are monsters.”

“Not all of ‘em.” Yoongi smiled ruefully. It was a memory from long ago, during his high school days—when he was only beginning to learn about audio editing software and music composition. He didn’t even own a beatmaker yet. Back then he’d thought himself good, and tried to sell a song, only to fail miserably. Needless to say, it was a humbling experience.

“If you had a 10,000 won budget, then I had to live off of 2,000 daily,” Yoongi continued, eyes downcast. He didn’t know what compelled him to share something so personal to Jimin, but here it was. Here they were. “If I took the bus, I couldn‘t eat. And if I chose to eat, I’d have to walk home.”

Silence wrapped the air following his words, and when he glanced up, he found Jimin staring sadly at him. Pity flickered across his eyes, but before he could offer any more variations of I’m-sorry’s or that-sucks, Yoongi gestured to his mug of peppermint tea on the table. “Drink.”

Pity was the last thing he needed right then.

Jimin lowered his gaze, and took a sip with a mumbled ‘thanks’.

“Anyway, how long are you planning to stay gone?” Yoongi asked. He had half a mind to ask if Jimin wanted to stay the night, but decided against it. This was as close as he could get to asking if the singer was thinking of sleeping over.

Eyes widening, Jimin pouted. “You want me to leave already?” he asked in a deliberately small voice.

“No, but I was just wondering. I mean, you’ve been gone for a while.” Yoongi crossed his arms, playing stern. “Wouldn’t you manager come looking?”

Jimin shrugged. “I don’t really care. Even if they find me, I’ll have these few moments of freedom to myself.”

Freedom. The way he said it made the word sound like something precious, something to be cherished. Yoongi wondered when the last time Jimin boarded a subway alone was.

“Is it hard?” Yoongi asked quietly, glancing askance.

“What is?”

“This whole...” Yoongi gestured to Jimin’s entire form. “Idol thing. Fame.” He’d never really considered Park Jimin as something other than an icon, instead of the human being he was. “Is it tough?”

“I hate it.”

Yoongi’s eyes widened.

Jimin emitted a bitter laugh at his expression. “I’m not kidding. I mean, I don’t know if it’s obvious to you by now, but I really hate the Nightingale image, the pointless socializing with other celebrities, the never-ending schedules, and the paparazzi—hell, Dispatch makes me want to rip my hair out.”

Yoongi wrinkled his nose. “Tabloids must be like scum of earth to you.”

“Tell me about it.” Jimin shook his head and set his teacup down, the ghost of a wry smile on his lips. “There was one time after I released my Inked MV, a Dispatch reporter followed me literally everywhere. Even the toilets!”

“Toilet? The fuck was he tryna find out? Your—” Yoongi made a face and barely restrained himself from blurting out, Your dick size?

(Not that he was curious about Jimin’s family jewels.)

Jimin’s eyes darted to him, amused. “Probably trying to fish for a scandal. He thought I couldn’t see him, but he wasn’t really doing a good job at being sneaky. I decided to call him out and treated him to bulgogi instead.”

“What a lucky reporter.”

“Nah. It’s just playing smart outside of the rules that people are trying to place on you.” Jimin frowned, face grim. “What you’ve seen is only the tip of the iceberg, but this is my life. Avoiding the press, hours and hours of practice, sleazy men trying to get into my pants. When your face is on ads everywhere, trying to fly under the radar is hard. I really...” Jimin bit his lower lip to keep them from quivering. “I hate everything that comes with it.”

Yoongi arched an eyebrow. “But..?”

“But,” Jimin sighed, soft and solemn, and Yoongi wanted to reach out to touch him, soothe his unease. “But I love the stage. You asked me earlier why I sing. Well, here’s my answer.” He took a deep breath. “The music. The fans’ energy. I swear, it’s like every time I come up on that stage, I’m reminded of why I put up with all this in the first place.”

His eyes turned glassy, not with sadness, but a fierce rush of passion. “I think when you love something fiercely enough, you’re willing to bear with the pitfalls that come with it.” Jimin’s gaze flickered back to his, and Yoongi’s jaw tightened at the burning intensity in it. “I understand why you choose music even if it hasn’t earned you much. Yet.”

Yet.

The word hung in the air between them, charged with something static and something hopeful, like a promise waiting to be born. Yoongi wanted to pluck that promise and believe in it. He let out a stuttered sigh. Jimin wasn’t pitying him—he was resonating with his situation.

He continued, “But as much as I trust the stage to lift me up, it’s the people I can’t trust. And I’m telling you before you make it: the industry is poisoned by snakes all around. Be careful who you open up to.”

Yoongi hummed in response, “So… I take it as this means you trust me?”

The singer blinked. Then he grinned, his playful mask slipping back in. “Let’s just say I needed a venting buddy.”

Oh, please. “A venting buddy.”

“Yep. And also, I kinda had no other choice. ‘Cause you’re the only one with me right now.” Jimin winked at him. “Thanks for letting me vent, pal.”

Yoongi scoffed, but he couldn’t suppress the smile spreading across his face. “You’re insufferable.”

“I’m cute.”

And smart, and passionate, with a lot more spunk and personality than Yoongi had initially pegged him for. But he wasn't about to admit that. He cocked his head at Jimin’s teacup. “Are you done yet?”

“Um, yeah I guess?”

“Then follow me.” Because they had yet to do what they’d originally come here for. Turning around, he marched down the apartment corridor past two doors opposite one another—each one his roommates’—and stopped just shy of the threshold of the door at the farthest end of the hallway.

When he turned around, Jimin was still lingering by the living room, hesitating. He sent Yoongi a doubtful frown. “Isn’t that your bedroom?”

“My...? What do you mean- why would I—“ Yoongi cut himself off, blood freezing as understanding crept in. Did Jimin think he was trying to make a move?

Oh, for fuck’s sake. With a groan, Yoongi pointed up at the sign outside the door.

‘GENIUS LAB’

“Even though I sleep and spend majority of my time here, this isn’t my bedroom,” he corrected, meeting Jimin’s wary expression with a pointed look of his own. “Welcome to my studio.”

It was the only space Yoongi kept neat, even more so than his own bedroom. Genius Lab was his sanctuary, a private bubble of quiet and safety away from the world. He’d worked hard to soundproof every nook and cranny of the walls with egg cartons collected over months, and was proud of it. Stacked against the left wall was a shelf of CDs and rap albums he cherished like hard-won medals, and in the middle was his workstation. To the far right: his keyboard. Last week he’d brought in a convertible sofa-bed cushion, the one you could easily fold in and out, and the door jammed lightly against it as the hinge creaked open.

Jimin made a sound of awe. “Is that a Yankee Candle?”

Yoongi’s eyes snapped to his most prized Soft Blanket scented candle on the desktop table, just beside his keyboard and mouse. He tugged at his collar and mumbled, “It’s a… um, a gift from my aunt. Smells okay, I guess.”

(Truth be told, he’d bought it as a part of a gift package for himself during a Christmas sale at the mall last year. There were actually two more unopened ones at the bottom drawer, but Jimin didn’t have to know that.)

“Can we light it?” Jimin turned to him with an expectant, megawatt grin, one that seemed to say, Don’t even try to say no.

At this stage, Yoongi wasn’t even going to bother. Park Jimin was a man who did what he liked. “Whatever. Do as you wish. I’ve got a matchbox on top of the shelf over there.” He strode towards his workstation as Jimin let out a squeal of victory, and proceeded to light his scented candle. “Let me just turn this thing on.”

He sat on a swivel armchair, one foot tapping lightly as he waited for the desktop to load his software system. Within a few moments, the air inside Genius Lab was enveloped in a warm, clean aroma that Yoongi had always likened to fresh mornings and pure dewdrops. It was his favorite scent, and he found his body relaxing, the stiff muscles in his neck loosening.

“What DAW do you use?” Jimin’s voice wove his consciousness back to the present. The singer glanced around and, seeing no other armchair like Yoongi’s, perched on the edge of the foldable sofa-bed by the door.

Yoongi raised his gaze, pleasantly surprised. Few people had ever been curious (or interested) enough to ask about how he worked, or how music production went in general.

“Cubase,” he answered after a heartbeat. “Sometimes Logic, or FL Studio. It depends.”

Jimin nodded. “I’ve always wanted to produce my own beats.”

“I know. You told me.” Yoongi whirled around in his chair to face the singer. “Which makes me wonder – what do you think your songs would sound like, if you had full rein of your music?”

Humming, Jimin leaned back and rested his chin on one palm, thinking. “Not too sure yet. I don’t wanna box myself in too much. Maybe I’d experiment across various genres, but I recently I’ve been into acoustics, instrumentals.”

Did he just say instrumentals? “I think I have a demo you might like.” After a few clicks, Yoongi opened a .WAV file of a 1-minute snippet he’d recorded just last week. As the first piano keys played, he rubbed his neck shyly, ears warming. It wasn’t easy to wrap his mind around the fact that a famous singer was in the same studio as him, listening to his song. “I mean, it’s a rough draft here, but I finished the song over the weekend, so...”

Jimin was quick on the uptake. With a gleam in his eye, he cocked his head towards the keyboard at the corner. “So play it then.”

Yoongi’s pulse jumped. “Huh?”

“Play for me.” Jimin was smiling at him, soft and encouraging. “You said you wanted me to listen your sound. So let me.”

Yoongi swallowed, and he couldn’t take his gaze away as Jimin’s eyes followed the way his Adam’s apple bob up and down. Play for the nation’s sweetheart? He knew he was good at the piano, he knew. That was as much of a fact as the sky was blue. But underneath the Nightingale’s gaze, a tiny part of him feared his confidence might crumble.

Not that he had much of a chance to protest, because just then Jimin hopped off the sofa-bed, gliding over to him and taking his wrists in his smaller hands. He pulled Yoongi to the keyboard, sat him down, and plopped beside him. The warmth of their closeness threatened to fuzz all of Yoongi’s frgaile concentration.

“A live concert from a genius composer such as yourself?” Jimin nudged him playfully. “What an honor.”

He said it like it wasn’t an honor for Yoongi to play for him. It’s funny, the way people can make you feel like the bigger, brighter version of yourself with just one smile. When Jimin was looking at him like that, Yoongi wanted to make him proud. Wanted to make him feel his music, hear his soul.

So he lifted his fingers to the keys.

Yoongi hadn’t found a title for the song yet, but the main structure was there. He played each chord with undulating energy, as though telling the high and lows of a grand story. He liked the refrain the best, and when Jimin started humming a melody alongside him, his heart sang, too. Jimin’s voice was different live - gemstone and gold, silver and sweet. Compared to the heavily edited, recorded studio versions found in most albums, his tenor to Yoongi’s ears was raw and lilting, a song on its own. As his spindle-like fingers ran through the final ending chords, Jimin’s humming faded until only silence permeated the air.

“I like your voice,” Yoongi remarked, fighting to keep the reverence out of his voice. He had to sound casual here. None of that fanboy hero-worship, no matter how much he wanted to hear Jimin’s singing over and over until he was drunk from it. “It’s uh, it’s my style.”

Jimin smirked, though his eyes stayed warm. Yoongi wanted to think they mirrored the admiration in his own. “And I like your song.” And perhaps that was his imagination clouding his mind but— Jimin’s eyes shifted lower... to Yoongi’s mouth. “It’s my style, too.”

