Archive of Our Own

Yoongi’s brow furrowed in concentration, the soldering iron in his hands radiating heat as he carefully sealed two metal halves together. A severed head stared up at him, eyes dull and glassy, tubes protruding from its neck as Yoongi carefully strengthened the plates in its skull. He set down the torch and adjusted the magnifying spectacle strapped to his head, increasing the magnification to examine the details of the solder. Satisfied, he grabbed a new tool from his workbench and tinkered with the tubes extending from the base of the skull; they needed to be strong enough to hold their own beneath metal sheathing when he reattached the head, their connections smooth and unbroken to transmit the flow of energy from the brain to the internal mechanisms.

His workshop filled with the familiar sounds of metal being bent into shape and tools clacking against the benchtop as he switched between them, the building’s temperature hot from the steam-powered machines heating his forge. Yoongi felt a droplet of sweat bead on his forehead, but he ignored it, focusing on the metal coming to life beneath his hands.

He barely registered the tinkling of the bell above his workshop door. Footsteps sounded in the lobby, but Yoongi’s spot at the workbench was hidden from sight.

“Hello?” a voice called.

Yoongi made a final twist against the metal before setting his tool on the bench. “One moment,” he called back.

He pushed the magnifying lens from his eyes and dabbed at the sweat on his brow, then stood, weaving through the partially-constructed projects and stacked materials staggered about the space. To an outsider, his workshop would seem cluttered and visually overwhelming, but there was a method to Yoongi’s madness, a deliberate system of organized chaos. He ducked around a bench laden with cog and gear molds and rounded the corner to his front desk. He nearly tripped over his own feet when he saw the man standing at the counter.

The man exuded elegance, from the confident stature of his shoulders to the easy way with which he held his weight. His clothes were understated yet made of decadently fine fabric, the stitching immaculate, perhaps even woven with silver, largely hidden beneath a swirling cloak with a deep hood. From the way they caught the light, Yoongi could tell the hoops in the man’s ears and the rings on his fingers were pure silver.

Yoongi blinked, running a quick hand through his messy hair and brushing imaginary dust from his leather apron. He was accustomed to wealthy customers, of course; living on the uppermost island meant they were inevitable and commonplace. But those customers rarely set foot in his shop themselves, and when they did, they reeked of learned arrogance and a dirty kind of entitlement that left a bitter taste in Yoongi’s mouth. And none of them exuded the sheer confidence and class of this man, as if he was born with blue blood.

Yoongi grimaced.

“How can I help you?” he asked, stepping fully into view.

The man turned, meeting Yoongi’s gaze. Yoongi felt his blood chill. The man was gorgeous, with a graceful neck, feathery pink hair, straight nose, and plump lips, his skin smooth and perfect, like a doll. But his eyes… his eyes made Yoongi resist the urge to shiver. They were raw, burning, yet chillingly cold, closed off and frigid, dripping with ice. Dark circles ensconced them, the only noticeable blemish of his otherwise flawless features, and his mouth seemed to pull down at the corners, as if constantly on the verge of a frown.

Yoongi cleared his throat and straightened his posture, ignoring the cold discomfort trickling down his spine.

“Hello,” the man said, voice soft and musical, yet falling flat and dull. “Are you Min Yoongi?”

“I am,” Yoongi replied, a touch warily.

“Excellent.” The man smiled, a lovely, tiny movement of his lips that softened his expression but didn’t reach his eyes. He turned to casually examine the trinkets lining Yoongi’s small front-of-store: intricate metal watches and cuckoo clocks, steam-powered kitchen gadgets, automaton accessories and replacement parts. He picked up a small music box and held it in his palm, winding the key and opening the top to watch the mechanical ballerina dance in disarmingly fluid motions. “I hear you’re quite the prodigy.”

Yoongi shrugged, watching the man carefully. “My work speaks for itself.”

The man shut the music box and set it back in place. “It does, indeed.” He stopped at the end of the display, where a full-sized automaton stood against the empty wall, metallic and imposing, its cogs still and limbs motionless. The man stared at it for a moment.

“I need you to make a human organ.”

Yoongi blinked. “…As in, a transplant?”

The man nodded, and Yoongi grabbed his notebook, pulling the pencil from behind his ear. “Oftentimes, a full replacement isn’t needed. I can design adjustments to damaged organs to avoid dangerous and overly-invasive transplant surgery—”

“I need a new heart,” the man said abruptly.

Yoongi’s mouth dropped open. His pencil stilled. “A new—a new heart?”

“Yes,” the man said. “You can do that, right?”

Yoongi gulped. He was used to designing mechanical organs for his androids, even going as far as designing mechanisms to re-inflate collapsed lungs or repair damaged kidneys in humans, but never someone’s heart. It had never been attempted; not by him, not by anyone. Because the consequences would be devastating.

He had no doubt he could do it. But he wasn’t sure if he should.

“That’s a large request,” he hedged. “Very risky.”

The man finally turned, pinning him in that cold, closed-off gaze. His voice was firm, but something in it wavered slightly. “If anyone can do it, it’s you.”

“Yeah, but—” Yoongi blew out a breath, sliding his magnifying headpiece completely off to run a hand through his hair. The man stared back at him, unwavering, and Yoongi’s brain whirred. The man clearly wanted this. And Yoongi could give it to him. Business was business. He didn’t have time to worry about people’s motives.

He sighed, picking up his pencil again. “What’s wrong with your current heart?”

“It’s broken,” the man said, glancing away. Yoongi frowned.

“Broken? I’ll need you to be a bit more specific, so I know what I’m dealing with here.”

“It’s just broken,” the man snapped. His eyes blew wide for a second before he cleared his throat and regained his composure. He attempted to soften his voice. But he couldn’t hide his eyes. “It’s just— it’s broken, okay? It… it hurts too much,” the man muttered, hands clenched at his sides.

“Okay,” Yoongi said placatingly, jotting it down, doing a quick mental sketch and calculating the cost of materials and, more importantly, the cost of his time and expertise. “It’ll be expensive.”

“I can pay,” the man said easily. His shoulders loosened, relief palpable. Yoongi nodded.

“Alright. And what’s your name?” he asked, pencil waiting. The man hesitated.

“Jimin.”

Yoongi waited. “Jimin…?”

“Just Jimin,” the man said with finality. Yoongi wrote it down. He couldn’t care less who his clients were. Besides, the secretive ones tended to have the deepest pockets.

Yoongi closed his notebook, tapping his pencil against the leather cover as he eyed the man. “Okay then, Jimin. Come back tomorrow. I’ve got a couple of projects I’m finishing up today, but I’ll clear my schedule and you can come in for measurements.”

“Great,” Jimin said quickly, almost desperately. “Tomorrow. Thank you.”

Yoongi nodded, and Jimin smiled gratefully before turning on his heel and striding out of the shop, the bell on the door tinkling as it swung closed behind him.

Yoongi sighed, brow furrowed. He had taken countless requests since he started this business, many of them odd, many of them dangerous. But none of them had tugged at his professional morality the way this one did. Something about it didn’t sit quite right with him. Maybe it had something to do with the hellfire he’d seen trying to hide between the icy walls of those desperate eyes. Did this man truly know what he was asking for? How could someone’s eyes be burning and frozen at the same time?

He headed back to his workbench, the severed automaton head staring up at him, eyes lifeless and empty. With a layer of ice, they would look just like Jimin’s.

─────

Ever since he was a child, Yoongi had been no stranger to the unfair dichotomy of life. He was born in the poorest, lowest province of Vaporis, a country split into a chain of floating islands separated by wealth, status, and intellectual prowess. The topmost of the six islands rested just above the lowest-laying clouds, a glittering paradise of towering skyscrapers and opulent fashion, lavish parties and libraries stacked with hoarded wisdom. The royal family lived in their gilded mansion, ruling from the clouds.

Yoongi hated them. He hated those wealthy, spoiled elites living lives of luxury while his own family starved, while the people in his smoke-clogged excuse of a city barely saw the sun and lived dull, dragging, emaciated lives. In theory, the splendors and riches of the top island were meant to trickle down to the others, to create a sense of balance and harmony among the six islands despite their classist separation. But by the time that trickle reached the lowest island, it was nothing but a drop. A drop that kept their economy grinding forward without allowing any sort of upward growth.

Rising in rank was nearly impossible. The royal family liked to preach the notion of upward mobility, promising that those who worked hard enough would be rewarded and promoted to higher islands and maybe, just maybe, someday even the topmost province. But Yoongi knew it was a load of bullshit, nothing but a tactic to convince the poor to work themselves into the ground for nothing but a naïve pipe dream that dangled like a carrot before their eyes until it led them to their graves. Barely anyone from his province ever made it to the fifth island, and never higher than the fourth. The only inhabitants of the topmost provinces were born with blue blood or were geniuses.

And thankfully, Yoongi happened to be a genius.

It was his ticket out of hell, and he cashed in every cent of it. At the age of ten, his intellectual prowess and prodigious knack for engineering earned him a coveted, unheard-of spot in a school on the fourth island. At age fifteen, his first popular invention catapulted him to the third island, where he was enrolled in a prestigious engineering school, allowing him to move higher once again. Now, at the age of twenty-three, he’d reached the upper island, the untouchable city where blood ran blue and rivers ran gold. He found himself living among the rich, famous, and royal, all thanks to his revolutionary invention: steam-powered androids.

