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1.
they’re in berlin, when hoseok first tries to kiss him, and it’s december.
the crackle of the fireplace makes hoseok feel some kind of way, lights a spark of warmth within his stomach that makes him shudder. perhaps it’s not the fireplace, but the mulled wine the hostel had so kindly supplied the few guests, spiced with cinnamon and something else hoseok can’t quite pinpoint, something sweet but not nearly as strong as the cinnamon— orange, maybe, some sort of citrus. certainly a fruit, at least.
on his lap, yoongi yawns. he’d long given up any attempts to keep himself awake, awaiting midnight. his phone lies face down on his chest, buried in the far too large v-neck sweater dripping from him like a blanket. he looks soft, smaller than usual, and hoseok’s never wanted to kiss anyone this much.
(he’s definitely had one glass of mulled wine too many.)
the hostel is practically empty, apart from them— it’s new year’s eve, and the few travellers they shared their accomodation with had all promptly rushed out into the streets to celebrate, all dolled up in fancy dress. he briefly wonders how many will actually return to the hostel before morning, how many will spend the night in a more comfortable bed, how many will spend the night shoved in a plastic seat in the emergency room, trying to explain a strange injury in broken english.
the idea of going out had not once crossed either of their minds. it’s one of the requirements they’d both set out in their respective forms, when applying to the travel buddy programme: yoongi isn’t a fan of crowds, gets overwhelmed in cramped spaces, and hoseok just doesn’t do well with clubs, not with his ridiculously low alcohol tolerance. it’s a good arrangement, has been working well for them for the past year, and new year’s celebrations aren’t any different.
the past year. they’d travelled south america first, had gotten to know each other over a plate of empanadas in cuba, had shared their dreams with each other on a beach in brazil, had laughed and drank together in a cramped hostel in argentina. on the way back to korea, they’d stopped in new york, and hoseok figured, yeah, love feels like stealing a bite off a pretty boy’s hot dog while he rants about the perfect ketchup to mustard ratio, like watching him scrunch his face after a sip of black coffee because “man, this fucking sucks”.
beyond their travels, they haven’t spoken much. when they’re home, yoongi disappears for weeks at a time, doesn’t make an effort to contact him beyond the occasional text here and there to make sure he’s still alive. it’s fine, hoseok gets it— he’s a private person and he’s bad at texting, so hoseok doesn’t take it personally. it just makes him treasure the few texts he gets from him even more, not to mention the occasional facetime call to discuss future travel plans.
hoseok only realises the clock has struck twelve because of the echoed shouts in the distance, the yells and cheers and faint music. yoongi, for his part, doesn’t stir, which hoseok is sort of thankful for. he doesn’t think he could have stopped himself from kissing him right then and there, if he’d woken.
(later, yoongi would hit him on the shoulder for not waking him up, but it’s only half-hearted. he’d looked tired, after spending the entire day on a foot tour of the city. the rest was well-deserved.)
2.
the second time hoseok tries to kiss yoongi, it’s april, and they’re in osaka.
yoongi’s more animated than usual, in a better mood than usual, and it lights up his entire face in a way that has hoseok’s heart hammering out an unfamiliar melody, arrhythmic and syncopated, a vaguely concerning tango.
the beginnings of spring decorate the streets in soft pinks, vivid greens, bright yellows. even the boring grey of the pavement is littered in pinks and reds, kissed by the tender petals blown away by the wind. it’s the most beautiful time of the year, hoseok thinks, but nothing’s quite as beautiful as the sight of yoongi, happy and relaxed, shoulders free of the weight they’re usually burdened by.
he’s just finished a track, had finished and submitted it to his client the day before their flight, and the client had been ecstatic, which yoongi hadn’t anticipated one bit, considering how much and how long he’d struggled with it. the client had paid him good money for it, too, and the first thing yoongi’d done had been treating hoseok to ridiculously expensive sashimi.
(if there’s one thing hoseok had noted about yoongi in the time he’d known him, is that he’s not excessive with his money, doesn’t like to spend on unnecessary things. the sashimi had been good, yes, but hoseok had eaten even more deliciously knowing that he’d willingly spent that much money on him.)