Against his better will, Yoongi’s breath hitched in his throat. From this close, Jimin smelled like vanilla and sea salt and late summer rain, although it was only late winter. Spring had yet to come, so what was with the heat blooming in his cheeks like cherry blossoms awakening? Yoongi wasn’t a blusher.

“Hey,” Jimin’s voice shook him out of his thoughts, his face closer now than it was a second ago. “A question.”

Yoongi’s eyebrows quirked a millimeter. “Yeah?”

“I’m younger than you, aren’t I? I don’t think I ever caught your age earlier…”

Right. They were but mere strangers. Yoongi blinked. “I was born in ‘93.”

“So I’m right.” Jimin grinned, dropping the honorifics. “But... shall I call you ‘hyung’, then?”

His face was only inches from Yoongi’s now, and everything about this closeness made it hard to think. Yoongi’s brain cells were tangling and short-circuiting, and he doubted it was because here sat the famous Nightingale before him. This person wasn’t a celebrity right then.

No, it was all just— Jimin. His smile.

His lips.

“Okay,” Yoongi murmured, forgetting what he was even giving consent for in the first place.

With a gleam in his eye, Jimin smiled, and leaned in. His breath ghosted over Yoongi’s mouth, and their eyelids fluttered to a close—

“Hyung!” a gruff voice called out, muffled behind Genius Lab’s door.

Yoongi jerked backwards, eyes snapping open. With a sharp inhale, Jimin sprang away from him and stood, pulling his hood over his head to hide his cheeks.

“Hyung, are you home?”

“Probably in his studio, Hoseok-ah.” The front door slammed shut.

A tick worked in Yoongi’s jaw, and his eye twitched as he fought to keep a calm face. These two, seriously. They never learned how to do things quietly.

“Yeah, I noticed the light’s open.” Footsteps padded closer, growing louder with each step.

Panic surged in Yoongi’s chest. Jimin spun to face him, eyes wide with alarm.

“They can’t find out I’m here,” he hissed, all previous trace of that delicious witchlight in his eyes gone.

Yoongi’s eyes darted left and right, searching for a nook or cranny to shove Jimin in. Genius Lab had no cabinets to speak of, only drawers, and so they had no option except for—

“There.” He pointed to none other than... his sofa-bed. Haphazardly, he scrambled to unfold the convertible cushion so that it was elongated to a bed. Jimin ducked underneath the mattress just as a someone knocked on the door three times before twisting the knob.

Namjoon poked his head in. “Yo.”

Heart in his throat, Yoongi whirled around in his swivel chair and hardly kept himself from wheezing. “H-hey. You’re back? So early?”

Namjoon nodded. “Yeah. Thought we shouldn’t leave you alone on White Day.”

Yoongi glanced at his digital clock.

12:03AM, March 14th.

“Oh.” He put on his Best Non-awkward Smile. “You really shouldn’t have, Joon.”

“No, no,” Namjoon shook his head, smiling in that soft understanding way of his. “We know you always whine about being lonely on White Day, so we brought home soju and japchae to eat together.”

“Hyung!” At that moment, Hoseok poked his head inside and wedged himself between Namjoon and the door. A white plastic bag dangled from his fingers. “Time to for food, Mr. Workaholic. We know you haven’t eaten anything.” He glanced at the sofa-bed. “You’ve been sleeping the whole day, huh?”

A half-garbled laugh escaped Yoongi’s lips. “I’m not really hungry, guys. Really. Go ahead and eat without me. Maybe I’ll join you later.”

Hoseok tut-tutted. “Alright. Y’know what? If we can’t bring you out, we’ll invite ourselves in.”

And with that, he plopped on the sofa-bed.

The moment Hoseok’s ass landed on the mattress, a muffled squeak resounded in the room. Yoongi could feel his life span shortening.

“Eh..?” his housemate frowned, brows furrowing slowly. “Did you hear something?”

Fuck. Thinking fast, Yoongi coughed out loud—a series of fake sputters. “Aw, my cold.”

“This close to spring?” Namjoon sounded doubtful, letting himself in and shutting the door behind him. “Huh. You’ve always had the best immune system among us, though.”

And then—bless his soul—he sat down beside Hoseok.

Yoongi was, frankly speaking, praying to the heavens for Jimin’s bodily health.

“Oof.”

Both of his roommates paused.

“Did you say something?” Namjoon asked.

“Who, me?” Yoongi feigned in innocence. Here lies Park Jimin, South Korea’s Nightingale, he could imagine the newspaper headlines announcing the next day. Death by squishing! Beware Of Sinister Furniture! Guilt clawed at his insides like an angry wolf, and he bit back a pained cry on behalf of the singer, hand over mouth. “No, did you? Maybe you’re imagining noises. Hah. Haha. Yeah.”

“No, I heard something, too.” Hoseok frowned, shifting his legs and patting the mattress with a loud phunk-phunk-phunk. “And why’s your cushion so... angular?

Namjoon hummed, jiggling and bouncing on Yoongi’s mattress. “Yeah, almost as if there’s something bulky under—“

“Ouch. Ow!” And then, from beneath the rustling sofa-bed, one pale hand protruded out.

Needless to say, Namjoon had a coronary. Hoseok screamed like a motherfucking pterodactyl.

“Okay, okay. I can explain,” Yoongi said, both hands outstretched in a placating manner. He stood in the middle of Genius Lab, with Hoseok and Namjoon facing him, both of their arms crossed in the picture of stern disciplinarians.

From behind his shoulder, Jimin poked his head out and sent his housemates a sheepish wave. “Hello.”

“I can explain,” Yoongi repeated, mind tumbling with tangled thoughts. He felt like a child scorned by both parents. How would he even begin?

“Oh, I don’t know. Can you?” Hoseok raised one eyebrow at him, cocking his chin upwards with a huff.

Yoongi’s hands went clammy. Jimin chuckled nervously.

“Park Jimin,” Namjoon breathed out of the blue, startling Jimin and making him jump, though his eyes stayed fixated on Yoongi. “The Park Jimin is in our house. In your studio.”

Yoongi gulped. “Yeah.”

“Did you kidnap him?” Hoseok ventured fearfully. “Fuck. Are we wanted for-“

“No,” Yoongi hissed with an incredulous snort. “I didn’t coerce him into anything.”

“...then how?”

“Uh.” Yoongi scratched the back of his ear. “It just kinda happened.”

“Just happened?” Hoseok’s voice was thin. His gaze darted from Yoongi to Jimin and back again like he was trying to make a connection that could possibly explain this once in a blue moon phenomenon.

Yoongi nodded. “Yeah. Like an accident.”

“Ah. So just like you, then,” Namjoon snickered.

“Fuck you, dude. Go read a book or something.” Yoongi scowled. “It’s true. Why’re you guys mad?”

“We’re not mad,” Hoseok sniffed.

“Just disappointed,” Namjoon supplied, shaking his head for added effect.

Yoongi’s mouth hung open, and beside him, Jimin stifled an amused chortle.

“Hyung...” Hoseok stepped forward and gripped him by the shoulders, face grim. “Have you... been keeping secrets from us? Like, a new boyfriend kind of secret?”

Yoongi swatted his hands away, and Hoseok stumbled back with a theatric gasp, one hand pressed to his chest in pretend hurt. “Seriously, what’s the matter with you? Alright, look. I found this guy—“ he hooked a thumb in Jimin’s direction, “—sleeping at the arcade, and he followed me home.”

“Exuding puppy behavior,” Namjoon mused, pushing his rimmed glasses up his nose. “Never knew the nation’s Nightingale was like that.”

Jimin held two palms up and growled playfully. “Woof woof, daddy.”

His words were like stones shattering the ice. Hoseok choked back a snicker and clapped his hands. Namjoon literally wheezed, and Yoongi wanted to yeet himself out the window. With a choked sob, he stared at the three of them, aghast. Seriously? That was the first thing Jimin was going to say in a conversation with his housemates?

Wiping tears of laughter from the corners of his eyes, Namjoon scuttled forward to pat Jimin’s back. “You are gold.”

Flushing, Jimin smiled in return while Yoong could only stand back as he watched, dumbfounded.

“Alright, I forgive you,” Hoseok told him, grinning like a madman. “He’s funny! But seriously hyung, you should’ve told us Park Jimin was your boyfriend instead of keeping it a secret from us.”

“We wouldn’t judge.” Namjoon winked at him.

Yoongi’s mouth parted as he stood there, thunderstruck. “Like I said—“

“Yah, no wonder you don’t wanna join our little Singles White Day Party!” Hoseok exclaimed, already bulldozing past him and moving to shake hands with Jimin. Like with everything, he was loud and jolly. Hoseok was like a sponge who soaked up all of the world’s misery and returned it in the form of a kind smile. “You already got yourself a sweet bombshell right here. Hi, nice to meet you, I’m Jung Hoseok.”

“And I’m Namjoon. Kim Namjoon. But I go by RM. Helps build up the musician alias, y’know.”

Jimin was grinning at his friends, making no move to correct their mistaken assumptions, and stepped forward to hug them instead of giving handshakes.

Yoongi tried again. “Seriously, he’s not my—“

“I’m really sorry we had to meet like this,” Hoseok apologized, “but hey! Can I call you Jimin? You can call us your hyungs, too.”

Jimin nodded, eyes twinkling. “Okay... hyung.”

Hoseok dropped the honorifics. “Great. Jimin-ah, wanna drink with us upstairs?”

“We can celebrate White Day,” said Namjoon, glancing at Yoongi. “...again, that is, if you haven’t already.”

A nod and a whoop of cheer later, and his housemates (and guest) were out of the studio and thundering their way outside, leaving Yoongi in stupefied silence.

Because— wow.

That was a real riot.

As Hoseok’s chatter and Namjoon’s questions gradually faded, he turned back around to shut down his workstation. Right as he was about to click on the ‘x’ button, though, a lightbulb went off in his mind.

He sat back, eyes on his keyboard, Jimin’s melody replaying in his head. It was beautiful, only missing a proper outro...

Lifting his hands on the ivory keys, Yoongi smiled.

Much later, after a hitting ‘save’ and ‘export’, he stood to leave and pocketed a thumb drive in his jeans as the studio door clicked shut.

Before they moved into this building complex, the rooftop had been a dilapidated shack, treated more like a storage space than anything else. It used to house all unwanted furniture from the building’s disgruntled tenants – broken cabinets, creaky bedframes, rusted toolboxes. It had taken the three of them weeks, but with permission from the landlady, they’d turned the abandoned shithole into something straight out of an indie 90s movie. The rooftop was now a secret fort for sad friends, draped in a plethora orange-aqua-rose neon film sheets wrapped around fluorescent lightbulbs. Polaroid snapshots hung on a piece of thin wire strung from one pole to another, all courtesy of Seokjin (‘Clearly, you need my eye for beauty’).

Now, as Yoongi climbed the stairs, the soft rap music streaming from a Bluetooth stereo and the faint glow of their DIY fairylights greeted him. In the middle of the renovated rooftop stood a wide-set, low wooden table that served more as a sitting space than anything else. They’d done a good job of making the space as comfortable as possible, covering it with a thick duvet that kept them warm, and on early spring nights like this they liked to come up to their ‘rooftop bar’ to just... chill.

“Oi!” Hoseok half-hollered, half-slurred as Yoongi drew nearer. He lay on his side like a limp marionette. “What took you so long?”