He was vastly successful, with the royal family themselves requesting his services from time to time, but despite his rise to fame, he kept himself hidden. His workshop was shoved deep in an alley, barely marked and utterly uninviting, only found via word of mouth or a direct invitation. He took no apprentices, choosing to work alone. He’d fought tooth and nail to get where he was, sacrificing blood and tears until he’d thought he had nothing left to give. He’d earned his place.

But despite it all, he was still a kid from the lowest island. He still hated the rich socialites of the upper provinces, the people who sought his services and fed his coffers and praised him as a genius. He refused to be one of them. Some of his most ingenious, revolutionary designs were kept locked in his workshop safe, rolled in a leather-bound bundle and tucked out of sight. Part of him refused to sell even more of his soul to blue-blooded demons. His inventions were his; his passion for inventing was the only thing that made dealing with clients bearable.

His favorite part of the job was the unusual commissions, the sometimes shady, sometimes bizarre, always challenging requests that had Yoongi rolling up his sleeves and stretching his limits in ways that felt exhilarating. Not to mention, complex custom designs were charged the highest fees.

But as he packed up his workshop at the end of the day, Jimin’s request continued to roll around in his mind, annoying and insistent. He ended up locking the shopfront and sitting on a stool by the light of his furnace, shadows dancing as he made preliminary sketches of ventricles and valves, an intricate design already forming in his mind. And as the design took form, a familiar heat ignited in his veins. He wanted to do this commission. It was stimulating, perhaps the most challenging – and potentially dangerous – request of his career thus far. His fingers practically itched to start annealing metal and shaping it into an aorta, to begin tinkering with arteries and atriums and finding the perfect balance of steam and electrochemical power to keep the organ beating autonomously. So what if he was replacing someone’s perfectly functional heart with a mechanical one? The man, Jimin, clearly wanted it, and it meant more wealth from an elite going straight into Yoongi’s pockets. The moral repercussions were none of his concern.

─────

Jimin arrived mid-morning the next day, expression still guarded, eyes still unsettling.

“Hello,” he said, friendly yet detached. He was still elegant and put-together, seeming to make Yoongi’s workshop feel smaller. His presence drew the eye, a pink flower among scraps of metal.

Yoongi nodded in acknowledgement, gesturing for Jimin to come behind the counter and sit on a stool at one of his workbenches. He had tidied the shop that morning, but it was still chaotic, and Jimin’s gaze was blatantly curious as it dragged over half-constructed androids, chunks of metal and well-worn tools, the steaming coffee mug left sitting near the furnace. Jimin’s appraisal made him feel oddly exposed.

Jimin settled into the stool as Yoongi rummaged around for his notebook and measuring tools, feeling weird, a little self-conscious. Maybe it was the way Jimin’s gaze pierced right through him. So aloof, yet steady and observant. Or maybe it was the way he seemed to fit right in among the coppery metals and sleeping, lifeless androids, despite his peachy hair and fancy clothes.

“I’m just going to take some measurements,” Yoongi said, sticking his pencil behind his ear and wielding his measuring tape. “It might be best if you take your shirt off. Fewer adjustments down the road.”

Jimin nodded and proceeded to pull the garment over his head, unbothered. Yoongi blinked for a second, then got to work, ignoring the firm muscles beneath the measuring tape as he sized Jimin’s chest, ignoring the graceful dip of his collarbones and the alluring hollow of his clavicle as Yoongi painstakingly created a numerical map of Jimin’s torso. His anatomy was exquisite, elegant and well-proportioned, and it made Yoongi yearn to sketch something real, something that wasn’t an automaton, like he used to for his art classes in school.

It was quiet for a few minutes, surprisingly comfortable, just Jimin’s soft breathing and the scratch of Yoongi’s pencil coupled with the occasional whoosh and crackle of the furnace. As he made his final measurements, the nagging sense of disquiet grew louder in Yoongi’s brain. He sighed internally, furrowing his brow.

“So, just to be clear: there’s nothing physically wrong with your current heart?”

Jimin tensed beneath his hand. “I suppose that’s correct, yes,” he said after a moment.

Yoongi continued measuring. “So, when you say it’s broken, you mean… emotionally?”

Jimin was quiet for a long minute, his posture somewhat hostile.

“I only ask because it’s my job,” Yoongi prodded, moving the measuring tape to a section of Jimin’s ribcage. “I need to know exactly what I’m designing.”

Jimin pursed his lips, mouth turned down. He glanced away. “Fine. I’ve… experienced a lot of pain. Emotionally. And I thought it would get better with time, everyone says it will, but—but it’s been years, and it hurts just as much as it always has.” His fists clenched. “So yes, it’s broken. It’s fucked up and broken and I need it fixed, because I can’t live with it anymore. I just can’t.”

His voice was steady, but when Yoongi met his gaze, he nearly flinched; his eyes were positively ablaze, that frozen exterior melted to reveal the raw agony beneath, so intense that Yoongi couldn’t breathe for a moment from the searing heat of it. He swallowed and looked away.

“You know what you’re asking, right?” he said lowly. “To eliminate emotional pain, to replace something alive with something made of metal… it will take away everything. Not just the pain, but all emotion, all feeling.” He frowned, tapping his pencil against his notebook. “They’re all tied together. You can’t just pick and choose which emotions you get to feel. It’s all or nothing.” He forced himself to meet Jimin’s gaze again, but the anguished fire was gone, replaced by that cool, frigid exterior. “Are you sure that’s what you want?”

“Yes,” Jimin said without hesitation. “If that’s what it takes, then yes, I’m sure. Do what you have to do.”

Yoongi gave him a moment to rethink, to realize that what he was asking was a touch melodramatic and potentially psychotic, but Jimin showed no sign of changing his mind, so Yoongi nodded in acquiescence. Jimin’s fists slowly unclenched, his hostile tension receding.

“Thank you,” he said.

Yoongi just turned to his notes, his mind already formulating his measurements into a three-dimensional model in his mind, visualizing the musculature and veins beneath his skin, the metal blends he’ll need to make for the new organ to have the perfect resilience and elasticity to match Jimin’s proportions. His brain already reveled in the architectural and metaphysical challenges of such an intricate design.

“I did some preliminary sketches last night, so I’ll start working on metal compositions today and get things started. I’m assuming you want this done as, ah, quickly as possible?”

“You assume correctly.”

“Great.” He did a few mental tallies, taking into account the complexity of the project, cost of materials, and estimated hours in labor. He wrote a rather exorbitant figure at the bottom of the page and showed it to Jimin. “I have other commissions to work on as well, but I’ll make this my priority. Should take a few weeks to construct. I’d expect the total cost to be in this range, nothing less.”

Jimin didn’t bat an eyelash, simply nodding and slipping his shirt back on. “I’ll bring the first installment tomorrow.”

Yoongi tucked his pencil back behind his ear. “And you should know, this has never been done before. Human organ transplants, sure – though the success rate is limited. But never transplanting something entirely mechanical. I’m obligated to tell you that this will be quite dangerous.” Yoongi pursed his lips. “The operation itself will be very risky, but the emotional and physical side effects… there’s no telling what could manifest.”

“I understand,” Jimin said solemnly. He let out a deep breath. “But whatever happens will be worth it.”

Yoongi raised his brow at that. “If you change your mind, you’ll still need to pay me for parts and labor. Just saying.”

Jimin scoffed. “Trust me. I won’t change my mind.”

Yoongi shrugged. “Alright, then.”

He’d done his moral duty, and if Jimin was determined to cut out his own heart, who was he to stop him?

He grabbed his apron from a nearby chair and began rummaging through his scrap metal, thinking that perhaps something blended with copper could yield the fluidity and durability he’d need. He reached over to stoke the furnace when he noticed Jimin still sitting there, watching him, his expression vaguely intrigued, legs neatly crossed.

Yoongi paused. “You’re free to go,” he said. Jimin shrugged, propping his head on his palm.

“Mind if I stay?”

Yoongi blinked. “Er… what for?”

Jimin smiled delicately, sweet like cinnamon and sugar, tart like lemon. “I’d love to see the legendary Min Yoongi at work. Plus, I have no other engagements today. I’ll be bored.”

Yoongi narrowed his eyes. Jimin blinked at him charmingly.

“Fine,” Yoongi huffed. “But don’t talk while I work. And don’t ask any questions.”

“Fine by me,” Jimin replied, settling more comfortably in the stool, his posture still impeccable, not a hair out of place. Yoongi rolled his eyes and got to work.

─────

Yoongi hunched his shoulders against the evening chill as he turned into the alleyway, dark and uninviting compared to the glowing streetlights paving the main road. Cobblestones echoed beneath his shoes as he walked towards the far end, nodding to a couple of men smoking against the wall. A familiar tavern came into view at the far end of the alleyway. It was a rare gem in this faux utopia, one of the only hole-in-the-wall dives existing in the opulent upper island. It reminded Yoongi of home.

He opened the door and was enveloped by the typical raucous chatter of tipsy patrons and the smacking of pool sticks, a faint haze of smoke clouding the entrance, making the low lighting even dimmer. Yoongi wove his way through the tables until he reached the bar, taking his usual seat at the end. The bartender smiled upon noticing him, dimples popping as he leaned against the counter in front of Yoongi.

“Hey, Yoongs. The usual?”