“take a picture of me under the cherry blossoms, seok.”
a large camera gets wrestled into his hands before hoseok has a chance to say anything, then yoongi’s bounding to the middle of the road, almost running into a disgruntled middle aged man on his way. even when he poses, he keeps his face neutral, the usual intimidating scowl his face has a tendency to fall into when he’s not thinking about his expression. he’s got a hand in his hair, bleached strands falling over his eyes, an artful arrangement by the wind’s careful fingers. hoseok’s dumbstruck, a fool in love.
mustering the self-restraint not to say anything that would give his crush away is tough, but he manages. what comes out of his mouth, instead, is: “oh, hyung, so sexy. work the camera, yeah.”
he manages to take two serious photos before yoongi’s resolve breaks, laughter vibrating through his body, shaking through him and erupting all at once. hoseok captures it right as it happens, and the result takes his breath away.
(the thing about yoongi is, he doesn't seem like someone who laughs a whole lot, but he is, he does. he's reserved with his happiness, takes a while to warm up, an exact recipe which must be followed down to the littlest detail. hoseok, for his part, is as simple as a pot of water— high heat, bring to a boil. yoongi’s a quiet, slow simmer, and each laugh leaves a an incomparable taste on hoseok’s tongue. patience is rewarding.)
yoongi jogs back to him, snatching the camera from his hands with mock aggression, head low, ears red. “ah, you’re embarrassing. stop talking.”
“make me.”
it spills from his lips before he has a chance to process it, and then it's too late. it's something he says a lot out of habit, because he has no boundaries with his best friends and his entire friendship group is composed of ex-theatre kids turned dancers, which means he’s had a hand shoved onto his mouth and a loud, dramatic kiss placed right above it more times than he can count. however, while taehyung knows what hoseok is implying whenever he says it, yoongi does not.
yoongi looks up at him, eyes a little wide, and hoseok realises only in that moment just how close they're standing, how little he’d have to move to pull yoongi closer, to capture his lips and steal a kiss.
they're both silent for an uncomfortably long moment, then hoseok’s stepping back, looking at his watch. he goes for nonchalant, but he’s certain he must seem a little frantic, eager to leave.
“come on, let's go. we’ve been staring at the cherry blossoms for an hour.”
a slow blink, then a nod, just as slow. he pulls the strap of his camera over his head and around his neck, then starts back on their way, not looking at hoseok. he's not angry, doesn't look it, but hoseok didn't miss the flush of his face, the way he’d fumbled with his hands the way he does when he’d embarrassed.
(what he did miss, however, was yoongi’s gaze dropping to his lips, the sigh, the longing.)
3.
hoseok tries to kiss yoongi again in phuket. it's june.
thailand comes as a breath of fresh air to them both. the previous month had been tough, had found them swamped in work and deadlines and unpleasant, sudden situations that had definitely not been on schedule and that they could have most certainly done without. hoseok loves his job, there’s no doubt about that: he loves being sent unreleased tracks and being given complete freedom to put together a choreography, loves the look on the idols’ faces when he and his crew meet them to go over it, loves tuning out the world and just feeling the music run through his body, quarter notes tickling his skin, a soft vibrato. he loves his job, but it’s exhausting, sometimes, makes him want to run away and never come back.
at least, he’s big enough of a choreographer that he doesn’t have to be physically present in order to do his job, most of the time. it’s how he can afford to travel so much— even when he’s away for months on end, he can simply email a video, can get his crew to attend the meetings and rehearsals in his stead. it’s a freedom he could have only dreamed of, back when he still worked as a barista.
yoongi comes out the bathroom looking perturbed, hair wet. the droplets fall deliciously onto his loose white t-shirt, fabric sticking to his skin, a little see-through. he’s staring at his phone, frown etched between his brows.
“seok,” he starts, voice low, speaking through a pout. he’s the kind of person to slur his words a lot, to rush out a sentence laced in thick satoori, and hoseok’s name had quickly morphed into one syllable, to him. hoseok doesn’t think he’s ever witnessed anything more endearing.
he hums in acknowledgement. yoongi continues.
“the spa treatment you booked for tomorrow. it says it’s for couples.”
“oh. yeah. they had an— ah, offer? it was better value for money, since we would have had to pay for individual treatments instead of, like, one single one that we both did together,” a pause. “we also get free prosecco.”
yoongi looks placated at that. he nods to himself, pocketing his phone before sitting on his bed with surprising grace, lying down slowly, as if trying not to mess up the sheets. hoseok is not nearly as kind to the bedspread, practically launching himself onto the bed next to yoongi, bouncing a little on impact.
an eyebrow raise. “what are you doing?”
hoseok makes himself comfortable beside yoongi, sidling up to him, mischief in his eyes. he’d showered first, and the relaxation he normally feels straight after a hot shower had worn off, replaced by a manic energy and a desire to do anything but sleep. mostly, he just wants to be with yoongi, but that’s besides the point.