Yoongi bristled. “How many bottles have you had?” He was guessing his housemate hadn’t even finished one yet. Hoseok folded in on himself and hugged his right leg close to his chest, eyes half-lidded and cheeks pink.

“I had. Like. Siiix,” he droned, lifting up one finger. “And now I’m really sad. I’m a sad single boy. Life sucks, except when you’re sucking dick. That’s my favorite kind of suckage.”

“TMI, man.” Yoongi tutted his tongue in distaste at the crassness, his eyes briefly roaming the space. Namjoon was leaning out over the railing, reciting Aristotle, and Jimin was sat at the edge of his wooden table just across Hoseok with a dazed smile.

“He had three shots,” the singer shared in a languid tone as Yoongi slowly pried Hoseok’s arms from his leg (“Don’t push me away!” his housemate protested with a sob.) Jimin handed Yoongi an empty shot glass. “Here.”

“Sorry you had to meet my friends this way,” Yoongi said, letting Jimin pour him a shot. He downed it in one go. “I thought they were out.”

Jimin shook his head. “I don’t mind. It’s actually refreshing. I like how they treat me like I’m not...” he waved his hands in the air, searching for the right term to say.

“A hotshot celebrity to brag about?”

Jimin snapped his fingers and pointed at him as though to punctuate his words. “That. Exactly, that.”

“That’s because it’s all secondary,” Hoseok muttered, blinking slowly. “You’re hyung’s boyfriend first of all.”

Jimin chuckled at that, and Yoongi groaned, palming his face tiredly. “Seok-ah. I told you, he’s not my boyfriend. I just met him, too. Don’t go thinking weird things.”

It took a few seconds, but the words seemed to sink in. Hoseok’s eyes widened. He gasped. “You’re not in love with Jimin?”

Yoongi rolled his eyes. “No.”

“Then what about all those albums you secretly keep in your third desk drawer—“

Yoongi clamped a hand over Hoseok’s mouth. Jimin laughed—shrill like birdsong, soft like chimes. His body bent forward like it was too small to contain his happiness, and watching him stirred something unfamiliar in the depths of Yoongi’s chest.

Hoseok bit his fingers, and Yoongi withdrew his hand with a grated hiss. “Dude. What the hell?” He scowled at his housemate, who bared his teeth in response.

“Don’t mess with a soft sad single boy. Pour me another one.”

Yoongi snatched the soju bottle from his hand. “Nope. Not if it saves me from a weep-fest later.”

“Killjoy.”

“Alas, Cecilia!” Namjoon cried into the night air.

“W-who’s Cecilia?” Jimin murmured dangerously close to his ear, his breath raising gooseflesh down Yoongi’s arms. Somehow, he’d inched nearer to him without him noticing. “A girlfriend?”

Yoongi licked his lower lip, but tried to pretend like the shiver that shot down his spine wasn’t affecting him. “I wish. Namjoon attracts more birds than humans.”

“Say, Jiminie,” Hoseok started. “If you aren’t hyung’s boyfriend, then are you single?”

Although still smiling, something shifted in Jimin’s eyes. It was a few heartbeats before he nodded. “Mm… but hopefully not for long.” He scooted until his shoulders brushed against Yoongi’s.

Was that only his imagination, or did the singer glance his way?

“Oh? Got your eye on somebody, eh?”

Jimin shrugged, and this time he stared point-blank at Yoongi. “Yes.”

“Have you ever marveled,” Namjoon’s voice grew in volume as he settled down to join their little circle, “at how beautiful people are when they’re in love? Like, it’s in the way they look. And, and…! Listen, the words even sound the same. I live so I love, man.”

Hoseok patted his shoulder. “Joon. You’re so drunk.”

Yoongi could say the same for him, but none of their banter mattered at the moment. He could hardly even pay attention to Namjoon’s poetic rambling above the drumming of his own heartbeat. Because Jimin was here, soft and warm and smiling beside him, staring at him with those glimmering mocha irises, and Yoongi wondered what might happen if he just closed that gap—

“Are you listening?” Namjoon cut into his vision, and Jimin giggled, leaning away and choosing to rest his head on Yoongi’s shoulder instead. He was clearly tipsy—enough to let loose like this, but not so that he was lost to inebriation.

“I always wondered how idols date,” Hoseok commented offhandedly.

“Oh, it’s funny you should mention that,” Jimin blurted out happily. He lifted his head from Yoongi’s shoulder, sat cross-legged and leaned back, supporting his weight with both arms. “Have you ever heard of the... Inkigayo sandwiches?”

The three of them frowned. “Is that like... food?” Yoongi ventured.

Mimicking Hoseok’s earlier words, Jimin answered, “That’s only secondary. In the idol world, Inkigayo sandwiches are the currency of love.”

“What, you give sandwiches to your sworn soulmate?” Namjoon asked, mystified.

Jimin lowered his voice to a hush, like he was revealing top secret information. “That’s how you confess.”

“Wow,” Namjoon said, nodding with glassy-eyed understanding. “Sandwiches, huh. Does that make you a ‘breadwinner’, then?”

Yoongi rolled his eyes. With a knowing smirk, Jimin continued, “People open the plastic wrapping around the sandwich, slip in a piece of paper with their number written on it, and then veeery innocently give it to an idol they want to ‘get to know better’. It’s a tried and tested strategy.”

“Have you ever received one?” Hoseok asked like an interviewer, suddenly acting sober and leaning forward.

Yoongi wanted to believe he didn’t care. Park Jimin was Nightingale; a chess piece that fit in a board Yoongi didn’t belong in. Still, that neither stopped his ears from perking in veiled disinterest, nor his eyes from glancing askance.

Jimin snorted. “Of course.”

“And did you do anything with the number?” Namjoon wanted to know.

Wordlessly, Yoongi waited with bated breath.

Jimin answered with no hesitation. “Oh, definitely.”

Yoongi’s shoulders drooped.

“...I tore it up and scrapped it.”

Yoongi’s heart lifted like a caffeinated bird with wings.

“Smart move,” he found his own mouth saying without his permission, his head feeling light for some strange reason. “S’good. Really good call.”

The corners of Jimin’s lips quirked up. “Really?”

Yoongi sputtered, “I mean. You’re probably too busy, right?”

The light in the singer’s eyes dimmed by a fraction. “Oh. Yeah. Tight schedule and all.”

Yoongi tugged at his collar nervously. “Yeah. You wouldn’t have time to date anybody. Would you.”

“... I wouldn’t.”

“Yeah.” Yoongi nodded. Of course.

“Unless I wanted to.” Jimin bit the insides of his cheek. “Unless the person was worth it.”

Breathing suddenly didn’t feel like an option for Yoongi.

“Well, you know what they say,” Hoseok interjected with a loud yawn as he lay back down on his side. “Big sea out there. Lots of sharks—“

“You mean ‘fish’, Hobi,” Namjoon corrected.

“I knew that, genius.” Hoseok shushed him, eyes half-lidded. “My dad’s a literature teacher, genius, you don’t need to tell me anything.”

“Right, right.”

They continued like that as the night deepened, bickering back and forth until their slurred gibbering faded out. By the time the soju bottles in their circle were emptied, the rooftop was filled with quiet snores. Hoseok and Namjoon lay atop each other, snoring with their legs entangled.

Only Yoongi and Jimin stayed awake, sitting beside each other, not a hairsbreadth of space separating them as they leaned into each other. Staying away wasn’t possible. If this rooftop bar—this little space between them—was a solar system, then they were planets circling the same orbit, gravitating closer and closer without trying.

Jimin sighed, eyes holding a wistful, faraway look. “This has been nice.”

Yoongi glanced at him. “Hmm?”

“It helped me forget for a while.” Jimin turned to face him, and the smile on his face—the one he’d been keeping the whole night—slipped off like an untied mask. “Some part of me wishes I was living this life.”

“Careful what you wish for,” Yoongi cautioned dryly. “It’s honestly not that great.”

“I know. I’m pretty lucky, I guess, to have what I do.” Jimin’s voice faded to a hush, like he was immersed in deep thought. Then he shook his head with a small inhale. “It’s just… nice to imagine, though.” He seemed to be holding back from saying more, but Yoongi didn’t want to probe.

So he asked instead, “Who would you be?”

Jimin looked at him, head tilted curiously.

“Take away the lights and the stage and the frenzy of that showbiz life. Who would Park Jimin be?”

Jimin blanched, taken aback. He looked down, fiddling with his hoodie pockets.

Despite the low stereo music – some slow jam song filling the cool air – the world felt muted. Or maybe it was just this new atmosphere that had grown between them, planted by Yoongi’s question. He feared Jimin wouldn’t answer him, until the singer said:

“I don’t really know.” His voice was scratchy. “But I want to.”

“Isn’t that the best part? You get to figure it out. So… tell me from the beginning,” Yoongi urged, voice soft. “Tell me who Park Jimin is.” 

Why he was asking, he would never know for himself. Perhaps he was being selfish like this, wanting to keep the singer by his side even just for a few moments longer. And so Yoongi learned. He found out how Jimin became engrossed with dancing, how he’d graduated from a prestigious arts academy in Busan and moved to Seoul to train. He even discovered how Jimin favored his left leg when dancing.

You know, just… pointless things that weren’t quite so pointless after all.

Every new piece of knowledge seemed to chip away at the invisible wall standing between them, the one nagging at the back of Yoongi’s mind that they were leagues apart. Underneath the makeup and the flashy outfits, Park Jimin was... just another guy. Could’ve been his neighbor.

“If you started out as a dancer,” Yoongi interrupted. “Then why are you singing now?”

Jimin gave him a strange look. “If you want to debut at all, you have to be the jack of all trades. When I came to Seoul, I trained mainly to improve my vocals. The industry is unforgiving.”

“I wonder if they’d even give my music a chance.”

Jimin appraised him, thoughtful. “You’re good. Really. I even kind of wish you’d compose for me.”

“Even after just hearing me once?” Yoongi was doubtful.

Jimin smiled. “Something tells me you’re gonna take the world by storm.”

It’s strange, how one person’s assurance can become such a core source of faith and strength. Jimin had no idea how much power his words held, and he probably never would. Yoongi looked away, the back of his eyes burning. “Then...” He fumbled around the back pocket of his jeans.

“Here.” He held out a small black thumbdrive and pressed it into Jimin’s palm.

The singer made a curious hum. “What’s this?”

“Don’t open it until you’re back in Seoul. You can do whatever with it. S’nothing much.”

“Ooh, a surprise,” Jimin giggled, eyes alight. “I love surprises.”

They sat in comfortable silence, the kind that made Yoongi believe that there were probably people out there made to fit into a hollow, reserved space of your soul. He’d never really felt like part of a silence before, one half of a whole, but right then he felt like he belonged. A co-participant of silence, who would’ve thought?

They were two people so far at the opposite ends of the spectrum that it boggled Yoongi’s mind how much Jimin felt more like a dear friend than a stranger—perhaps more. In this moonlight, in this warm night, nightingales and crows didn’t seem too different from each other.

“Hey.” 

Yoongi glanced sideways, and the singer was smiling at him with a new kind of softness.

Jimin asked, “Do you think, maybe, that on the other side of this night sky, there’s an Alternate Me and an Alternate You making our dreams come true?”

“No,” Yoongi deadpanned. “On the other side of that sky is fucking daytime.”