Yoongi nodded, glancing around the bar as Namjoon poured him a glass of a deceptively clear liquid. The place seemed busier than usual.

“Where’s Jin?”

“Business trip. We got word of a new brewery on the fourth island, heard some good things. Jin went down to take a look. Should be back in a few days.”

Yoongi nodded, taking a sip of his drink. He appreciated that about Seokjin and Namjoon; they outsourced their products and almost exclusively bought their stock from lower islands, when possible. Yoongi respected them for it. Few, if any, of the top island’s wealthy inhabitants put in the effort to directly spread their wealth anywhere outside of their own city.

As the drink settled on his tongue, Yoongi grimaced, smacking his lips and looking at his glass with a frown.

“Jesus, what’s in this?”

Namjoon grinned sheepishly. “Tried a new recipe, this week. I thought honeydew moonshine might have a nice aftertaste.”

Yoongi shook his head, taking another sip, the alcohol searing down his throat and leaving a layer of cloying sweetness. “It’s strong, I’ll give you that.”

Namjoon winked. “That’s the goal.” He grabbed a rag and began wiping down the bar. “So, any new commissions lately? You already finished that upgraded android, right?”

Yoongi nodded, humming gratefully when Namjoon placed a bowl of assorted nuts in front of him.

“Yeah, the typical repairs and upgrades, and I’m working on a set of mechanical horses for that family on the outskirts of town. But I might delay that project for a bit.”

“Oh?” Namjoon asked, curiosity piqued. “Something new come up?”

Yoongi nodded, chewing on a nut and fiddling with his glass.

“A guy came in yesterday… asking for a mechanical heart.”

Namjoon’s rag paused against the counter, his eyes blown wide. “A heart?” His tone turned sympathetic. “What, is the guy sick or something? Congenital defect?”

Yoongi frowned and shook his head. “That’s the strangest part. He’s fine. He’s just… heartbroken.”

Namjoon’s mouth turned down. He tossed the rag over his shoulder and leaned against the counter. “Yoongi, you can’t seriously be considering—”

“I tried to talk him out of it. Trust me, the guy’s determined.” He took a swig of his drink. “Must have really been through some shit. But it’s not my place to ask.”

Namjoon clicked his tongue, looking dumfounded. “That’s heavy. He’s basically signing an emotional death warrant, he knows that, right?”

Yoongi rolled his eyes and shoved a handful of nuts into his mouth.

“The guy’s weird. He’s got that aura, you know, clearly born into wealth, maybe even royal. But his eyes… fuck, he’s got the most depressing eyes I’ve ever seen. It’s like hell itself is trapped in them.”

Namjoon pursed his lips thoughtfully. “Name?”

Yoongi grinned. “Ah, Joon, you know I’m more discreet than that. Besides, he didn’t give a last name. Could be anyone. I don’t really care.”

Namjoon rolled his eyes and took Yoongi’s glass, refilling it. “A heart though, wow. Never heard of that. Never heard of anyone psychotic enough to want one.”

Yoongi snorted. “Amen to that.”

“Think you can do it?”

Yoongi felt a zing of excitement just thinking about the sketches in his notebook and the metal he’d created that afternoon, nearly perfect.

“I know I can.”

Namjoon shook his head fondly. “And therein lies the problem. You can do anything. Even things that shouldn’t be done.”

He left to break up a yelling match at the pool tables, leaving Yoongi alone with his thoughts. Was Namjoon right? Would making this heart be a mistake?

Jimin’s eyes flashed across his vision, splintering with ice and ravaged by fire, burning with anguish and loss. Yoongi took a large gulp of his drink. It wasn’t his job to judge the morality and motives of his clients. He created masterpieces, technological feats, and profited from those who had ignored and stepped on him for his entire life. Feeling guilty would get him nowhere. Hesitation equated lost opportunities.

But as he downed his moonshine, he couldn’t help but think Jimin’s request was the saddest he’d ever received. A heart that wouldn’t hurt anymore. A life devoid of emotion; of joy, of humor, of excitement and satisfaction and empathy.

Was it really worth it? To eliminate all pain, was it worth living a life without anything resembling happiness? To live a life of nothing at all?

Yoongi finished his drink and ate his nuts, not quite brooding, but something uncomfortable swirling in his stomach. It wasn’t his job to decide. It wasn’t his decision to make. If Jimin wanted a new heart, Yoongi would make him one, and that’s all there was to it.

─────

When Jimin stopped by the next day, Yoongi expected him to drop the payment on the counter and be on his way. But he meandered back into the workshop and sat on the same stool as before, watching Yoongi work with those unsettling eyes.

Yoongi was tempted to kick him out. He worked alone and didn’t need distractions. But Jimin was quiet, not saying a word, and once Yoongi adjusted to the weight of his gaze, he found, surprisingly, he didn’t mind having another presence in the workshop. There was no animosity or judgement or even greedy curiosity from Jimin. He simply watched in calm fascination, leaving at the end of the day with a wave and a small smile. Odd, but tolerable.

He came back the next day. And the day after. And the next, and the next, each time sitting in silence, watching, observing, never saying a word. For some unfathomable reason, Yoongi didn’t have the heart to kick him out. Maybe the guy needed an escape from whatever shitty life was causing the constant turmoil in his eyes.

Jimin stayed silent, never interrupting, always leaving without a trace. But Yoongi was growing used to being watched while he worked, and even to having Jimin’s peachy hair and perfect doll features softening the ruggedness of his workshop. It made him feel unnerved and slightly disgruntled. Maybe he should add an observation fee to the bill.

The silence broke on the fifth day.

“Can I see the design?” Jimin asked, his voice soft in the quiet of the workshop.

Yoongi spared him a glare. Jimin tilted his head, blinking with stupidly long eyelashes. After a moment, Yoongi heaved a sigh, rolling his eyes as he stood from his bench and tossed his notebook over to Jimin. Yoongi tried to re-focus on the six-faced watch he was constructing, but his eyes kept flicking to Jimin, who turned the pages of Yoongi’s notebook with careful reverence, eyes scanning the calculations thoroughly, running his fingers over some of the sketches.

“Wow,” he breathed. “This is beautiful.” He flipped another page. “How long have you been inventing for?”

“I thought I said no questions,” Yoongi countered, glancing up and narrowing his eyes.

 Jimin remained unaffected. He turned another page, his brow furrowing slightly.

 “What’s all of this stuff about ‘soul energy’?”

“If you keep talking, I’ll kick you out.”

“What, afraid I’ll steal your trade secrets?” For once, Jimin’s eyes didn’t seem icy. They were odd, still unnerving, but now something glinted in them that seemed almost… teasing? Surely, Yoongi couldn’t be reading that correctly. Whatever it was, Jimin’s expression suddenly seemed softer, warmer, less careful.

Yoongi found himself chuckling. “Not likely.”

 Jimin smiled, just a teasing tilt of his lips. He pinned Yoongi in a firm stare.

“I’m paying for this invention. I’ll be carrying it for the rest of my life. Don’t you think I deserve to know the specifics?”

 Yoongi set down his tiny wrench and sighed, flipping the magnifying lens away from his eyes.

“Fine.”

Jimin sat a little straighter in his seat. Yoongi stood and stretched a bit, moving to his coffee-making apparatus in the corner of the workshop. He refilled his mug, then paused, glancing back at Jimin.

“Want one?” he asked as an afterthought. Jimin nodded.

“Thanks.”

Yoongi scrounged around for his backup mug, finding it hidden behind his oversized container of coffee beans, and filled it from the steaming jug, carefully making his way back to the workbenches and setting it in front of Jimin.

“Don’t ask for cream or sugar, I don’t have any.”

“Wasn’t going to,” Jimin replied, quirking a haughty eyebrow as he took a sip. Yoongi sat at the other end of the workbench, the notebook open between them.

“I’m not sure how much you know about soul energy,” he began, taking a gulp of his coffee, “but essentially, there’s more to humans than just anatomy. Our corporeal form is balanced by something more, something much harder to explain with science and rationality. Something I like to call ‘soul energy.’”

Jimin was listening attentively, taking dainty sips of coffee as he watched Yoongi’s fingers point to descriptions in the notebook.

“This ‘energy’ is extremely difficult to quantify, but it’s generally known that it concentrates in certain parts of the body. Soul energy specific to the brain controls conscious thought, while personality and emotion are centered in the heart. Removing an essential organ also removes its unique soul energy, bringing the soul elements out of balance with their corporeal form.” He looked at Jimin, who had set his mug on the benchtop. “When someone removes their living, human heart and replaces it with something foreign, they lose part of their soul. They can no longer experience emotion of any kind. Just blandness. The logical patterns of the brain’s soul energy will have no counterpoint. Even memories recalled by the brain will be stripped of their sense of nostalgia.” He watched Jimin closely. “Memories will no longer evoke emotion. Nothing but complacency.”

Jimin’s hands folded neatly in his lap, but not before Yoongi noticed their slight trembling. Jimin let out a fast breath.

“Good,” he said firmly. “That’s exactly what I want.”

Yoongi stared at him hard, forcing himself to look directly into those painful, walled-off eyes. He searched for a long time, Jimin simply looking back, burning shadows flickering behind a wall of ice. As if you could ever understand, they seemed to taunt. What would you know about pain?

Yoongi felt his own expression shutter closed, his jaw clenching tight. He downed the rest of his coffee.

