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Yoongi tries to convince himself that the impending misery of the next four hours is worth it.
(He is, unfortunately, unsuccessful.)
He’s saving money, of course, by taking the mugunghwa back to Daegu, and saving extra money by buying a ticket for standing room only.
But his knees hurt and the train is cold and he’s been elbowed twice by other riders on their way to their seats and he’s starting to regret not just sucking it up and at least buying a fucking seat.
But rent is due next week and Yoongi bought a new mic last week and, in his father’s words when Yoongi had moved to Seoul to pursue music, he has to lie in the bed he’s made.
Currently, the metaphorical bed is the chilly metal floor between train cars where Yoongi decides to plant his ass, curling up on the top step near the door.
His “bony little butt” (Jung Hoseok’s words, not his) is hurting within minutes.
He grumbles slightly as he wiggles back and forth, trying to get comfortable, the train rattling along the track.
“Is it okay if I sit here?”
Yoongi blinks and glances over his shoulder. A man looks back at him, lanky brown hair hanging into his eyes, oversized green sweatshirt drowning his frame.
“Sure,” Yoongi says, and shifts a little over to the top step. “Not exactly reserved seating.”
The man—maybe around Yoongi’s age or younger—laughs a little bit as he sits down. The sound is deep but light, a welcome change from all the metal clanging and chugging from the train.
“But it’s cheap,” the man says. He sinks down beside Yoongi, long legs draping themselves over the steps.
“It’s cheap,” Yoongi agrees. He glances back down at his phone, currently cradled in his hands, his chewed-down nails peeking out from his fingerless gloves.
Yoongi isn’t necessarily one for small talk. But his reception is terrible in wherever the fuck they are between Seoul and Suwon, and (more shallowly, because sometimes Yoongi can be shallow) the guy sitting beside him is really hot. Well—hot doesn’t seem like quite enough of a descriptor. He’s the type of beautiful that would send Namjoon waxing poetic and Hoseok into a flustered gay panic.
So Yoongi clicks his phone screen off and stares blankly out the tiny circular window in the train’s door, trying to look as bored as he truly is.
It either works, or his new traveling companion is talkative (or also bored out of his mind).
“Where are you headed?” The man asks.
“Daegu,” Yoongi says, and tilts his face to look again at the man beside him. “You?”
“Daegu, too.” The man smiles, and yes—maybe he’s beautiful enough for Yoongi to wax poetic about as well. “I thought I heard your satoori.”
Yoongi snorts. “Yeah. Haven’t exactly learned to fake a Seoul accent very well.”
“I haven’t either,” the man says, and his face is brightening as they talk, eyes sparking with life. His eyelids are uneven, one a monolid and the other a double, and they make his gaze almost hypnotizing. “Not that I really tried.”
By the time they reach Suwon, Yoongi has a name and an age and an occupation for the man, and he’s given his own.
Kim Taehyung, twenty-four, student.
(Traded for Min Yoongi, twenty-six, songwriter.)
Yoongi considers himself a good judge of character, so as they’re pulling away from the station and settling down onto the steps again, he reaches into a pocket.
“Want a clementine?” He asks.
Taehyung (it’s a nice enough name, Yoongi thinks) grins, his eyes curving with his lips. “I’d love one.”
So Yoongi grabs one of the clementines he stuffed in his jacket and gives it to Taehyung, their fingers brushing. Taehyung’s skin his warm despite the cold of the train, touch soft.
“Thank you, hyung,” Taehyung says, and there’s a hint of affection to his voice along with the familiarity, both of which Yoongi was entirely unprepared for.
Heat rushes to Yoongi’s cheeks. “It’s not very sweet,” he says quickly, tugging at a loose thread on his sleeve. “The halmoni in my apartment building sometimes gives them to me.”
“Hm,” Taehyung says, and he starts to peel the clementine. “Smells sweet.”
“Anything smells better than this train car,” Yoongi points out, still mumbling slightly into his scarf.
“Fair point.” Taehyung finishes peeling quickly, and he hands Yoongi half of the clementine first.
“It’s for you,” Yoongi says, furrowing his brow. “I have more, this is—”
“You gave me the clementine, now I get to share it,” Taehyung tells him with an air of nonchalance. “Besides, it’ll be sweeter if we share.”
Yoongi blinks at him for only a moment before chuckling to himself, curling his fingers around the wedges. “Where’d you hear that? A children’s show?”
Taehyung shakes his head, still smiling. “It’s something my grandmother always said.”
Yoongi hums quietly to himself, taking the first slice and popping it into his mouth, Taehyung doing the same. “She sounds kind.”
“Yeah,” Taehyung says softly. He looks down at his lap. “She was.”
It’s maybe twenty minutes past Pyeongtaek station that Taehyung tells Yoongi he’s going to Daegu to visit his family, and to see his grandmother’s memorial.
“It’s been a year,” Taehyung says, and he draws his knees up, suddenly looking much smaller. “I still miss her.”
“You really loved her.”
“I did.”
“She must have really loved you a lot, too.”
Taehyung wipes at his eyes and Yoongi pretends not to notice, instead reaching for another clementine.