Laughing so hard that he started squeaking, Jimin curled towards him, clutching his tummy. Yoongi held onto his shoulders to keep him from tumbling off the low wooden table where they sat, all the while reveling in the knowledge that he made those eyes disappear into crescents, that he created that smile.

“Okay, okay. Then how about, if I weren’t an idol,” Jimin suggested after he recollected himself back to cross-legged position, “and if I were just any other average guy you met tonight, what would you do?”

Yoongi wrinkled his nose and chuckled. “I don’t know. Bring you around, maybe?”

“Where to?”

Yoongi sent him a look of mock affront. “Aww, man. You have no idea.”

“What?”

“Didn’t you know?” Shaking his head, Yoongi clucked his tongue. “Gapyeong is a pretty famous tourist spot. Lots of places to go.”

“So bring me around then.” Jimin’s grin widened. “Pretend we’re on a tour bus. Let’s go, captain.” He mock saluted.

Yoongi huffed a low laugh and nudged him, but he played along. “I’d bring you to Nami Island in autumn to see the gingko leaves’ foliage. They’re really beautiful—“ but not as much as you, he didn’t add, “—and then we’d eat red bean bread.”

Jimin leaned his head on Yoongi’s shoulder once more. His hair smelled like almond and shea butter. The next time he spoke, his voice softened to a low tone. “And?”

“And if you want to visit Europe, we’d go up to Petite France because I’m fucking broke and can’t afford the real deal,” Yoongi laughed, a deep rumble in his chest. “But we’d still take nice pictures and you’d... you would smile a lot.”

“Sounds like a date.”

Yoongi’s head whipped to the side, and in that moment his heart ached for something be couldn’t have because for a split second he could imagine it all—this exact life he was describing, the one in which this enchanting, beautiful boy could be his.

But that wasn’t reality.

Sorry.

“Hey...” Jimin’s mouth curved down, face marring with concern. He reached up to smoothen the skin between Yoongi’s eyebrows. “What’s with the long face?”

Yoongi released a sigh he didn’t know he’d been holding. He shook his head. Enough with fantasizing. Boys like Jimin didn’t belong with boys like Yoongi. He pressed his palms to his eyelids, if only to shield his face from the singer, and willed his heart to stay still.

“It’s just. This isn’t right.” He stood to go, but Jimin caught him by the hem of his shirt.

“No.”

Yoongi paused, a little irked at being held back from exiting. The hand clutching his shirt skimmed the fabric, travelling to interlock with his fingers, which Jimin slowly tugged to make him turn around.

“Is this a habit of yours? Walking out without letting the other party talk?”

“But you’re—“

“—not done with you,” Jimin finished, agitated.

A few feet away, Hoseok murmured something in his sleep, and Namjoon groaned, scratching his chest. Yoongi debated his options: walk out and clear his head, or—

“Stay.”

His breath caught in his throat, and his resolve crumbled.

“Please,” Jimin added, voice close to a whimper.

And Yoongi could feel it too—that urge to stay near, stay in this bubble of make-believe, almost primal in its need. It was as if he’d been walking on a tightrope his whole life, spine taut and eyes focused on what lay ahead, and was only now being given the freedom to fall.

But this was not the time for falling, was it?

The pieces weren’t right. Even if Yoongi wanted to, he’d never fit a square peg into a hole, could he? Jimin was—in every sense of the word—only slightly more than a stranger to him. A lot could happen in one night except miracles.

“I’m going down to clear my head for a bit,” Yoongi rasped, prying Jimin’s fingers off his hand as though he were made of paper.

Jimin’s arms dropped to his side along with his expression. Yoongi treaded away—one step, two steps, three. This was the right thing. The responsible thing.

See, Yoongi had never been anything but a player for the rules. Rules that kept the world in order. He turned up to work on time, did his assignments early, did his chores primp and proper. He was a good lad.

But sometimes... he was selfish, too.

Reaching the top rung of the ladder leading up to the rooftop, he halted and turned around. “Well? Aren’t you coming with?”

Jimin, who’d let his head hang low between his shoulders, snapped his gaze to his so fast that Yoongi feared he’d break his neck. Though his face was a dim silhouette against the backdrop of glimmering fairy lights, his eyes were vibrant and shining. Hope in his eyes, heart in his throat.

And it was at that moment, staring at him, that Yoongi realized how utterly fucked he was.

(He’d never stood a chance, from the very beginning.)

Sucking in a inhale, Yoongi descended the ladder in rapid steps just so that he wouldn’t have to face the gruelling task of looking at Jimin and his stupidly beautiful face again.

“You’re not helping me down?” Jimin whined from above. This little shit.

“Get down yourself.” Yoongi continued down until he stepped out into the open air, and he breathed in deeply. It was freezing, and he burrowed deeper into his jacket. Jimin trailed after him.

Around them, the neighborhood had slumbered into stillness as the night deepened, lights off, and Yoongi’s sneakers crunched against stray stones with each step against the gravel street. They walked in terse silence, neither one willing to break the charged atmosphere they’d left behind earlier. Cold and colder. Yoongi kept his hands shoved deep in his pockets, lest Jimin thought it a good idea to cling to him again. Too many times tonight he’d almost just- let go.

And letting go wasn’t part of the plan. So he remained stoic.

Jimin caved in first. “Where are we going?”

His question went unanswered. Rounding a corner, Yoongi turned left, somehow finding his way back to the deserted alley they’d hid at earlier. It was the one with the vending machine, glowing pale and fluorescent against the veil of nighttime.

From behind, Yoongi heard Jimin let out an incredulous huff. “You went all the way here to buy canned drinks?”

“I told you, I needed to get some fresh air. Don’t bother me.”

“Then why’d you ask me to come along?” Jimin demanded.

“Well, did I force you?” Yoongi turned and glared.

“Well, no, but—“ Jimin clucked his tongue, perplexed, looking seconds away from clawing his own eyes out. “—you know what? You kinda suck. I told you almost everything about me, but I can’t read you at all.”

“Didn’t know this was a book club.” Yoongi fished among the jangle of coins in his pockets to buy himself a drink. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’ll sip this and enjoy my solitude for the time being. You came here on your own. Go sit in a corner or something.”

Collecting his canned drink, Yoongi spun on his heel to stomp away, but not before pausing with hesitation.

He turned back around. Jimin was glowering at the vending machine, arms crossed and lips pursed, and it struck Yoongi once again that he was Kid With No Wallet. Damn it. He really hated himself sometimes. With a reluctant sigh, he trudged over and pressed a handful of coins into Jimin’s palm none too gently.

Before the singer could grin up at him, Yoongi grumbled, “Now don’t bother me.” And off he marched. There was a wooden bench by the road just a few yards away from the vending machine where Yoongi chose to sit, stewing. His mind was a jumbled mess. Why did he even invite Jimin? He shouldn’t have.

But he couldn’t help it. Ever since he’d stumbled into the singer’s sleeping form in the arcade, Yoongi had gotten inevitably… well, attached. He wanted him around, and yet he didn’t. Fuck. What was it about this guy that was so magnetic?

Yoongi opened his mini can of rice barley drink, the silver metal protesting with a loud hiss, and gulped the liquid down until it was half empty. At least this wouldn’t take away his ability to think rationally. Burying his head in his hands, he massaged his temples, and felt the air beside him shift.

At once, he sat straighter and sent Jimin a sharp look. The boy had chosen to sit beside him. “Which part of what I just told you did you not understand?”

The singer lifted his hands up in a show of innocent surrender. “What? You said ‘don’t bother me’, not ‘leave me alone’. So yeah, we can be alone. Together.”

And Yoongi found he couldn’t argue with that. Because it was true—he hadn’t asked the guy to leave him. If he were honest with himself, he didn’t dislike Jimin’s company. Far from it. And that was the problem.

“And for your information,” Jimin added, all sassiness and hauteur, “I’m sitting on this bench because, like your precious arcade, it’s public space. So you can’t tell me off. Now, I’ll stop talking to you, because I don’t want to waste my breath. Hmmpf.”

Despite himself and everything telling him not to, Yoongi couldn’t help but let out a low laugh. Everything about Jimin—his beauty, his comforting presence, his ability to make him laugh—was so damn effortless that it was hard to ignore.

Yoongi craned his neck to loosen some stiff muscles, and leaned back against the bench. “Whatever you say.”

As a lighter kind of silence filled the air again, he let his eyes roam over the night sky. Compared to Seoul and cities rampant with light pollution, he liked that here in the smaller towns you could actually make out tiny forms of constellations blinking down from above. Like stars winking down because they were happy to be seen.

Stars. There was one beside him right now, outshining every last one up there. Burning bright and beautiful and absolutely terrifying.

He lost track of time, and probably would’ve stayed there staring at nothing in particular had Jimin not parted his lips to sing softly—

I sit alone, slumped down

Breaking myself down with these thoughts

You probably don’t even know

When you started hurting me

You're only drifting further away like this

I say that it's all fine

The truth is that's a lie

I want you to be your light, baby

You should be your light

Clutching his rice barley tin can tight, Yoongi sat still, barely daring to breathe, to listen to Jimin’s little acapella, enraptured. His voice was a wave of colorful notes. Music on cherry lips, words woven in melody. The nightingale had come alive to sweep Yoongi off with his serenade.

Even after Jimin’s lyrics quieted down in a diminuendo, Yoongi could barely hear himself think above his thundering heartbeat. Words—they stayed lodged in his throat, like birds with clipped wings, and in this murky haze of emotion his bird-words remained trapped in his ribcage.

Back in high school, when Yoongi and his friends were figuring out who they liked—and what kind of people they were attracted to—they would hold these immature trials to see if kissing a guy or a girl made their heart jump more. Bets, dares, try-outs, so on and so forth, you name it.

Now, with air balloons in his head and his skin buzzing alive underneath the heat of Jimin’s eyes, Yoongi wanted to throw all caution to the wind, the spring in his stomach uncoiling.

“I just realized,” Jimin quipped, unaware of the havoc inside Yoongi’s chest, “I never learned your name. I don’t think I heard you or anyone mention it tonight.”

“Yoongi. Min Yoongi.” He watched Jimin lift his can of warm tea to his lips, and before the singer could react to his name, he could only blurt out—

“This is a test.”

Jimin lowered jasmine tea, befuddled. “Huh?”

Maybe they did have a chance. Maybe not, and Yoongi was merely acting on a tipsy high. It was too early to tell, but he had to know. Honestly, after all, is the best policy.

“This is a test,” he repeated, before pulling Jimin by the wrists and pressing his warm mouth to his.

Kissing Park Jimin was like biting into forbidden fruit—one nip was never enough. The first touch sent sparks bursting in Yoongi’s chest, and when Jimin tilted his head as if he’d been waiting– no, expecting it, a tingle of thrill rippled down to the tips of Yoongi’s toes.

Yoongi let his lips do the talking for him.

Hello, they seemed to say; shy, curious, wanting. Eyes closed like this, Yoongi turned bold. He cupped Jimin’s jaw with both hands, drawing him closer, and Jimin responded in kind, running his hands from his shoulders to his neck. Their first kiss but not their last, never their last, and as lightheaded as he felt Yoongi realized that perhaps it wasn’t the soju rendering him drunk. Soju could never live up to this.