“Alright, then,” he said. And that was that.

─────

Jimin didn’t come by the next day, nor the day after. Not that Yoongi cared. His workshop was a source of solitude, the place he felt most at home, a sanctuary embodying everything he’d struggled for, a culmination of his creativity and strength. A symbol of his hard-earned status. A middle finger to the Man. But he found himself disgruntled as he worked, eyes betraying him as they continually glanced at the empty stool, irritated to feel like the space was missing something. Someone.

He’d never had a problem being alone. In fact, he cherished the hours of solitude spent in his workshop, away from the sleaziness of a false heaven. But he had to admit… having someone around was a nice change of pace. A surprisingly welcome one. And he didn’t know how to feel about that.

Jimin came back after three days of absence. Yoongi heard the bell on the door, and then a familiar set of quiet, graceful footsteps approach the front counter and slip behind it. He heard a familiar rustle of expensive fabric as a body settled into the empty stool. He frowned when he heard a long, drawn-out sigh.

He turned.

Jimin sat with his usual perfect posture, legs neatly crossed, hands resting daintily upon one knee. Not a hair was out of place, not an imperfection to be seen, eyes still cool and reserved. But the bags under his eyes were a dark, bruised purple, the lines of his face etched with an exhaustion that seemed bone deep.

Still, he nodded at Yoongi politely, his lips twitching in a ghost of a smile. Yoongi nodded back. He turned back to the project on his workbench – a modification to a steam-powered irrigation system – but after a minute of blankly fiddling with his tools, he internally sighed and made his way to the coffee maker, pulling out the extra mug and filling it to the brim. He placed it in front of Jimin, who looked up in surprise. His lips spread into a slow, small smile.

“Thanks,” he murmured, pulling the coffee close, the rings on his fingers glinting as they wrapped around the mug. Yoongi noticed jewels embedded in the silver: rubies, emeralds, even an amethyst on one of his pinky rings.

Jimin noticed his gaze. “You like?”

Yoongi snorted. As if he would like such an unnecessary display of wealth, of ancient money and blue-blooded legacies.

“Nope,” he grumbled.

Jimin tilted his head, looking down at his rings. He waggled his fingers contemplatively.

“You want one?” he asked after a moment.

Yoongi blinked. Jimin was looking at him with no sign of mockery in his expression, just genuine curiosity, maybe even a touch of boredom.

“Not my style,” Yoongi muttered, moving back to his workbench. He heard Jimin hum, saw him examining his hands without interest.

“They are pretty gaudy, aren’t they?”

Yoongi picked up his tools and didn’t answer, and Jimin wrapped his fingers back around the mug, sipping his coffee as Yoongi got back to work. Time blurred into a comfortable haze, as it always did when Yoongi settled into a mindset of focused concentration. The workshop was mellow and quiet, just the tiny noises of Yoongi’s tinkering and some songbirds chirping near the window.

“I heard you’re from the lower islands,” Jimin suddenly said.

Yoongi’s hands stilled. His eyes narrowed. He’d been enjoying the firmly re-instated silence.

“I don’t think that’s any of your business,” he retorted, cranking his wrench with a touch more aggression. He could feel Jimin’s eyes on him but didn’t turn, focusing on forcing the thick metal bolts into submission. Jimin didn’t speak again until all of the bolts were firmly tightened and Yoongi set the wrench down, wiping the sweat from his brow.

“What are they like?” Jimin asked. Yoongi huffed and looked at him.

“Why do you want to know, huh? Need an ego boost?”

Jimin squared his shoulders, pursing his lips. “I just—I was born here, on the first island. I’ve never been allowed to travel lower than the second island, so I don’t know what the rest of Vaporis is like. I’ve heard rumors, sure, but I don’t know if they’re true.” His gaze was intense. “I want to know.”

Yoongi quirked an eyebrow in disinterest, “I’m not here to fuel your petty gossip.”

“That’s not—” Jimin chewed his lip. “How can I help people if nobody tells me anything? If I know nothing about those I’m supposed to help?”

Yoongi took off his leather gloves, finger by finger, mind whirling. “So that’s what it is. You’re looking for a new charity to help you sleep at night.”

The words felt bitter on his tongue. He could hear their pridefulness, but Yoongi didn’t like talking about his life on the lower islands, not when he’d worked so hard to leave it behind. Sure, he sent money to certain old friends trapped in the lowest provinces, but he didn’t let his thoughts linger there. He didn’t try to imagine their lives in those destitute cities, or how they would use the money, or whether they missed him, envied him, idolized him. He didn’t let himself think about it, because living in the past never helped anyone.

But if Jimin was offering to help them…

“Please, Yoongi.” The vulnerability in Jimin’s voice made Yoongi’s head snap up. “Can’t you tell me something? Even just a little bit?”

Yoongi pursed his lips into a thin line, crossing his arms. After a moment of deliberation, he reluctantly dragged his stool over to Jimin’s workbench, sitting down at the farthest corner.

“What do you want to know?” he muttered.

Jimin’s eyes lit up, just a brief flare, but his voice was gentle and carefully controlled. “Perhaps where you grew up? What it was like?”

Yoongi chuckled humorlessly, running a hand through his hair.

“Well, I grew up all over the place. But I was born on the lowest island, the poorest province.”

He took a slow breath, squaring his shoulders as he unearthed sharp, dusty memories.

“Everyone I knew was destitute. Dirt poor. Barely enough money to keep food on the table, a roof over their heads, and wood in the fireplace to last the winter. Most people went without. Families helped each other, but my family wasn’t much of a family. From a very young age, I knew the only person in this world I could count on was myself.”

He stared down at his hands, pulling the pencil from behind his ear to tumble it rhythmically between his fingers.

“Everything always felt dark. The sun always seemed watery, the sky so pale you could barely tell it was blue. Life itself seemed dark. A lot of people turned to drugs; there’s no way anyone could afford them, but we all knew the government was supplying them, real dirty shit meant to get people stuck. But people would do anything for an escape.” He felt Jimin’s gaze but didn’t look up from his hands. “As you know, it’s nearly impossible to be promoted to a higher island. Everyone loved to dream of it, to create fantasies of someday leaving the dirt and poverty behind and longing for a place where life wouldn’t be as hard. But we all know it was a load of shit. People on the lower islands die of three things: starvation, overdose, and broken spirits. It’s a fate we all see coming from the moment we're born.

“But I was one of the lucky ones.

“Shit was always breaking in my house as a kid –the crappy roof, our weak excuse of a stove, the smoke ventilation pipe on the firepit – so I taught myself how to fix them, and then, how to fortify and improve them. I’d spend hours hunting through junkyards for scraps of metal and used tools, tinkering on my own projects and bringing them to my teachers on the one day a week the government allotted as a school day. Thankfully, one of my teachers saw something in me. She filed a request for an aptitude test, and I passed with flying marks. One of the highest scores the country had ever seen, or so I was told.

“That was my ticket out. When I turned ten, they transferred me to a school on the fourth island. Things were better there; I was well-fed for the first time in my life, with a roof over my head and a warm bed at night. Things were minimal and frugal, with no luxuries to speak of, but compared to life on the sixth island, it felt like heaven.”

Jimin swallowed loudly, and Yoongi looked up from his hands to find Jimin’s eyes burning in a new way, something that made Yoongi clear his throat and squirm uncomfortably.

“I don’t know why I’m telling you any of this.” He looked back down, rolling the pencil between his fingers. “But I guess if you can help them, in any way, I’d be remiss if I kept it to myself.”

Jimin’s hand suddenly covered his own, the pencil stilling. Bejeweled silver rings pressed against his hand, Jimin’s skin buttery soft and warm. Yoongi looked up, startled.

“Thank you. For telling me,” Jimin said. Yoongi nodded and pulled his hand away, standing and returning to his own bench. He felt strangely unnerved, Jimin’s gentle touch still tangible on his skin.

They settled into a pensive kind of quiet. Jimin said nothing more, and Yoongi’s mind reeled with flashes of old memories kept buried, dark and bitter. So lost in his own head, he didn’t notice Jimin quietly slip away, not even the bell above the door jarring him from his thoughts.

He only noticed when he finished his project and stood to close up shop, and part of him was thankful for the space to be alone. Thinking about his childhood always left a cloud over his head. He’d definitely be heading straight to the tavern for a strong drink of Namjoon’s homemade moonshine. And Seokjin should be back; his terrible jokes would certainly lift Yoongi’s spirits.

As he tidied the workshop and prepared to leave, something glittery caught the light, out of place, making him pause. He walked closer to Jimin’s stool and found one of his rings quietly sitting on the workbench, an unengraved band of pure silver inlaid with three identical chunks of garnet, glittering faintly in the glow from the furnace.

Yoongi’s throat suddenly felt tight. He carefully picked up the ring, solid and smooth in his hand. He brought it into the light, watching the way the gemstones’ facets seemed to create their own brilliance. He quickly set it back on the benchtop, walking away without a second glance.

─────

The ring was still there when Yoongi arrived the next morning. He stared at it for a long moment, the garnets resplendent in the bright morning sunlight streaming through the workshop windows, but he quickly shook his head and walked past, studiously ignoring it as he fired up his coffee machine and prepared an extra strong batch. When it finished, he poured himself a hot mug and inhaled the steam, taking the first reverent sip of the morning, smacking his lips in satisfaction.