He peels it this time, and he thinks about how strange it is to feel comfortable having this conversation with a virtual stranger. But, he supposes, he’s talked to Kim Taehyung, twenty-four year old university student, more than he’s talked to anyone other than Namjoon or Hoseok in the last month.
“So why are you going back to Daegu?” Taehyung asks, and his voice is a little bit raspier than before, but his eyes are dry again as he rests his chin on the top of his knees and turns his magnetic gaze on Yoongi.
“My niece’s doljanchi,” Yoongi says, then with a snort, “I’ve already bet my brother that she’ll go for the money. She’s a smart kid.”
“Wouldn’t she go for a pen, then?”
“Nah, she’s too smart for that,” Yoongi says.
Taehyung laughs. “My mom told me I just grabbed onto her hand and wouldn’t let go. I wasn’t interested in anything else.”
Yoongi, who has told people on multiple occasions (has lied on multiple occasions) that his heart is just a rock, feels his chest warm. “You must’ve been a cute kid.”
“The cutest,” Taehyung agrees with a wink.
Yoongi rolls his eyes. “Seems like you had a pretty healthy sized ego, too.”
“I try. Confidence is important, hyung.”
The train stops again and Yoongi decides to show Taehyung the many, many pictures of his niece saved to his phone. Taehyung appropriately coos and compliments, but it seems genuine.
Yoongi notices the freckle on the tip of his nose and has to restrain himself from touching it.
“What about your music?” Taehyung asks when they sit back down on the step. It’s growing darker now, the tiny window revealing the last bits of pink sunset fading to black.
Yoongi shrugs the way he’s trained himself to. “I’m part of a pretty small company. We have a few artists, but we’re still mostly recording in garage studios. Probably nothing you’ve heard before.”
“Can I listen?”
Yoongi pulls his earbuds out of his backpack, slips them into his phone and pulls on his veneer of nonchalance a little more. He knows he makes good music. He knows . But it’s been overlooked for years now. Joining an entertainment company was one thing—it gave him Namjoon and Hoseok to work with and a CEO who valued his work. It’s another to watch with Namjoon and Hoseok as the artists they work with get cut from broadcasts, their albums barely receiving any attention, virtually ignored despite the hours and hours of work everyone puts in, their sweat and their souls.
So Yoongi selects a song off of Trivia’s latest album, one that he and Namjoon co-wrote, and hands Taehyung the earbuds.
Taehyung’s face is mostly unreadable for the next three and a half minutes.
Yoongi almost starts biting his fingers again before reminding himself that he doesn’t care what Taehyung thinks, it doesn’t matter if Taehyung makes some polite comment and then moves on with disinterest—
“Hyung. Hyung, shit, this is incredible,” Taehyung whispers.
Yoongi’s throat tightens, but finally breathes out the air he’d been holding hostage in his lungs. (He does care, for whatever reason, what Taehyung thinks. Because Taehyung is kind and funny and thoughtful and sweet and whether or not he knows much about music, Yoongi wants him to like his work, his passion.)
“They’re really talented kids,” Yoongi says, and hopes his voice doesn’t sound thick. He clears his throat, just in case.
“Their voices are amazing. And the rapper—he’s so good. And you wrote this?”
Yoongi nods.
Taehyung beams at him, lighting up the train car. “Can I hear more?”
It’s when they’re maybe ten minutes out from Daegu Station that Taehyung asks, “Do you want to get tickets for the train back to Seoul together?”
Yoongi’s ass is beyond sore and his nose is cold and he’d rather listen to twenty-four hours of Namjoon and Hoseok screech-singing than the train rattle, but Yoongi still says, “yes,” and genuinely means it.
“Good,” Taehyung says. His tongue darts out to wet his lips and he glances away from Yoongi. “I like talking to you.”
Yoongi is so, so warm. “I like talking to you, too,” he mumbles.
Taehyung’s eyes flick back to him. “Can I get your number, hyung? To- you know- to plan the ride back?”
Yoongi nods, passes his phone to Taehyung and then messages him a “hello, it’s hyung.”
The train screeches to a stop when Taehyung is in the middle of telling Yoongi about his neighbor’s dog, and they clamber onto the platform, the chill of the night air immediately making Yoongi burrow a little deeper into his scarf.
“Are you taking the subway?” Yoongi asks.
“No, my dad is picking me up.”
They stare at each other for a few more moments as the train pulls away in all of its obnoxious, noisy glory.
“I’ll see you Sunday afternoon, then?”
Yoongi nods. “Sunday afternoon.”
“Okay.”
“Yeah.”
Taehyung smiles, something smaller and softer and than his other ones (though his eyes still curve) and turns to leave.
“Taehyung,” Yoongi blurts, and it makes Taehyung stop, look back at Yoongi with something that might be hope in his eyes.
Yoongi swallows and pulls out the last clementine from his jacket pocket and reaches forward. “For you,” he says with his cheeks flaming, “because you’re so sweet.”
He flees then, brushing past Taehyung and waddling up the stairs as fast as his boots will allow.
It’s not until he’s on the subway that he checks his phone, finds a message staring up at him.
i think you’re sweet too, hyung ^^
the sweetest
see you on sunday
On Sunday, Taehyung greets him at the station with a smile and with a clementine.