Jimin’s breath: warm, inviting. His lips were jasmine and spun sugar, better than whiskey. Their mouths moved in a tango made for two, and in the far recesses of his mind Yoongi could hardly remember enjoying a dance this much.

To his surprise, Jimin broke away first, breathing hard. Amber in his eyes. Lamplights dancing circles in his hair. Stars in his soul. Beauty on beauty on beauty, like an infinite summer.

Yoongi closed his eyes and pressed their noses together, Jimin’s cheek warm in his palm.

“Yoongi,” Jimin mumbled against his mouth. “What a pretty name.”

“I think you’re prettier.”

With a soft laugh, the singer brushed his lips against the tip of his nose, then the corner of his eye. “And so?” 

Yoongi scrunched his against the onslaught of peppered kisses. “And so what?”

“What the test’s verdict?”

It was both the best and worst kiss Yoongi’d ever had, because Jimin was here, but he wouldn’t be for long. Fear crept back in. What if tomorrow this boy, his nightingale, had to fly away?

Still, he kept his tone light. “Hmmm. B+, frankly speaking.”

The singer pounded against his chest weakly. “Hey!” He pulled back with a pout, but Yoongi tightened his grip and chased after his lips again.

“So what now?” Jimin asked when they broke apart once more, chests heaving, cheeks flushing.

Yoongi grimaced and sighed, massaging the bridge of his nose. “Honestly I... I don’t kn—“

“I want to know you better.”

Yoongi looked up, into Jimin’s eyes glistening with an emotion he was too afraid to name. He swallowed, the sound seeming too loud in his ears in this un-rippling night air. “...me too.”

What was not to like? Jimin was down to earth and passionate, two qualities Yoongi had immediately sensed from the way the singer talked about music like it was a blessing. In another life Yoongi wouldn't have hesitated, you know, to ask for his number and take him to dinner.

But as the broke college kid he was—who was he kidding? He didn't want to bring Jimin down. Birds are meant to soar free, fly high. Feelings were chains that would only hold him down, so before things got worse, Yoongi decided to cut it all off.

Attachment was a terrible thing.

"People like you are rare," Jimin murmured, lowering his head into the crook of Yoongi's neck. "And I know a keeper when I see one."

Me too, Yoongi wanted to tell him again. Chest constricting, he sniffled before speaking. "Jimin, look—"

The blaring of a horn made them both jump.

From around corner, pale yellow headlights flooded the street as a small car turned into view. Yoongi felt Jimin gasp and stiffen in his hold. As the vehicle cruised nearer, he turned and asked with frantic urgency, "You're hesitating because of this, aren't you?"

The car braked in front of them .The door flung opened as the driver clambered out—a tall man of bulk and brawn, twice Yoongi's size. He crossed his arms, mouth curving down. He did not look pleased. "Jimin. You've been out for too long."

The singer set his lips in a thin line. "Hyung."

Yoongi stared, dumbstruck. "Who...?"

He was met with no answer. "How did you find me?" Jimin demanded, not letting go of his grip on Yoongi's hoodie.

"Little rascal," the man chortled. "You've got your phone location turned on. And we found pictures of you in the subway online. Honestly, what were you thinking, going out in public like this?”

Jimin's face fell. "Damn it."

"Don’t worry, we had them taken down already. Now come on, let's hurry back. The board of directors are giving Taehyung hell because he's the last one who was seen with you before you disappeared." Brawn Man moved forward and flicked Jimin in the forehead affectionately. "Play time's over."

And then it dawned on Yoongi--this person must be Jimin's manager, or handler. Someone from his entertainment agency. His heart shrank, and with it all sliver of hope, too.

Jimin jutted out his lips in a pout. "Hyung, let me stay a little longer. Hmm?"

His manager shook his head. "No can do. You know the rules."

It was surreal, watching them speak like this. Yoongi felt like an outcast looking into a closed world he would never have a part in, and having the truth about Jimin's situation shoved in his face like this was like having a bucket of ice cold water dumped over his head.

And so just like back in the rooftop, Yoongi disentangled Jimin's arms from around his waist and stepped away. "He's right. You should go."

The look in Jimin's eyes morphed into pure hurt as his head swung around to look at him. "But—"

"There's nothing left to say." A lie. Yoongi had universes and ballads begging to spill from his tongue. He looked down. "I can't tell you what you want to hear."

"Then wait for me," Jimin mumbled, loud enough for only Yoongi to hear. "I'll come back to you, I swear."

He stepped close, making it look like he was whispering in Yoongi's ear to cover up the kiss he was pressing to his cheek. "After all, I need to notch my B+ to an A."

Yoongi's cheeks flamed, thoughts reeling. He had half a retort ready, but then Jimin's warmth diminished as he stepped back, getting half-dragged into the car. He grinned at Yoongi one last time before ducking inside, and then the car revved away, and he was gone.

Yoongi stood alone, the memory of a smile on his mind.

[THREE MONTHS LATER]

The hope didn't last.

And Jimin never returned.

Fragile, fragile hope. Yoongi wondered why he'd bothered to hold on at all.

Graduation day.

Usually this was a cause for celebration; a huge milestone achieved in life. But for Yoongi it was just another day, just another process—friends and family came, he went up to a podium to get his degree, and now, stepping outside the hall... he was officially free.

Which might not be a completely good thing, because freedom meant becoming idle, and being idle meant having too much time to overthink. That was the last thing he needed right now. He couldn’t allow his brain to start conjuring the ghost of a long-ago smile and the warmth of a forgotten kiss.

The prospect of moving on after getting out of school is usually a frightening ordeal. Yoongi had been so preoccupied with trying to graduate, to escape the hellhole called college, that he’d somehow overlooked the planning stage of adulthood. Career paths and all that jazz.

“Yo! Hyung!” Hoseok appeared by his side at the top of the venue’s steps, slinging one arm over his shoulders. “What are you doing after this?”

Yoongi shrugged, heart feeling heavy rather than light for some reason. “Work. I’ve got evening shift at the arcade.”

His best friend laughed, loud and carefree. “No, I mean after all of—“ he gestured to Yoongi’s self, “—this. What’s the next step?”

Of course he wouldn’t understand. Unlike Yoongi, Hoseok still had a year of school before getting thrust into the messy world of Adulting.

And then a shard of memory sprung to the front of his mind—his own words, spoken long ago. Yoongi smiled wistfully. “I guess that’s the best part: I get to figure it out.”

“That’s so poignant,” Namjoon said, popping up beside him.

“Oh! Will you join us tonight?” Hoseok asked.

Yoongi shook his head. “I told you, I can’t. Gotta earn somehow while I’m jobless.”

Jobless in the official sense of the word. Part-time shifts alone weren’t going to settle the bills anymore, that was for sure. And there were his loans to pay, too, among others. “Sorry, Seok.”

“He’s a big boy now, running off into the world,” Namjoon quipped with a grin, patting Yoongi’s shoulder. “Can’t make time for beer and chicken with his mates anymore.”

Yoongi swatted his hands off. “I’ll treat you guys next time on my first pay, okay?”

“By the way,” Hoseok brought up as they descended the stairs altogether. “Have you listened to his new album yet?”

Yoongi’s skin prickled. “Who?”

“You know who I’m talking about. Park Jimin. Your biggest idol?”

Nobody knew exactly what had happened that night, about what he and Jimin shared. Not even his best friends. Some secrets were simply too personal to be told even to the closest of friends.

Suppressing a sigh, Yoongi forced a smile and shook his head. “Nah.”

“Really? Not even his title track’s MV?” Namjoon’s eyes widened.

“Was too busy. You know how hectic my days have been.”

“But still,” Namjoon’s tone was dipped in doubt, “that’s so unlike you. Aren’t you a fan?”

He had been, once upon a time. Back when Jimin had been all but a mirage; unreachable to nobodies like Min Yoongi. “Used to. But not anymore.”

After that fateful haze of a night, Yoongi had regressed to himself, refusing to be within earshot (or eye-view) of anything related to Park Jimin. He stopped listening to the singer, forced himself to look away during commercials and avoided glancing at posters in public.

He loathed reminders.

“That’s a shame,” Namjoon said, a little frown on his face. “I actually like this one. It’s different from his usual sound.”

“Yeah, Joon and I were talking about how it actually reminds us of you,” Hoseok added, nodding. “But yeah. I get it. Just... forgive yourself, okay?”

Yoongi wrinkled his nose. Worse than heartbreak, worse than shame, he carried stones of doubt and regret in his heart that with each passing day, weighed heavier than boulders. Several times a day he asked himself— what if?

What if he’d said yes? What if he hadn’t let Jimin go that night?

What if he’d bested his fears instead of backing away like a coward? Maybe then Yoongi would feel less like a failure. Because there’s something so utterly tragic, so irreversible and regretful, about being unable to turn back time just to redo a few things. Oh, how he wished.

But wishes weren’t reality, and now, Yoongi could only give a wry chuckle. That dream was far gone now, if it had ever really had a chance. “Well, people’s tastes change.”

With that, he brisk-walked even faster to reach the arcade, leaving a bewildered Namjoon and Hoseok behind.

There was a boy outside the arcade.

Which shouldn’t be all that strange, given that the sun was only beginning to set and nobody would be compelled to head home just yet, but even from a distance Yoongi already noted the way this boy stood stiff and tense outside the entrance.

As if he didn’t belong there.

And he probably didn’t—said boy was dressed too hip and trendy to ever fit in the sleepy aesthetic of this old town. Leather jacket, ripped acid-wash jeans, cap turned backwards. With his back turned, Yoongi couldn’t see his face, but white-hot hope was already shredding through him at the idea that it was—

He turned, and Yoongi’s heart plummeted to his stomach.

It wasn’t the face he’d been aching to see. This boy was much younger, with jet-black hair fashioned in a coconut cut and doe eyes bigger than teacups. Far from a certain somebody’s delicate beauty.

Yoongi cleared his throat, forcing down the acid rising up his throat. Just before he entered the arcade he asked the boy, “Can I help you?”

Doe-Eyed Dude glanced at him furtively, nose scrunching up like a rabbit’s. “Hello. I’m looking for an employee working in this arcade.”

Ah. Probably one of the other part-timers’ friends or relatives from the city. Yoongi couldn’t recall Yeonjun or Soobin mentioning anyone swinging by today, though—perhaps it was a surprise visit.

“Who are you looking for? Maybe you can let me know your name and I’ll tell them.”

“Oh, sorry. Forgot to introduce myself.” Coconut Cut’s face turned sheepish as he gave a small bow. “Hello. I’m Jeon Jungkook, and I’m looking for Min Yoongi.” He reached into his pocket to brandish a business card, and passed it over.

Assistant Music Producer, LargeHits Ent.

Yoongi’s eyebrow quirked at the company’s name—it was the same one that was managing a certain Idol Whose Name Remained Unspoken.

“Do you happen to know him?”

Puffing his chest out, Yoongi dragged his gaze back to meet Jungkook’s. “You’re talking to him.”

“Oh.” Jungkook blinked. “Oh. I thought...”

“What?”

“I thought you’d be...” Jungkook shook his head, giving Yoongi the once-over, “...I mean, the way he talked about you, I was kind of expecting someone like Brad Pitt.”

A frown curved Yoongi’s mouth downwards, and he folded his arms. “Who talked about me how?”