He turned, and the ring was still there. Just sitting there. Sparkly and opulent with stupidly shiny silver and those cute, completely ostentatious chunks of garnet.

Yoongi huffed at it, glancing away and sipping his coffee. He glanced back. He pursed his lips.

He slowly slunk towards the table. He set his mug on the bench and stared down at the ring. Narrowed his eyes at it. As if of their own volition, his fingers reached out, grabbing the ring and sliding it slowly onto the middle finger of his right hand. The silver was smooth and cool against his skin, but in a comforting sort of way. He tilted his hand, watching the garnets glimmer. He hummed to himself. He didn’t care for jewelry; it was pointless, excessive, egotistical. But he couldn’t deny he that liked the way this ring made him feel.

The bell above the door suddenly tinkled and Yoongi hastily tried to tug the ring off, cursing under his breath as he heard footsteps approaching and the ring seemed determined to stay jammed on his finger. He shoved his hand in his pocket just as Jimin rounded the corner, but not quite in time; Jimin glanced at his hastily-pocketed hand, then the empty benchtop, and he laughed. It was the first real laugh Yoongi had ever heard from him, shimmering like fairy bells and stardust and the breathtaking glow of fresh snowfall in the moonlight. It made Yoongi feel like sunlight was warming him from the inside out. He felt his own lips tilt upwards, even as his ears heated with embarrassment.

“Good morning,” Jimin giggled once his laughter subsided.

He stepped forward and casually pulled Yoongi’s hand from his pocket. His delicate fingers re-adjusted the ring on Yoongi’s, appraising it for a moment.

“I thought it would suit you,” he said with a smile, looking up at Yoongi, the coldness of his eyes tempered by something gentle and warm, faint yet unmistakable. It took Yoongi off guard and he blinked for a moment, his brow furrowing.

Jimin released his hand and stepped back, the warmth in his gaze fading just as quickly as it had arrived.

“And it does. You should keep it,” he said, settling into his usual stool. “I certainly have no use for it.”

“I don’t wear jewelry,” Yoongi mumbled, twisting the ring off and slipping it into his pocket. Jimin shrugged.

“Sell it then. I don’t care.” 

Yoongi fired up his furnace and tied his leather apron around his waist, getting down to business. “I’ve had a lot of time-sensitive commissions lately, so progress on your heart has been a bit slow,” he admitted, “but it will be my primary focus this week.”

Jimin slid into his stool with comfortable familiarity. “I’m happy to wait as long as necessary.”

Yoongi pulled out the heart’s test components he’d been tinkering with. The metal he had engineered was magnificently flexible, but he worried about its durability; it seemed to be working fine as a prototype, but he knew the final product might need something more. He let the back of his brain mull it over as he strapped on his magnifying lens and pulled out his tiny pliers and smallest blowtorch, strapping a protective metal guard atop his head to pull down and shield his face as needed.

He worked for a while, sunlight streaming through the windows and falling across the table. He knew Jimin was watching him intently, but his gaze no longer filled Yoongi with unease. On the contrary, he now found its weight soothing, a calm, focused presence that settled his mind rather than distracted him.

After nearly an hour of shaping scraps of thin metal into tiny gear systems and tubes and chambers, he sat back, pulling off the mask with a groan and shaking out his hand. He ruffled his hair and stood.

“Coffee?” he asked. Jimin hummed in assent. Yoongi made his way to the machine, thankful he’d brewed a strong batch that morning. The intricate inner workings of the heart were already straining his eyes and wrists.

“Do you miss anything about the lower islands?” Jimin asked quietly.

Yoongi froze for a moment, his back tensing. He filled the two mugs and turned, avoiding Jimin’s gaze as he placed a mug in front of him.

“I miss my friends,” Yoongi murmured, feeling vulnerable with sunlight illuminating his face and highlighting the gentleness lingering in Jimin’s eyes. “I didn’t have many. But they made life worth living when I felt like giving up.”

Jimin wrapped his hands around the mug, pulling it close, breathing in the warmth. “Will you tell me about them?”

And despite himself, Yoongi did. He told Jimin about Taehyung, his first friend, the only beautiful thing on that godforsaken sixth island. The youngest of five children, Taehyung was a sweet, scrawny kid one year his junior, and Yoongi had taken him under his wing since Tae was barely more than a toddler. He used to slip Taehyung his own lunch at school, knowing that food in the Kim household was especially scarce, and he made a habit of fixing up their family’s beaten-down house as frequently as he did his own. Tae’s mom used to give him a kiss on the cheek as thanks, and sometimes, as a rare treat, she would slip a lemon lozenge into his pocket.

Taehyung was the one who had insisted Yoongi show his inventions to his teachers. Yoongi still remembers how Tae had screamed in excitement when he showed him his acceptance letter to the school on the fourth island, yet how his eyes had been red-rimmed and puffy when they met at school the next day. It was a memory that carried Yoongi through his darkest days; the warmth of Tae’s boxy smile, the way he’d hugged Yoongi tight, the utter adoration and pride shining in his eyes, the way he’d hidden his bittersweet tears and given Yoongi nothing but support, even on the day they said goodbye. It was a memory that Yoongi cherished, but didn’t allow himself to relive very often.

He didn’t tell Jimin that Taehyung had died in a mining accident four years ago. That Yoongi sent money home to Tae’s mother every month.

And once the memories started flowing, they couldn’t seem to stop. He told Jimin about Hoseok, his best – and only – friend in engineering school. Hoseok was from the fifth island, and as the only two lower-island kids in an upper-island school, they stuck together, dreaming of the day they’d reach the top and spit their success in the faces of those who tried to stamp them down. Hoseok was vibrant, bright like the sun, full of kindness and warmth despite his childhood circumstances, and Yoongi had fallen into something like love.

Yoongi scored perfect marks, top of his class, with Hoseok always settling somewhere in the top ten, and it made them despised, hated, the subjects of underhanded bullying and sabotage attempts, harsh names and slurs thrown at them like rocks. But with Hoseok by his side, none of it mattered. He and Hoseok were inseparable.

Until they weren’t.

A particularly cruel-hearted bully had framed Hoseok for vandalizing the school dorms, and the administration hadn’t even hesitated, always looking for excuses to send lower-island trash back where they came from. They had expelled Hoseok immediately, shoving him and his meager belongings onto the first aerial transport ship back to the fifth island.

Yoongi hadn’t found out in time to say goodbye. And just like that, Hoseok was gone. Yoongi was alone, yet again, anger and bitterness building and building until he felt he would snap.

He channeled every ounce of his energy into inventing. He spent every waking moment in his tiny engineering studio on campus, sometimes sleeping on the floor, sometimes forgetting to eat, never forgetting that this was his only shot, had been Hoseok’s only shot. He planned to fight tooth and nail to get the top, where he knew he deserved to be.

He began explored concepts not covered in his classes, poring over rare, faded manuscripts left abandoned by modern scientists. He learned about elements of the soul, a concept few understood with enough depth to put to practical use, and Yoongi knew the information was a game changer. By building on this ancient, overlooked knowledge, he could create things the world had never seen. Not just steam-powered automatons, but steam-powered androids.

Manipulating soul energy took great skill, and it was not easily tamed, perhaps not meant to be tamed. Yoongi learned its limits. He infused just a touch of soul energy into his androids to give them personalities, intelligence, even a shadow of what could be considered emotion, but he never gave them consciousness, rational and individualized thought, an emotional understanding of the political world around them. He saw the dangers of manipulating these energies in dark or careless ways -- yet another reason why he chose to work alone and keep the specifics of his research private. He would build a name for himself that history books could never erase, invent machines that would transform society, wave his calloused hands under the noses of blue-blooded aristocrats and show them that class did not determine his worth, that he was better than them despite their money and status.

And now, his androids were the beginning of a new scientific wave. His work with soul energy was groundbreaking. After graduating from engineering school, he sent a prototype of one of his androids to the palace and was immediately commissioned for a mass order. And as a result, he earned his spot in the top island. He used the commission money to open his workshop, and now his androids could be found in every household on the upper islands, his name legendary, even renowned, despite his young age and low birth status.

He didn’t tell Jimin that every android he made had Hoseok’s initials carved into the inner breastplate.

He took the final sip of his coffee, now-cold and strong, letting the bitter notes swirl on his tongue. It felt… freeing, to talk about his past. As if by uncorking the bottle, he’d relieved some of the pressure, and the memories now pressed against his subconscious with less insistence. His chest felt lighter, if only slightly. Namjoon and Seokjin knew parts of his past, but Yoongi kept most of it squared away, and they knew not to ask. But Jimin was a near stranger, barely an acquaintance, just a rich elite born into a life of luxury, and somehow, that fact made it easier to relive the memories. Jimin didn’t look at him with pity and patronization and all of the things Yoongi didn’t want; Jimin looked at him with those calm eyes tinged with agony, and it felt like Yoongi was telling his story to someone who understood -- maybe not the specifics of his life, but the undercurrent of pain that was ever-present, the way Yoongi’s chest sometimes throbbed late at night as he tossed and turned and stared at a dark ceiling painted with memories.

Jimin looked down. He tapped a slow finger against his mug, chewing his lip. “Thank you for telling me,” he said quietly. “You didn’t have to.” He looked up, locking eyes with Yoongi, his gaze piercing. “I hope it’s not trite of me to say this, but… I’m glad you’re here, Yoongi. You deserve it.”