“i’m not tired yet. let’s watch a movie.”
“we have to get up early tomorrow.”
“then let’s watch a boring movie. something to help us sleep.”
there’s not much yoongi can argue with, not when he’s clearly not particularly tired himself (he’d fallen asleep the moment they’d arrived at their hotel, that afternoon, so hoseok doubts he’ll want to sleep for at least another hour). hoseok makes a quick work of activating the movie channels on their television and scrolling through the options, settling on an old american movie they’ve both already seen. there’s no subtitles, which had been a critical flaw in his plan, but yoongi looks entertained regardless, and hoseok is happy to just amuse himself with occasionally repeating the odd english phrase or two he manages to pick up.
there’s a snort on his left side. “your english.”
hoseok makes an undignified noise, kicking yoongi’s shin with his bare foot. if his eyes linger on the pale expanse of yoongi’s exposed leg a moment too long, the way his shorts ride slightly up to expose a lean albeit toned thigh, that’s nobody’s business. “not all of us could afford to go to an english academy, genius.”
“i didn’t say it was bad. you’re putting words into my mouth.”
“i’ll put my foot in your mouth.”
“oh? i didn’t know you were into that.”
“min yoongi,” he mock threatens, voice falling into a masculine almost-growl, wrestling yoongi until he’s on his back, hoseok hovering above him. yoongi struggles, eyes alight with amusement as he calls his name, says something in english that hoseok doesn’t understand but definitely sounds like teasing.
it’s only when they realise the position they’ve gotten themselves in that they quieten down, staring at each other with wide eyes. yoongi is under him, wet hair splayed like a golden halo on the pillow, face flushed from exertion, bottom lip pink and swollen from when he’d bitten it to stop himself from laughing. his knee is between hoseok’s legs, dangerously close to his middle— an empty threat to knee hoseok where it hurt most turned into a pointed invitation, if hoseok wishes to take it.
hoseok leans down.
as fate would have it, an explosion rings from the speakers of the television behind him, louder than the monotone drone of the characters’ speech had been, and it takes hoseok by surprise enough to make him call out, fliching so hard he falls onto the bed beside yoongi, eyeing the television with wide eyes.
yoongi just stares for a long moment, but then he laughs and laughs and laughs some more, laughs enough that hoseok has no choice but to join him.
they finish the movie without further interruptions.
4.
they go to florence in july, and hoseok sets his mind to kissing yoongi.
the air is unbearably warm, so they find refuge in the shade of a cafe, looking distinctly like foreigners with their iced americanos amidst a sea of espresso drinkers. it’s yoongi who’d pointed it out, a slight wrinkle of disgust on his face, wondering out loud about how anyone could think to drink hot coffee in this heat. hoseok had just laughed it off, called him cute, and yoongi had blossomed like a flower in spring, the pink of his cheeks matching the strawberry cheesecake they’d been sharing.
(they’re on a date, that much is certain. hoseok can be a bit naive, yes, and more than a little oblivious, but he’d have to be blind not to see the way yoongi leans into his touch, now, the way he doesn’t complain anymore when hoseok insists on spoon-feeding him cake. he’s not so certain what constitutes a date anymore, not when they live together for a good portion of the year, but this is good enough for him.)
“i heard northern europe isn’t as hot. we should have gone there to sweden or something.”
“you’re the one who suggested this, hyung. you’re not allowed to complain.”
yoongi bristles, but takes a sip of his coffee without further complaint. hoseok stares at him, the curve of his nose, of his lips, and leans closer, pressing a kiss to his cheek.
yoongi chokes, snorts coffee onto hoseok’s white shirt.
it's as hilarious as it is mortifying, and hoseok has no idea what he should feel most embarrassed about, whether yoongi’s laughter or the bewildered stares of passers-by, of the older gentlemen gathered around other tables. what he does know, though, is that all the confidence he’d managed to gather had dissipated just like that, his courage to commit some grand romantic gesture in the middle of one of the most romantic cities in europe simmering to nothing.
if anything, he made yoongi laugh, which is as much of a win as anything, he supposes. yoongi positively radiates happiness, and it's disconcerting how taken hoseok is with him, but he can't bring himself to care. even as he wheezes, all imperfect smile and crescent moon eyes, hoseok thinks he’s never seen anything quite as beautiful, has never seen anything that could remotely compare.
he apologises for spitting coffee at him with a stream of insincere “sorry, seok, sorry,” in-between fitful laughter, and holds hoseok’s hand for the remainder of the time they spend at the cafe.
hoseok takes it as a win.