“Shit, I’m not supposed to mention him.” Jungkook’s eyes darted from side to side, and he hesitated before saying, “Never mind, sorry. Anyway. I was sent here to scout you. Well, more like offer a job, but we must discuss the details—“

“Wait, wait. What are you talking about?” Yoongi’s brows knitted together. Something wasn’t adding up. What was going on?

Jungkook gave him a strange look. “You haven’t heard the song?”

“What song?” Yoongi was seconds away from combusting from exasperation.

“Hyung’s— I mean, Park Jimin’s new song!” Jungkook was staring at him in disbelief.

There it was—the name that made Yoongi’s heart twist and wither every time his ears caught it. His heart gave a tumble. Park Jimin. The boy was a plague he couldn’t get rid of.

Coldness seeped into Yoongi, and his expression drew smooth, voice paper-thin. He had no time for this. “Sorry, but no.”

This had to be some stupid, sick joke. What was Jimin trying to pull here? He spun on his heel and marched off.

“Woah woah, hang on a sec, where are you going? Why are you running? WHY ARE YOU RUNNING—“

Jungkook’s voice cut off as Yoongi slid the arcade’s glass door shut.

But no more than Yoongi stepped into the neon technicolor room that Jungkook followed him inside a mere three seconds later. He caught up to the older, blocking his path with both hands spread out.

“Get out,” Yoongi muttered.

Jungkook feigned a gasp. “So rude to your customer?”

And only then did it click in Yoongi’s mind— shit, he was officially at work now, which meant he couldn’t kick the kid out.

Fuckin’ workplace rules. He swore under his breath and sidestepped Jungkook. “I’m not interested. Feel free to leave.”

“I can only leave with you,” Jungkook answered. He pointed at an arcade console to the left, the one featuring a Metal Slug game. “Okay, how about a deal? I challenge you to a duel. If you win, I won’t bother you again. But if I win, you’ll have to listen to what I have to say.”

Yoongi squinted at the arcade machine, contemplating. On one hand, he wasn’t the best of gamers out there. But on the other hand, if Jungkook kept true to his word, then this was the golden chance for Yoongi to get the boy out of his hair once and for all.

How good could Jungkook even be, anyway? The kid hardly looked like a gamer.

As someone who’d been working in this place for over two years now, Yoongi was confident he could at least beat Jungkook in a game as simple as Metal Slug. One round would likely only last him no longer than five minutes. It was going to be an instant victory.

So with a smirk, Yoongi nodded. “Bring it.”

As predicted, it took less than five minutes indeed.

In fact, the timer was only at 2min 55 seconds when Yoongi slammed his fist against the console and hung his head low, refusing to admit horrible, horrible defeat.

“Well. That was quick.” Jungkook grinned at him, proud of setting an all-time record of being the highest scorer in the arcade’s overall scoreboard. “So.”

As much as Yoongi hated it, a deal was a deal, and he was never one to lose integrity. So he sighed deeply, slumping against the side of the arcade machine, and massaged the bridge of his nose. He had to find another way to avoid this. “Look. I have work shift to attend to, and none of this is my concern, really—“

“8pm. Tonight.”

Yoongi cracked one eye open. “Huh?”

“Kiss Radio’s evening show,” Jungkook elaborated, all traces of humor leaving his eyes. “This may not be important to you, but it is to someone I care about, okay? So stop being a stubborn coward and learn to listen for once. You don’t have to come with me, but I hope you’re at least tune in.”

That stung. There was something about being chided by a younger person—and a stranger at that, no less—that made Yoongi feel small.

Because that’s what he was, wasn’t he? A coward. From the very beginning, he’d let fear of the unknown override everything while parading around as fearless. A flurry of thoughts swept through Yoongi’s head. He huffed, more bruised than irritated. “But I don’t even know what’s going on, you little shit. How am I supposed to understand anything when you sound like you’re talking about an inside joke I’m not privy to?”

“That’s why you’ll find out tonight,” Jungkook replied, pulling a tiny piece of paper from his pocket and pressing it into Yoongi’s palm. “If you tune into Kiss Radio’s 8pm show, you’ll get why I’m recruiting you. We want to hire you as a music composer in LargeHits.”

Yoongi’s breath caught in his throat, his blood thrumming. “So... you weren’t pulling a prank on me just now?”

“No.” Jungkook wrinkled his nose as if he’d sucked on a sour slice of lemon. “It’s a sincere offer.” He pointed at the folded piece of paper. “Call me if you change your mind.”

And so with one last shit-eating grin, Jungkook shot him finger guns and turned around to exit the arcade.

“Wait.”

Jungkook paused; looked back over his shoulder.

“He...” Yoongi inhaled deeply to even out his erratic pulse. “He told you to come here?”

“Nah.” Jungkook smiled. “Your talent brought me here.”

“Oh.” Yoongi’s shoulders sagged, but he wasn’t sure why. Sure, he was getting an unimaginable job opportunity here, but the notion that Jimin probably never thought about him again sent a sickening lurch down his gut.

“And let’s just say I’m tired of watching hyung mope around.”

Jungkook stepped out into the night air and waved at Yoongi. “So don’t break your own heart. Don’t break his too. Otherwise I have an event planned.”

And then he was gone.

His words left fireflies of hope exploding in Yoongi’s chest, drawing warmth and fluttering to every corner of his body. He spent the first half of his shift in a state of floating delirium, like a swan learning flight for the first time, because after weeks and weeks of pining in cold silence, this was the first sign he ever got. It wasn’t much, but something was better than nothing.

When 8pm rolled around, he turned down the basic house music in the arcade and let Kiss Radio blare over the speakers while he worked.

“A very good evening to everyone—this is DJ Changmin! Hop into the Kiss Car-aoke sessions with me because tonight, we have an A-lister guest.”

“Hello,” a sweet voice spoke over the broadcast; bells and chimes, roses and rhinestones. Hearing him again, Yoongi had to gasp while working because fuck—

He’d missed that voice.

“Park Jimin, everyone!” said DJ Changmin. “So, tell us about your latest album and title track.”

“My album, ‘Stripped’ is set around the idea of deconstructing my Nightingale image, and to peel back all of those layers and show my listeners who the real Park Jimin is,” Jimin shared, voice buoyant. “The lead single ‘Starcrossed’ is about longing for someone you can’t reach.”

DJ Changmin made a knowing hum. “Mmm, and correct me if I’m wrong, but you composed several of these very heartfelt tracks, right?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I’m sure that not only me, but everyone is curious if there’s anybody who inspired those lyrics.”

A heartbeat of a pause lingered in the static air, and Yoongi didn’t realize he was holding his breath until—

“Hyung?”

Yoongi jumped and looked up. Choi Yeonjun stood before him, wearing a beret that he always claimed was ‘the in trend at the moment’. “Oh, Jun-ah. What’s up?”

Yeonjun shook his head, looking unnerved. “Nothing. It’s just that you were staring into space like you’ve seen a ghost. You okay?”

Well, Jimin wasn’t a ghost, but he had become a figment that lived in Yoongi’s memories, so it was pretty close. “I’m fine.” He smiled. Yeonjun threw him one last lingering look before shrugging and returning to his station by the karaoke machine.

When Yoongi resumed to listening to the radio, he found DJ Changmin already making teasing noises and Jimin giggling on-air (it was adorable—that shit should be illegal for the greater good of society.)

“...is that true?” the DJ asked.

“I’m hoping it is!” Jimin answered.

“Well, the composer must be a very lucky man,” DJ Changmin remarked.

“No, I’m the lucky one,” Jimin countered lightheartedly. “It’s a great honor to be able to work with talent like his.”

Yoongi’s insides roiled. Talent like whose? Did Jimin have a new composer or something?

Was this jealousy?

“Let’s make him happy then,” said the radio host. “Alright, everyone, we’ll be back shortly after the break but in the meantime this is ‘Starcrossed’ by Park Jimin.”

As their conversation clicked off-air, the first few chords of a brand new song began, and it sounded like…

Yoongi’s ears perked up.

Wait a minute.

Those piano chords. That arrangement. The melody.

His mind grew abuzz with memories ignited anew, and a slew of images rushed him by like a film reel: that night at the Genius Lab; his hands on the keys, Jimin’s hold on his heart.

And then Jimin’s voice came live—fuck, he was singing live? Yoongi thought he’d gone off air—with a voice so sweet it could paint a town in sugar sprinkles.

Yoongi could’ve sworn his legs nearly buckled. It was his song, whole and alive and playing for the whole nation to hear. His precious song, sung by a precious boy. All this time he thought Jimin had scrapped it. Hadn’t he told the singer he could do whatever with it?

And that he did—he maintained Yoongi’s main melody, with a few added effects and stanzas, and it was the biggest nod of respect Yoongi had ever felt someone give his music. Hot tears sprung to his eyes, and he swiped at his cheeks, throat clogged.

Here he was, small town boy Yoongi who got ripped off by asshats and walked home to save money. Small town boy Yoongi who thought his dream was a dead bird.

But in Jimin’s hands, his dream came alive.

He turned around fast to face away from a group of boys entering the arcade, and only then did he allow himself to sink low and duck behind the cash register’s counter booth. In the glow of retro games and with a special song in his ears, Yoongi hugged chin to his knees and wept.

He tried to steady the timpani rhythm of his heartbeat, to breathe evenly, and fumbled around his pockets for a handkerchief to wipe his tear-streaked face with. But his hand came up with a plain white folded piece of paper, and with a hiccupping sniffle, Yoongi opened it.

And– what was this?

Despite his blurry tears, Yoongi could clearly make out an address instead of a number scribbled on the paper, unlike what Jungkook had first told him. 

‘Namsan Tower @ 10pm. Find me.’

— J.

[8.30PM]

The ride from Gapyeong to Seoul would take Yoongi approximately hour by bus, perhaps a less if he caught the KoRail train. If he wanted to make it just in time to meet Jimin, he’d have to leave in half an hour’s time from now.

He really wanted to.

Good thing his shift would be ending at 9. Tonight, Yoongi would take his chances and bolt for the nearest ride to Seoul. His feet itched to move away from where he stood behind the cash register, and he drummed his fingers on the counter, watching time tick away like a hawk.

He dragged his gaze from the wall clock when a young girl bounded up to the counter to exchange her total earned arcade tickets for a unicorn stuffed doll.

“Oppa, are you sick?”

Yoongi turned around from where he lifted the plushie from the shelf behind him, raising an eyebrow.

“Why?”

The little girl shrugged, but a frown stayed firm on her face as she regarded Yoongi. “Your eyes look like you want to cry.” Reaching into her pocket, she pulled out a small hanky. “Here, my gift to you! Mama said I should be kind to people who are sad. Don’t cry, oppa.”

Yoongi swallowed and pressed the back of his hand to his eyes. He didn’t think he was sad, not really—this couldn’t be sadness. Only longing and yearning.

So he smiled and patted the girl’s hair. “It’s okay, keep it. Oppa won’t cry.”

Or at least, he hoped he wouldn’t tonight.

[9PM]

The moment the minute hand struck the end of his shift, Yoongi shot up straight from where he’d been slouching against the counter.

Fucking finally. Waiting felt like an eternity and a half.

But just then, his phone buzzed against his leg and and Yoongi reached for it in his pocket.

Manager-nim:
Yoongi-yah, can you take over closing the shop for me tonight? Sorry, emergency @ home.