Yoongi didn’t blink. “I know,” he said.

─────

Jimin kept coming back, day after day; sometimes for just an hour, sometimes for an entire afternoon; sometimes saying nothing, sometimes asking Yoongi questions that tugged at the sharpness in his chest, but he found himself answering, nonetheless. He began to look forward to the tinkling of the bell above the door and Jimin’s soft “hello” as he settled into his stool. His face was no longer that of a stranger, his eyes no longer as unreadable as they had once seemed, and when Jimin laughed -- which grew more and more frequent -- Yoongi always felt his own lips curve in response and something warm flutter in his chest. But when the laughter faded, melancholy would inevitably take its place.

“What’s the point of pain?” Jimin asked one day.

His stool had migrated to the edge of Yoongi’s primary workbench. His head rested on his palm as he watched Yoongi slowly construct the delicate pieces of his artificial heart.

“Well, scientifically-speaking, soul energy is all about balance; every emotion must have its counterpart, so—”

“No, I mean what’s the point,” Jimin reiterated. “Why must we exist in a world where pain is a given, a fact of life? What’s the damn point?”

Yoongi glanced up; Jimin’s tone was casual, but he was burning, ash settling in his gaze, eyes hardening as flames raged all-consumingly. Yoongi slowly set down his pliers, choosing his words carefully.

“Pain… is like fire, I suppose,” he said quietly, staring into the glow of his forge. “It has the power to shape us, change us, even strengthen us. But it also wields the power to destroy us. To melt us into nothing but a shell of what we once were.” Yoongi pursed his lips. “But if you survive, you emerge stronger than before.”

Jimin snorted. “What, like a phoenix from the ashes?” He, too, was staring into the furnace, its fiery glow reflected in his pupils. “That’s a load of bullshit.”

His jaw was clenched into a sharp profile, his mouth tight and brow heavy.

“Maybe,” Yoongi acquiesced. “But it’s made me who I am.”

He fidgeted with his sleeve, picking at a thread and watching it steadily unravel.

“I’ve never known life without pain. My mother abandoned me after I was born. My father was an addict who was distant when high, cruel when sober. The only love I’ve ever known was from Hoseok and Taehyung, and they—” Yoongi swallowed and cleared his throat. “My life has been shit. Fucking shit, since the day I was born.” He pulled the thread aggressively and it snapped in his hand, a white imprint gouged into his fingers. “But I didn’t let it consume me. I let it fuel me. And now I’m here, in my own workshop, with my own money, my inventions ruling the world.” His hand clenched around the thread. “The pain never leaves. But it brought me here. And now, life still sucks, but it doesn’t feel quite as shitty as before.”

Jimin was quiet. Something ticked in his jaw, hands twisted in his lap. He let out a long, low breath, closing his eyes. When he opened them, they were jagged, but soft in the middle, glazed with bittersweet honey as he looked at Yoongi with something akin to solidarity. Yoongi felt a tug in his chest; a new bond forged between them, still hot from the flames. He didn’t look away. Neither did Jimin. For the first time, Yoongi felt as though he wasn’t shouldering his pain alone.

“It’s still bullshit,” Jimin eventually muttered. Yoongi smiled, small and sardonic.

“Yeah,” he said. “It really is.”

─────

Something was building between them. It was subtle, like waves lapping the shore, gentle and steady, but each day, Yoongi felt the current growing stronger, powerful and vast and churning beneath the surface. What had begun as a wary acquaintanceship had shifted into something like friendship. Yoongi enjoyed Jimin’s company, and he assumed the feeling was mutual. Why else would Jimin show up day after day and ask Yoongi questions that made him feel vulnerable? Why would he offer these sweet, hidden smiles that made Yoongi feel like he was being blessed with something special, something private, just for the two of them?

Jimin’s gaze suddenly felt intense in an entirely new way. Yoongi could feel its touch as he worked, searing against his skin. He refused to let it unravel him, willing his pulse to stop thumping in his ears at the sound of Jimin’s low breathing, the tinkle of his silver rings against his coffee mug, the wispy cadence of his voice when he’d suddenly break the silence. There was tension, and Yoongi couldn’t pinpoint where it had come from or when it had arrived, but suddenly, the sound of the bell above the door sent his heart sprinting and his pulse fluttering. The sight of Jimin’s smile made something ache in Yoongi’s stomach. He’d taken to wearing his silver garnet ring just to see the way Jimin’s gaze lingered on his hands, to feel his attention like a balm on his skin.

Yoongi recognized the signs of attraction, but he had no intention of indulging in them. Jimin was a client, a blue-blooded elite, beautiful and rich and born into a life of ease; everything Yoongi had spent his entire life despising. And to Jimin, Yoongi was likely nothing but a change of pace. A fresh new face from the dredges of the lower islands, something to spice up Jimin’s privileged existence until he got bored again.

But those thoughts didn’t sit right, to Yoongi. Jimin never looked at him with detestation and pitying contempt, an expression Yoongi had nearly grown immune to by the time he’d finished engineering school on the upper islands. Instead, he watched Yoongi with respect, the initial coldness of his eyes seeming to melt in the light of the forge, soft and kind, yet still filled with those flickering, burning flames. Yoongi wished he could smother them, douse them once and for all and replace them with something lovely and pure. But he didn’t want to get burned. Yoongi had enough of his own pain to deal with.

One night at the tavern, he sidled up to the bar to find Seokjin behind the counter.

“Hey, stranger,” Seokjin smirked. He’d started filling a mug with Yoongi’s favorite ale the moment he stepped inside, and he slid it over with a wink. Yoongi took it gratefully. Seokjin glanced down at his hands. “Nice ring,” he said, brow raised.

Yoongi felt heat flood up his neck. Shoot. He’d forgotten to take it off.

“It’s nothing,” he said, taking a gulp of ale. Seokjin’s brow shot higher, touching his hairline.

“Doesn’t look like nothing.”

Yoongi glowered, but Seokjin only grinned wider. He set both elbows on the counter and leaned in conspiratorially, eyes sparkling.

“Spill.”

Yoongi rolled his eyes. “I told you, it’s nothing. Just a gift from a client.”

“Since when do you get gifts from clients?” Seokjin’s eyes narrowed. “And, a more important question: why haven’t you sold it yet? It looks expensive. And you hate jewelry.”

Yoongi frowned. “I never said I hate it,” he mumbled. Seokjin looked utterly unconvinced. Yoongi sighed. “Fine. I’ve got a client who likes to hang around my workshop and annoy me by asking inappropriate personal questions.” It wasn’t exactly a lie, but neither was it the truth. “He gave me the ring and I—uh, haven’t gotten around to selling it, yet.”

Seokjin’s expression was baffled. “Wait, you’re letting someone hang around your workshop? You won’t even let Namjoon in there, let alone a stranger.”

“He’s—he’s not a stranger,” Yoongi muttered. Seokjin cocked his head, one eyebrow lifting. His mouth quirked into a cat-like smile. Yoongi felt exposed.

“Oh, hey Yoongs!” Namjoon suddenly called from across the bar, appearing over Seokjin’s shoulder. He looked down. “What’s with the ring?”

Yoongi groaned. “Can we stop talking about the damn thing?”

He took a long chug of ale to hide the heat he could feel spreading to his cheeks, but Seokjin had a sharp eye. He looked absolutely enthralled.

“Yoongi, do you have a suitor?”

Yoongi choked on his drink. “No!” he spluttered, coughing around the word. “It’s not like that.”

“Isn’t it?” Seokjin shot back, his grin turning smug as Yoongi’s tell-tale blush spread all the way to his ears.

“No, seriously he’s just a—an acquaintance.”

Namjoon was glancing between the ring and Yoongi’s furious blush in confusion, but Seokjin leaned forward, eyes glinting, voice gleeful.

“You’re a big fat liar, Min Yoongi,” he said. Yoongi fidgeted in his seat, and Seokjin couldn’t keep the grin off his face. “Who is he? I wanna know this special acquaintance who managed to break through your ‘fuck the upper island’ mantra.”

Yoongi glared, but Namjoon interjected. “He doesn’t know his name.”

Seokjin scoffed, rolling his eyes. “Who do you take me for, an idiot? Of course he knows his name.” He looked at his watch, a personalized gift that Yoongi was strongly considering taking back right about now. “C’mon, Min, I don’t have all night. I want a name.”

“Why are we friends again?” Yoongi seethed. Seokjin didn’t bat an eyelash, just waited patiently. Yoongi sighed in defeat.

“Jimin,” he finally muttered. “His name is Jimin.”

Saying it out loud suddenly made things feel too real, the silver ring hot against his finger, the name unbearably sweet on his tongue. Seokjin leaned back, sighing in disappointment.

“There’s hundreds of Jimins on this island,” he pouted, crossing his arms. “That’s entirely unhelpful.”  

“Good,” Yoongi retorted. He twisted the ring around his finger absentmindedly, needing the motion. This conversation had flooded his chest with feelings that he staunchly refused to dwell on. “He’s not important, anyway.”

Seokjin’s gaze softened, seeing right through him, as he always had.

“No,” Seokjin said gently. “I think he is.”