5.
hoseok tries to kiss yoongi one last time in august. they’re in malta.
more specifically, they're in comino, bodies spread on a thin towel on one of the cliffs. it's a little uncomfortable— the towel does nothing to soften the feeling of the stones beneath them, and the sun beats down on them with no mercy, but it's okay. they're drinking cocktails from an emptied pineapple and the scenery is beautiful, so hoseok couldn't care any less.
he says: “you know, i think i love you.”
he doesn't really know what makes him say it, but he does. maybe it's the knowledge that they’ll have to leave soon, escape this little paradise on earth and return to normality, to work and deadlines and parents nagging them about their lifestyles. maybe, it's the way yoongi looks under the dying sun, glowing pale gold amidst the pinks and oranges of the sky.
yoongi, who just stares at him with parted lips, sitting up. he cradles his pineapple cocktail preciously, like a child, nestling it between his thighs carefully. hoseok follows the movement with his eyes.
“you what?”
hoseok doesn't say anything, lies back down and stares straight up above and closes his eyes. yoongi’s obviously heard him, will say what he needs to say in his own time.
except, yoongi doesn't say anything. he simply drinks his cocktail — a long island iced tea, which hoseok had vehemently disagreed with. “it's a pineapple, hyung,” he’d said, frowning. “you should have gotten a piña colada,” — staring into the horizon, the setting sun, the people on the beach down below awaiting the ferry back to cirkewwa.
after what feels like an eternity, hoseok sits up. the movement brings them a little too close for comfort, and hoseok swallows the hard lump forming in his throat.
“i think i love you, min yoongi.”
this time, yoongi gives no reaction, just watches hoseok carefully, awaiting for his next move. hoseok wants to kiss him, wants to push him down and kiss every inch of his face, his rounded cheeks, his button nose, the space between his eyes plagued by a near constant subconscious frown.
he wants to, but he doesn't. he leans forward just a fraction, watches yoongi’s eyes drop shut, gets stuck on the contrast between his dark eyelashes and his pale skin, the way they flutter for a moment before settling over the curve of his high cheekbones. yoongi is beautiful, and hoseok is a fool in love, doesn't deserve someone like him.
yoongi opens his eyes, frowns at him. he’s not hurt, not really, but he’s definitely a little embarrassed, uncertain, confused.
neither of them speak for a long time, simply staring at each other. the sun keeps setting, unbothered.
+1.
it’s still august, and they’re still in malta, but yoongi’s fed up.
their first kiss isn't romantic, not really. in the nearly two years they've known each other, they’ve travelled to countless romantic cities, have watched beautiful sunsets together and stargazed in empty fields and drank wine on a balconies overlooking a city ablaze with lights, so there's no reason their first kiss should be at a dark bus stop in the middle of nowhere, awaiting a bus that won't seem to come.
they'd just about caught the last ferry to gozo, had a comfortable dinner in uncomfortable silence, then caught a late ferry back to cirkewwa. it's past midnight, by the time they're back to the main island, and they're both a little anxious and a little tired. it doesn't help that their hotel is in valletta, over an hour away from the harbour by bus, and that the bus stop is deserted, empty apart from the two of them.
after hours of silence, yoongi says: “hey.”
hoseok looks at him.
he grabs hoseok’s shirt and smashes their lips together.
later, when they're back in their hotel room, yoongi would complain about having waited months for hoseok to get his act together and kiss him, all the while rejecting any accusations from hoseok that “you could have kissed me first, hyung”.
(yoongi tastes of the cinnamon bun they'd stopped to buy on the way back, but there's something else there, too, something just as sweet. perhaps it's the way he smiles against hoseok’s lips like he knows something hoseok doesn't, or perhaps it’s the whispered “i think i love you, too,” as they fall asleep in each other's arms that night.)