“Damn it,” Yoongi swore under his breath, fingers clenching around his phone. He could never have nice things, could he? Of all nights, the universe was choosing this particular night to mess with him. His stars must be totally misaligned for his luck to be this shitty.

His phone pinged again. Another text.

Manager-nim:
You’ll be fine alone, right? Thanks Yoongi

“Fuck’s sake.” Sometimes he really hated life. Judging by his words, his manager was acting like Yoongi had already acquiesced to the favor. ‘No’ wasn’t an answer to this one.

He hazarded another glance at the wal clock. 9:02pm. He still had some time. if he chased out every last customer right then and there, and rushed all closing duties, he might still make it, albeit late.

But late was better than being a no-show.

Right?

Fingers crossed, he strode out to hurry in his chores, all the while musing bitterly that wanting to chase after a dream and a love and actually doing it are two very, very different things.

Namsan Tower was famous for its observation deck overlooking Seoul, and while the city lights were as dazzling as a star-swept sky on a clear night like this, Jimin wasn’t here to simply admire. He was a man on a mission. A pirate with treasure to unearth. An archer with a target.

He’d taken advantage of the time. Although an iconic tourist spot, it was getting late and few visitors were left milling about. There was only so much of a city of lights you could sit and look at, suspended over two hundred meters aboveground.

After his Kiss Radio guesting, Jimin had rushed down here in Taehyung’s car instead of hopping into his usual van with his manager, second-guessing this risky move the whole time. It had been months since he’d last seen Yoongi. What if things had changed? Would he even turn up?

He glanced at his watch.

10.30pm.

With an exasperated sigh, Jimin agonized for the thousandth time why he’d forgotten to exchange numbers with Yoongi that night. If only they could communicate, they wouldn’t be like this.

No, he admonished himself. Don’t falter, Park Jimin.

It was okay. It wasn’t too late. There was still time—the tower would only officially close at 11pm, so that meant there was still half an hour left for Yoongi to come. Half an hour before Jimin admitted defeat and left this—whatever this was—to something that ‘could have been.’

It was a fear that had been mounting in the depths of his chest—Jimin knew he’d taken too long of a time to keep true to his last words to Yoongi. The guy must hate him now. Maybe Yoongi thought him a player; stringing random hearts along with hope as false as a liar’s promise.

He wouldn’t blame Yoongi for thinking so.

The company had kept him on something close to a lockdown following his return from Gapyeong that fateful night. They were extra careful in making sure he wouldn’t slip away unnoticed again. Jimin was dismayed to find himself being tailed by bodyguards to keep tabs on him, making sure he wouldn’t sneak off again. 

Comeback season had kept him distracted, too. In between vocal lessons and arduous practices and fanmeets and recording schedules, Jimin hardly had alone time to himself.

“Don’t forget yourself,” Taehyung always said, ever-present, ever-steady. His rock and pillar of support.

Everytime he nearly collapsed from fever or fatigue, Jimin would remind himself of the reason why he’d pushed so hard for this album in the first place:

Yoongi’s song. Yoongi’s talent. Yoongi’s music.

The world needed to hear it. Jimin told himself that if nobody believed in Yoongi, then at least he would. Perhaps one person couldn’t make a huge difference, but that one night Yoongi alone had sparked newfound motivation in him to keep going. Jimin wanted to think he could try and return the favor. So he slaved away, hardly sleeping, often forgetting to eat.

Now, in the near-empty observation deck, Jimin cradled his elbows close to his body and hugged himself, opting to sit on one of the elevated platforms along the observatory’s floor-to-ceiling glass windowpane.

The blue velvet Seoul skyline twinkled down on him, vast and always changing.

His phone beeped in his lap with an incoming call, and Jimin picked up straight away. “Hey.”

“Yo. Is he there yet?” Taehyung’s low baritone said from the other end of the line.

Jimin winced and glanced down at his wristwatch. 10:45pm. “Not yet.”

“Chim...”

“I’m not leaving.” Jimin was nothing if not stubborn. “There’s stil 15 minutes, Tae. Maybe he’s just... caught in traffic?”

“You and I both know very well that there’s no more traffic this late at night.” Something heavy in Taehyung’s tone made Jimin’s stomach queasy. “Maybe it’s time to go home.”

Licking his lower lip, Jimin shook his head and glared at his reflection on the window. “Just. Five more minutes. Are you still downstairs?”

“Yeah. Waiting in the car.”

“Good.” Taehyung was the contingency plan—if Yoongi didn’t show up, he insisted on being there for Jimin. By the looks of it, and as much as he wanted to deny it, it seemed like Taehyung’s decision was a good call.

Because faith is a flower that withers without anything to hold it up. And Jimin’s was slowly draining away.

Fool’s faith, that’s what it was.

The gnawing ache in his gut only grew as the staff from the nearby souvenir booth started giving him pitying looks from behind cash register, as if they bore witness to sad scenes like this all the time, and knew Jimin was leaving with a broken heart tonight. None of them recognized him. In his baggy sweatpants, big colored shades and oversized tee shirt, Jimin was as far from the caricature of South Korea’s nightingale as he could possibly look.

As he sat alone in the in the empty observatory, the speakers overhead crackled to life.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we are closing in 10 minutes. Please make your way to the exit, and we hope you had a pleasant time...”

Jimin’s heart sank. He’s not coming.

The observatory main lights started dimming, and Jimin stood up with a hole in his ribcage, and the Seoul skyline was glaring daggers at him, and Yoongi was not coming.

He let out a shaky sigh and adjusted the pair of shades on his nose to hide his eyes. Because if the world so much as looked into his eyes, they’d find a boy with a fragmented soul.

Jimin slid off from sitting position and stood, dragging his feet over to the elevator that brought guests up and down various levels of the tower.

Fool’s faith for a fool’s heart.

Who was he even kidding?

Pressing on the ‘down’ button, Jimin slumped against the elevator lobby’s walls, screwing his eyes shut just so he wouldn’t start crying. His lips trembled, and he covered his mouth with a hand to quiet a small sob clawing its way out of his throat.

It was too late.

Yoongi had moved on, and Jimin was just a lovelorn hopeless romantic clinging onto some semblance of a rose-colored past.

“Get it together, Park Jimin,” he hissed to himself as a lone tear escaped his right eye.

He shouldn’t have come here.

He shouldn’t have dared to hope.

How ironic—the nation’s sweetheart, loved by many, was nursing a broken from not being loved by just one person. Jimin had never regretted his choice to sing before, but now a small and terrible part of him wished he were someone ordinary.

The elevator doors slid open with a small ping. When Jimin stepped inside, he took the closing doors as a symbol of a final farewell, a goodbye to this version of a life he could’ve lived.

Taehyung wasn’t wrong. He should move on, go home. As the elevator plummeted hundreds of meters to ground level, Jimin wiped away his tears and steeled his gaze.

He would not be weak. Breathe, smile. He would pretend, as he always did.

The elevator announced his arrival at the ground floor with another ‘ding!’. The moment Jimin stepped out, he heard distant shouting.

Well, not exactly shouting. More like... heated arguing.

“Please, sir. We’re already closed for the day. I’m afraid we can’t let any more visitors in,” a female voice said, soft but firm.

A low hiss. “You don’t get it.”

Jimin froze, his breathing turning shallow. That voice, that gravelly rasp. He knew that voice. He brisk-walked out and turned left.

“I just gotta get up there for a few minutes. Look, I’ll even pay full admission fee.“

It couldn’t be, but it sounded too eerily like—

Yoongi.

There.

He was standing outside the entrance, just a few steps shy of where Jimin was, but he was too engrossed in his debate with a female employee at the reception counter to notice the singer standing close-by. His cheeks was red, brows contorted in irritation, and he was panting like he’d just run a marathon.

Jimin’s heart lifted and soared as if he had just gravitated back up to the top of the tower.

Because Yoongi was right here. It wasn’t a dream—surely his eyes weren’t lying—and he was here and his hair was disheveled like an art piece waiting to happen and he was real.

“Hyung.”

Yoongi’s mouth halted mid-speak, eyes widening, and his head whirled to look for the direction where Jimin’s voice came from.

Their gazes locked.

Jimin’s breath caught in his throat.

Let it be known that Jimin was nowhere near a believer of miracles, or supernatural phenomena. But looking at Yoongi, the one who’d given him newfound drive to live as he wished, Jimin couldn’t help but think maybe the powers of the universe conspired for this moment to be born.

“You...” Yoongi trailed off, Adam’s apple bobbing up and down as he swallowed the words bubbling out.

“Hi.” Eyes glistening with hot tears, Jimin gave a one-shouldered shrug and smiled shakily. “I’m here.”

Yoongi only stared at him wordlessly, always with that unreadable face. And then the brittle moment was dispelled.

“I’m very sorry, but Namsan Tower is now closed,” the female receptionist interjected softly, almost as if she was sorry to be talking at all. “All visitors, please escort yourselves to the exit.”

Before Jimin could sass her off with a retort, Yoongi was suddenly marching towards him, eyes burning and jaw set in a determined manner.

“Um,” Jimin croaked out, fearing he’d said something wrong. “What’s the matter—“

He never finished his sentence, because the next thing he knew Yoongi was grabbing his hand, hauling him from the lobby until they stepped out into the silent night air. It was June, and summer had already draped its arm over Seoul. It was warm, but Jimin’s cheeks were warmer.

He didn’t know where they were going, because Yoongi was as quiet as the world around them. Maybe he just wanted to walk aimlessly, and not talk yet. Jimin could live with that—as long as it was with Yoongi, he’d walk the stretch of a river without pause.

Because it was Yoongi.

And so there, under the cobalt-rose-emerald neon glow of a labyrinth of stars and a tower hundreds of feet above them, two boys with hummingbird heartbeats walked hand in hand. Just like before. Jimin wanted to snatch this moment from the skies watching them and never return it.

Yoongi’s palm was warm against his, and every now and then Jimin would sneak glances at him, wondering, always wondering, what went on in that mind of his. It was like the sea—endlessly vast, with a depth nobody could ever fathom, and Jimin ached to know it. Know him.

And then all at once, Yoongi paused in their downwards descent of the Namsan slope, and pulled him towards the left, where he’d spotted a stone bench beside a vending machine.

Jimin sat down, never unclasping their linked fingers. What was it about them and vending machines?

He looked up and into Yoongi’s eyes, hooded by the shadows falling over them, and said breathlessly, “You’re really here.” His voice cracked. “I can’t believe it.”

“You waited,” Yoongi said, soft and sad. “Why?”

Jimin smiled through his tears. “Same reason why you came.”

It was strange, the way they fell back into their easy camarederie as though no time had passed between them. Perhaps in this upside-down world, we’re somehow lucky enough to cross paths with people meant for us, like comets. Jimin hoped the boy in front of him was one of them.

He patted the empty space on the bench beside him and beckoned for Yoongi to sit.

“You never returned,” Yoongi huffed offhandedly, settling down beside him, and was that a figment of Jimin’s imagination, or was that sulking he could hear dripping thick from his tone?

Another thought crossed Jimin’s mind.

Wait. Yoongi had been waiting for him?

All this time, Jimin had thought he was already on the brink of getting rejected—after all, Yoongi had looked so wary and hesitant to start anything with him the night they kissed.

“I’m sorry,” Jimin blurted out, stumbling over his words. He hauled his leg over the to other side of the bench so that he was straddling it and facing Yoongi eye-to-eye. “Hyung, I’m really sorry it took me this long. I’m sorry you had to come find me, I– I couldn’t leave again—“

Yoongi cut him off with a quick peck to his cheek.