─────

An excited crowd surrounded Yoongi on all sides, brightly-colored garments and ludicrous hats on full display, a plethora of golden flags and banners emblazoned with the royal crest dripping from every lamp post and shop window. Miniature versions waved in the frantic hands of healthy children with cherub cheeks and untroubled smiles. Yoongi felt his lip curl.

“Why did I let you drag me out here?” he complained.

“Because it’s King’s Day,” Namjoon replied, voice slightly raised over the chattering of the crowd. “It’s literally illegal to not attend the royal parade.”

Yoongi rolled his eyes and Seokjin grinned, offering some of his King’s Day caramel corn and winking when Yoongi took a heaping handful.

“This is your first time seeing the Prince, huh?” Seokjin said through a mouthful of the snack. “Wasn’t he too ill to attend the ceremony, last year?”

“Yeah, I guess so,” Yoongi shrugged. He hadn’t paid very close attention to last’s years ostentatious ceremony. The royal family could go fuck themselves, for all he cared.

Namjoon frowned. “I hope the Prince is doing better. Rumor has it, he hasn’t been adjusting well.”

“Adjusting?”

Seokjin groaned. “Seriously, Yoongi, it’s like you don’t even try to keep up on Vaporis gossip.”

He ignored Yoongi’s dull glare and cleared his throat, preparing to spill the details. But before he could start, he was cut off by a sudden trumpet fanfare. The gates to the royal palace swung open at the far end of the road and the crowd roared, waving their banners with renewed energy. Expensive jewelry dripped from their necks, swung from their ears, and glittered on their wrists and fingers, their gold-threaded garments catching the light. Yoongi wondered how many diamond bracelets he could steal before anyone noticed.

He crossed his arms and glowered, even when Seokjin warningly nudged him on the shoulder. Grudgingly, he watched the royal procession trudge towards them; giant, steam-powered floats adorned in frivolous bells and whistles that made the children scream in delight, young girls on ponies with flowers woven into their hair and haughty court jesters leading the parade. Some of Yoongi’s own androids manned the crowd as stern-faced security guards. Near the rear of the procession, the royal family perched upon a seated carriage pulled by two of Yoongi’s mechanical horses, their metallic limbs gleaming in the sunlight. The carriage was outfitted in pure gold. The lavishness of the whole affair made Yoongi scoff.

And yet, as the royal carriage crept closer, he couldn’t help but be curious. He wouldn’t mind a glimpse of the elusive Prince, but the crowd was in the way. Irritated, Yoongi craned his neck around the nearest person and caught a glimpse of a crown, a horse, a shock of peachy pink hair, and then the carriage fully pulled into view.

Time seemed to slow. Yoongi felt his jaw drop and eyes blow wide, a sensation like being doused with cold water making him gasp. Because there, sitting on the carriage next to the King, was Jimin.

Park Jimin, the crown prince of Vaporis

He was dressed in garments more ostentatiously fancy than the ones he usually wore to visit Yoongi, and a pure gold crown rested atop his head, encrusted in a rainbow of jewels. He waved at the crowd, his smile bright and endearing, but even from a distance, Yoongi could see the cold shutters in his eyes, the way his smile was careful and forced. Things only someone who knew him well would notice.

Yoongi gaped for a moment, then ducked out of view, suddenly not wanting to look any longer.

“It’s him!” he hissed, frantically tugging on Namjoon’s sleeve.

Namjoon frowned. “What? Who?”

“My client,” Yoongi said, and he could hear something weird trembling in his own voice. Namjoon’s brow furrowed deeper in confusion before his eyes widened into saucers. Seokjin dropped his carton of caramel corn.

“Holy shit,” he breathed.

Namjoon’s mouth opened and closed like a fish. “How—you—your client is Prince Jimin?” he nearly screeched. Yoongi quickly shushed him.

“Jesus, Namjoon, tell the whole island, why don’t you?” The royal carriage moved past, a final flash of Jimin’s pink hair and damning crown disappearing from view.

The three of them watched the remaining parade in stunned silence. Yoongi could practically hear Namjoon’s brain churning, and Seokjin kept blinking in alarmingly rapid succession. When the last of the floats and royal guards passed and the crowd began to disperse towards the city square, Seokjin turned, firmly grabbing both Yoongi and Namjoon by a wrist.

“We’re discussing this. Now.”

“But the speeches—”

“Now,” he reiterated, cutting off Namjoon’s words and dragging them against the flow of the crowd until they left the festivities behind.

──

He led them to the tavern, its doors still locked to the general public as Seokjin poured three glasses of moonshine. Namjoon sat next to Yoongi at one of the round tables, his expression pensive and serious, and Seokjin joined them after a moment, setting a glass before each of them and setting the entire bottle of moonshine on the table. Yoongi frowned, glancing between them.

“Why are you guys acting like somebody died?”

Namjoon blanched, and Seokjin’s eyes widened.

“You really haven’t heard anything about the royal family? About Prince Jimin?”

Yoongi sighed, growing irritated. “Yes, Seokjin, we’ve established this. I don’t get out much. I don’t talk to people unless I have to.”

Seokjin nodded, then grabbed his drink and sculled it in one go. He stared down at the glass, running his finger along the rim.

“I’m not actually sure where to start,” he admitted. His voice was quiet, almost hesitant. Yoongi straightened in his chair. “It’s a hard story to tell.”

Namjoon nodded in agreement, taking his own shot of moonshine, swallowing it loudly. He turned to Yoongi.

“You only saw two people atop that carriage, today, but the royal family used to be bigger. Twice as big, to be precise,” Namjoon started, refilling his and Seokjin’s glasses as he spoke. “The Queen – Jimin’s mother – died when he was young, about ten years old.”

He looked to Seokjin, who nodded in confirmation. “The Queen was beloved,” Seokjin added with a sigh. “She was beautiful, kind, intelligent, everything a queen should be. The entire island was devastated when she passed.” He looked to Yoongi. “I’m surprised you never heard.”

“News doesn’t reach the lower islands,” Yoongi said. “Wouldn’t want the peasants getting any ideas.”

Namjoon grimaced at his tone but continued. “The two young Princes, Jimin and Jungkook, took their mother’s death particularly hard. They grew very close. I think they relied on each other. The King, however, turned to alcohol to numb his loss, and there were rumors that life in the palace became dark and cold without the Queen. At public appearances, many swore the Princes had worrisome bruises, barely concealed by sleeves and powders.” Namjoon pursed his lips, and Yoongi felt something uncomfortable twist in his stomach. “The two Princes were inseparable. Until—”

Namjoon swallowed, then downed his glass again.

“Until two years ago,” Seokjin finished somberly, “when Prince Jungkook took his own life.”

Yoongi felt something punch his chest, hard and brutal. His fingers tightened around his glass.

“Prince Jimin wasn’t seen for an entire month after the funeral,” Seokjin continued. The air suddenly felt heavy. “There were rumors he’d died, too. He keeps to himself, only appearing for official royal events, but I’ve heard he frequently falls ill, locking himself in his room for days at a time.”

Yoongi stared down at the table, acid swirling in his stomach, harsh and uncomfortable.

“And now…” Seokjin shook his head. Namjoon bit his lip, expression pinched.

“He’s been through a lot. I don’t think he’s been coping very well.”

Yoongi’s brain felt hollow, but his heart was beating out of control, raw and pulsing. The fire in Jimin’s eyes suddenly made sense. He had been suffering, just as Yoongi suffered. They were more alike than he ever imagined.

“A prince,” he muttered, mind reeling as he stared down at the silver garnet ring, conspicuous on his middle finger. “Of all people, he had to be a fucking prince.”

Seokjin narrowed his eyes, leaning back in his chair with a carefully composed expression but a hard set to his jaw.

“You know, Yoongi, not everyone’s life up here is sunshine and rainbows,” he said, low and sharp. “You may think we’re just a bunch of rich, entitled assholes – and you’re not wrong, in many cases – but we go through shit, too. Wealth doesn’t make you immune to suffering.” He quickly emptied his glass, slammed it back on the table, and abruptly stood, his chair screeching against the floor. “Maybe if you took that fucking chip off your shoulder every now and then, you’d have a shred of empathy for the people around you.”

Seokjin strode off, disappearing up the back stairs that led to his and Namjoon’s quarters. The tavern echoed when he slammed the door behind him. Namjoon sighed, rubbing his eyes. Yoongi finally swallowed down his moonshine, letting it burn the walls of his throat, sharp and stinging, just like his pride, just like his heart.

Seokjin had it all wrong. Yoongi did feel empathy – so much, his chest felt tight – and that was the problem. He cared about Jimin. He felt betrayed that Jimin had kept his identity hidden. But Yoongi couldn’t blame him. He didn’t know Jimin, only the parts that he’d been shown, but he hated the knowledge that was suffering. It was his own fault for being vulnerable, for forgetting that as he opened himself up, Jimin remained silent, just those quietly burning eyes. But the way Jimin looked at him felt real. The way he watched Yoongi with a new kind of intensity that made his ears redden and pulse race was real. It had to be. Or at least, so he’d thought.

“Fuck,” Yoongi muttered, scrubbing his hands over his face. Namjoon refilled his glass.

“You told me your client was heartbroken,” he said gently. “Looks like it wasn’t in quite the way you thought.”

Yoongi let out a harsh breath, fingers twisting at his ring in agitation. A cocktail of emotions pulsed through his veins with every heartbeat.