Jimin’s words froze in his throat, and felt all breath whoosh out of him.

Pressing another kiss to his forehead, this time letting it linger, Yoongi leaned in to his ear and murmured, “Thank you.”

Okay, this had to be unreal.

Jimin’s mouth went dry, and he licked his lower lip nervously as he to tried make sense of what was happening. Blinking slow, his gathered a tiny area of the skin on his wrist between two fingers and pinched it.

It hurt. “Ow.”

“What are you doing?” Yoongi asked, bemused.

“Just checking if this is real.” Jimin gulped and met Yoongi’s tender gaze. “You’re not mad at me?”

This wasn’t what he’d anticipated at all. He’d expected a scolding, maybe even more heartbreak. He hadn’t foreseen kisses and soft eyes.

Yoongi bristled. “Why would I be mad?”

Jimin felt like a lost kitten. He sniffled. “B-because I didn’t keep my promise to you. Because I took too long. But I meant everything I said, you know?”

“I know.” Chuckling lowly, Yoongi scooted closer and gathered Jimin’s hands to brush a featherlight kiss over his knuckles.

A shiver shot down Jimin’s spine. This was a complete 180-degree turn from the Yoongi he’d met before, so withdrawn and skittish, but Jimin didn’t dislike it.

“I also know that you dedicated a song to me.”

“Not just one song,” Jimin corrected with a pout. “The whole album.”

He hadn’t meant for it, initially. It was just that everytime he needed inspiration, his mind always brought him back to the memory of the night they met.

Yoongi paused to stare at him, lips parted in disbelief, and his grip on Jimin’s hands tightened. “You’re kidding. Really?”

Jimin nodded vigorously, hoping Yoongi would see the desperate conviction his eyes held in this low light. “It’s not intentional, I swear. The whole album, it’s... I–“ he took a deep, shuddering breath. “It’s about how meeting a certain someone had the power to affect my life.”

Maybe that’s how things worked. Life moves in mysterious ways—you could spend a whole chunk of your time going through the motions like a mindless zombie, but then you meet someone who starts a dream anew, and suddenly you’re not quite the same.

After Yoongi, Jimin wasn’t.

After Yoongi, with his words of wisdom and earnest passion, it was as though Jimin had found a new reason to try again. 

“I listened to the whole tracklist,” Yoongi said, smoothing his thumb over Jimin’s knuckles absently. “It’s... different.”

“Different good or different bad?” Jimin peered up shyly at him through his eyelashes.

“Good.” Yoongi smiled, soft and– was that pride in his voice? “Was it a self-produced album?”

“Mostly. I composed most of the lyrics and got Jungkook to pitch in with some melodies. Figured I could decline the offers from certain… songwriters.”

Relief and surprised mixed together in the way Yoongi’s expression changed. “You rejected that asshole?”

“I did. Good thing too, because a week later he got exposed for his wrongdoings. Guy’s serving his time in jail now.” Jimin swallowed, voice thick and hoarse. “Hyung, I did it. I finally put out music that I genuinely can call mine.” He looked away and sniffled, the back of his eyes prickling with hot, unshed tears. “I’m just... I’m so proud of me.”

“As you should be.” Yoongi stood up and cradled Jimin’s head close.

He smelled like rain and fresh paper, and Jimin reveled in this rare chance to soak in his warmth. “Jimin, Jimin, Jimin,” he said while gently running his hands through Jimin’s hair. His velvet voice was both a lullaby & a serenade at the same time. “You’ve come far. I’m proud.”

Jimin closed his eyes and wound his arms tight around Yoongi’s waist. “Thank you. For being my muse.”

Muse—it was a word he’d only heard of, spoken like a special secret only true artists could understand, but now he knew what it was like to have someone who kindled fire in you.

He felt Yoongi’s breath hitch, spine stiffening. “No, Jimin. Thank you for...” his voice softened, “...for thinking of me. Even when I don’t deserve it.”

“Of course you do.”

“No, I...” Yoongi sighed brokenly and squatted low to look Jimin in the eye. “I’m sorry for that night.”

Jimin pulled back and cracked an eye open at Yoongi. “What do you mean?”

“I was afraid. When I first met you, my mind was a mess. I kept thinking I’d never measure up or be someone worthy enough to stand beside you, y’know? I wasn’t the person you’d need me to be. It scared me.”

Jimin looked at Yoongi, really looked, but instead of the sad boy he remembered from so long ago, the person who stood before him had tired but bright eyes, a flush to his cheeks that seemed to glow from inside.

Yoongi would probably never understand just how radiant he was.

As gently as possible, Jimin reached out and cradled Yoongi’s cheeks, and asked, “Are you still scared now?”

In the faint light of the vending machine, Jimin glimpsed the answer in Yoongi’s eyes before he heard it, soft but firm:

“I don’t want to be, not anymore.”

Jimin smiled, heart thudding so hard he feared it might spill out from his chest. “Hmm, really? Let’s test that out.”

Leaning forward, he pressed his lips to Yoongi’s—a question.

Then came the answer. Yoongi gasped before relaxing and raising both hands to grip Jimin’s wrists. Tilting his head, Jimin could taste salt and tears, and he wanted to kiss them away until only mindless fire remained. They stayed in slow, sweet liplock, two people realizing they had all the time in the world, and stood on the same page.

“I missed you,” Jimin murmured under his breath.

“So much,” Yoongi whispered in between light pecks on the mouth, coming around to trail a line of kisses along Jimin’s jaw. “I never forgot you.” He pressed another kiss to the corner of Jimin’s mouth, like he couldn’t keep his lips away now that they’d met again. “Even if I tried.”

At this, Jimin smirked and pulled away. “Well, I do have a knack for being unforgettable. Must be all that pretty boy charisma.”

Yoongi paused to raise an eyebrow at him.

“What?”

Locking his fingers over the nape of Jimin’s neck, Yoongi shook his head. “Eh. I’ll give you some credit.”

“Hey!” Jimin smacked his arm, which earned him a laugh, before he smoothed Yoongi’s shoulder and pressed their foreheads close against each other.

“Okay, fine. You’re beautiful,” Yoongi breathed, smiling. “And such a talented singer who outsold all sound producers out there.”

Jimin snorted. “Jungkook would throw a hissy fit if he heard you say that.”

“I’ll bet.” Yoongi said with an amused huff of his own, before scratching the back of his ear. “Say, speaking of Jungkook...”

Jimin looked up from where he played with Yoongi’s fingers. “Hmm?”

“He came by my town. Earlier.”

“He did?” Jimin blinked. “What for?”

“A job offer.” Yoongi tugged nervously at the hem of his shirt. “At LargeHits, as a music producer.”

Jimin’s eyes widened, pulse quickening. Here was an answer the the very question ringing in his brain.

"Are you accepting it?" he asked, hardly daring to breathe.

Are you staying here? he actually meant to say.

Yoongi huffed a low chuckle and tugged Jimin close. "You look like you're about to crap your pants."

Jimin glared at him. "It's an important question." He chewed on his lower lip, keeping his eyes trained on Yoongi's face for a hint of an answer, and when the older sighed and shook his head, Jimin's stomach twisted.

"I have to go back."

Jimin felt ready to cry.

"...and pack my stuff," Yoongi finished with a sly grin.

If looks could kill, Jimin imagined that Yoongi's cold, dead body would be slumped on the floor right now. Tutting his tongue, he wrestled free from Yoongi's grasp with a petulant sniff and spun on his heel.

Yoongi broke out into low, rumbling laughter. "Hey, now, are you mad—"

"Screw you!" Jimin snapped.

"Now?" He could hear the teasing smile in Yoongi's voice as the older caught him by the elbow and turned him around. "Or later?"

Jimin choked on air, cheeks pinking. Who was this person and what had he done to the Yoongi he knew? "I really thought—"

His words were cut off when Yoongi enveloped him in a warm embrace. Jimin stilled. With their chest pressed together like this, he could feel Yoongi's heart mirroring his own rapid rhythm under the fabric of his shirt.

"I'm not going anywhere," Yoongi whispered into his ear.

"Tell me you'll stay," Jimin sniffled.

"I plan to." Yoongi drew backwards and cradled his chin. "No more running, okay? Jimin, do you..." he licked his lower lip, "did you mean what you said? Back then?"

Jimin cocked his head to one side. "What did I say?"

"That you want to know me better." Ducking his head bashfully, Yoongi's hair fell over his forehead, the dim light of the vending machine casting shadows over his eyes. "Do you want to try?"

Jimin's head went woozy. "Did you mean what you said too?"

"I did."

He smiled. "Then yes."

It was like watching a tulip blossom, Jimin mused, the way Yoongi's eyes lit up with a different kind of sparkle that wasn't there before; the way his stooped posture straightened with nothing but pure joy. He closed his eyes and let out a sigh, not one of sadness but of relief.

And Jimiin—

Jimin wanted to shout into the midnight void and let the world know that this man right here was—

"Mine?" Yoongi asked, voice gruff, letting his hands settle on Jimin's waist like they never belonged anywhere else.

"Hah." Jimin rolled his eyes, gently pushing Yoongi's forehead backwards with an index finger. "Take me out to dinner first. Then we'll talk."

And then Yoongi laughed in a way that made his eyes slink like a kitten's. "You haven’t eaten dinner yet?"

“Nope. Feed me.” It was all too familiar, the way this scenario was playing out, almost like a dream sequence from a night long ago. “Don’t worry, we can split the bill this time. I’ve got my wallet with me.”

Yoongi grinned, cheeks squishing upwards. “Finally found it, huh?”

“Mm-hmm,” Jimin hummed, cupping the back of Yoongi’s neck and bringing their faces close once more. “Finally found it.”

But right before their lips could meet, Jimin’s phone trilled.

“Oi, Park Jimin!” It was Taehyung, worry evident in his voice. “Where the hell are you?”

Jimin cringed, and brought one finger up for Yoongi to spare him a minute. In the whirlwind flurry of tonight's events, he'd almost forgotten. "Tae. Shit. Sorry. I'll be there."

"Please, please don't tell me you ran off again," Taehyung all but whined. "You know I love you, but not for long once I'm dead by the agency's hands."

"No!" Jimin giggled. He turned around, returning Yoongi's tender look. "Turns out I don't have to run anymore."

"Huh?"

"Listen, there's someone I'd like you to meet." Jimin gave up suppressing the grin spreading across his face. Why fight it anymore? He was already gone. "See you at the parking lot in five?"

"This better not be another one of your ideas..."

Chuckling, he clicked off the call.

He skipped back to Yoongi and linked their fingers together, chest swelling at the thought that he could just... do this from now on. "Let's go. So. Where are you taking me?

There was much to talk about. But they had their worries behind, futures ahead. Come what may, Jimin wanted it to be with Yoongi, and though he didn't want to get ahead of himself, he wanted to believe in this kind of future: 

- late nights working together in a studio
- early morning coffee dates
- Yoongi's body on his, and waking up to light, sweet kisses

Because for the first time in a long time, he wanted to believe.

It's not everyday you meet people who make you want to.

"You know I'm still working on my post-graduate career and funds, so..." Yoongi squeezed his hand, a shy smile grazing his lips. "Do you like tteokbboki?"