“This is so fucked up,” he said, annoyed at the way his voice cracked. “I can’t believe he didn’t tell me.”

“Can you blame him?” Namjoon asked. Yoongi avoided his gaze, giving his ring a particularly burning twist.

“Yes,” he mumbled. “He’s—we—he’s more than just a client, to me,” he practically whispered. Namjoon’s brow furrowed.

“Yoongi—”

“I need to speak to him,” Yoongi said, a desperate current in his voice. He swallowed the final glass of moonshine and stood, grabbing his cloak and heading to the door.

“Yoongi, wait! He’ll be at the ceremony, you can’t just—”

“I need to get out of here,” Yoongi clarified, practically snapped, and Namjoon fell silent. Yoongi didn’t turn to see his expression as he yanked open the front door and let it swing shut behind him with a heavy thud.

─────

He knew Jimin would come that evening.

Yoongi had returned to his workshop, kicking at the empty stool, cursing its existence, cursing it for making his workshop suddenly feel like it was missing someone. He paced, tugging his hair, muttering to himself, making a pot of coffee only to toss it all out the window after realizing he’d automatically poured two mugs. He hammered some metal and melted some scraps and filled every cog mold in his workshop until the tension finally left his chest. His feelings ceased to rage and quieted to a simmer, and Yoongi finally felt clearheaded when the bell above the door tinkled and Jimin rounded the corner.

He still wore the clothes from the parade, the top of his hair slightly flat from where the crown had been. He slowed to a halt when he saw Yoongi waiting. His lips pursed, his hands disappearing into his pockets. He didn’t say anything, clearly waiting for Yoongi, but Yoongi was watching his eyes, the way they flickered between cold and blank to scared and hopeful, the mask slipping.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Yoongi asked quietly.

Jimin bit his lip so hard it turned white. He glanced away. “You saw me, huh?”

“Of course, I saw you.”

Yoongi pulled out the stool across from his own – Jimin’s stool – and gestured for him to sit. Jimin hesitated for a moment, gaze flicking between Yoongi and the stool with uncharacteristic wariness, before he stepped forward and lowered himself into the seat, facing Yoongi across the workbench. He looked tired. His cheeks were dusted in shimmery powder and his eyes were lined with color, but for once, Yoongi felt like his expression was an open book.

Jimin calmly clasped his hands and looked down. He didn’t say anything, teeth worrying his lip.

“Jimin,” Yoongi prodded gently. Jimin sighed, quick and exasperated.

“It was just nice, okay? When we first met, I could tell you didn’t recognize me, and it just… it felt nice to be normal, for a change.” He looked up, searching Yoongi’s face for a moment before averting his gaze again. “And the longer I knew you, the more afraid I became.”

“Afraid? Of what?”

“Of you hating me,” Jimin whispered.

Yoongi paused, opening his mouth to refute, but no words came out. Jimin glanced up at him and chuckled sardonically.

“You hate me now, don’t you?”

Yoongi frowned. “No, Jimin, I—”

“Oh, come on, Yoongi, don’t lie to me,” Jimin said, narrowing his eyes and sitting up straighter. “I know you. I know you hate it here, hate everything about Vaporis and the elite and the royal family, and therefore, you hate me. I’m the epitome of everything you despise.”

“No,” Yoongi said firmly, clasping Jimin’s hands without a thought. His single silver ring clinked against the countless jewels adorning Jimin’s fingers. “I could never hate you.”

Jimin looked down at their hands. Yoongi internally flinched, moving to pull away, but Jimin rotated his grip, pressing their palms together and lacing their fingers. Yoongi felt his heart hammering, Jimin’s hands so smooth and soft. The action felt oddly intimate as Jimin’s gaze locked with Yoongi’s, no walls to be seen, no ice, no fire, just Jimin.

“I’ve always felt safe here,” he murmured. “In the workshop, with you. It’s peaceful. Nobody expects anything of me here. I can just be myself. I don’t have to be a prince, I don’t have to be a leader; I can just be Jimin.” He chuckled sardonically. "Whoever that is."

Yoongi nodded, squeezing Jimin’s fingers, and Jimin smiled at him, small and beautiful.

“I’m sorry for not telling you sooner.”

“Don’t be,” Yoongi said immediately. He looked down, brushing his thumbs over Jimin’s knuckles, needing the steadying motion. “You’re right; I would have hated you,” he quietly admitted. “So, I’m glad you didn’t tell me. Because I—”

I care about you, Yoongi wanted to say. But he didn’t. Still, at Yoongi’s silence, Jimin’s smile grew stronger and sweeter, and he held Yoongi’s hands firmly, cradling them, as if they were something important.

“I like the way you look at me,” he whispered, eyes sparkling with something warm and completely foreign. “I’m glad that hasn’t changed.”

Yoongi smiled, looking away as he felt his ears tinge pink. I like the way you look at me, too, he thought. I always have.

─────

When Jimin arrived in the workshop the next day, his smile was the most carefree Yoongi had ever seen it, his eyes crinkling at the edges in a way that made Yoongi’s pulse stutter.

“Morning,” Jimin said, his voice soft and delicate, like dewdrops on daisies in the calm light of a rising sun. He hummed in appreciation when he noticed the mug of coffee waiting for him on the workbench, steam still rising. He settled into his chair and scooted it close to Yoongi’s, smelling like lavender and roses and something spicy. Yoongi internally sighed; his mind would be a hazy mess for the rest of the day.

“How’s it coming?” Jimin asked, nodding down at the half-constructed heart in Yoongi’s hands. Yoongi set down his tools, holding the organ up for Jimin to examine.

“The inner mechanisms are coming along nicely,” Yoongi said, pointing to the intricate puzzle of cogs, gears, and thin metal tubing bundled in the middle. “Once this model is finished, I’ll use it as a prototype, make sure the internal steam production mechanism is strong enough to keep it beating once it starts. If it holds up, it’ll just need a few finishing tweaks, and it will be ready.” The words struck an uncomfortable chord in Yoongi’s chest. He cleared his throat. “Two weeks, tops.”

“So soon,” Jimin breathed. He blinked. “But that’s exactly what I asked for.”

“Indeed,” Yoongi said, ignoring the odd tightness in his throat. He carefully returned the heart to the workbench. When it was finished, it would certainly be one of his greatest prides. Yet part of him no longer wanted to finish it at all.

He picked up his tools and began shaping another portion of tubing, a particularly tricky element that needed to connect seamlessly to the aorta.

“You know,” he mused, the words bubbling up of their own accord, “I can infuse this with soul energy, if you want. It’s common protocol for my more advanced androids; it gives them shadows of emotion, and—”

“Yoongi,” Jimin said quietly, voice firm but a touch regretful. “That’s not what I’ve asked for.”

Yoongi bit his lip and nodded, ignoring the way his stomach plummeted to the floor, the way bitterness crept up his throat. The silence that fell between them was soft and tense, staticky like the build up to a thunderstorm.

“Is it really worth it?” he mumbled, words loud in the silence. “Getting rid of all emotion, Jimin, that’s—”

He swallowed. The air crackled, and Jimin set down his mug.

“How much have you heard?” he asked.

Yoongi slowly set down his tools. Jimin was watching him with a resigned expression, the flames beginning to reawaken.

“Jimin, you don’t have to—”

“I do,” Jimin said quietly. He ran a hand through his hair, the first time Yoongi had ever seen it truly disheveled, no longer picture perfect. “I want you to understand. I think you’ll probably understand better than anyone else in this damn city.”

He blew out a breath, jostling his hair, his eyes raw and endless. “And a selfish part of me wants you to know.”

Yoongi nodded, angling his stool until he and Jimin were only a breath apart, elbows nearly touching on the workbench. Jimin offered a tiny smile, then took a steadying breath.

“As I’m sure you know, my mother died when I was just a boy. An incurable illness, they said, though they deemed me too young to know the details.”

His voice was calm, but Yoongi could hear the emotion quivering beneath, nearly imperceptible.

“Her death was like a knife in my chest; sharp, throbbing. Sometimes, I worried it had punctured my lungs. I’d lay in bed at night, the world still, and I couldn’t breathe, my chest heaving and hands clawing at the bedspread, that knife digging deeper and deeper until I swore I’d see blood on the sheets in the morning.” His placed his palm on the left side of his chest. “It’s still there. I feel it every day, some worse than others. But I'm the oldest son, next in line for the throne, and I had people counting on me. Especially… especially, my little brother.”

Jimin’s fists clenched against the table, and Yoongi quickly pried one open with his own, letting Jimin feel the strength of his hands, calloused and veiny, a contrast to Jimin’s delicate fingers. 

“He was a shy kid, very anxious, and our mother’s death made it all worse. He cried every day, sometimes over the littlest things. He withdrew from everyone but me. We were only two years apart, but he started holding my hand again, like he did when we were toddlers, even started sleeping in my bed. He had a lot of nightmares. He cried into his pillow almost every night. But I was there for him.”

Jimin’s hands were slowly tightening around Yoongi’s, clenching tight, constricting and painful. Yoongi didn’t say anything. He just squeezed back with equal force.

“My father had no sympathy,” Jimin said, tone dark. “The rumors are true, for once; he started drinking, heavily, and it made him mean and violent. He was the hardest on Jungkook.”

It was the first time Jimin had said his name, and his voice strangled around it, cracking in hidden places.

“My father bullied him relentlessly, saying he was weak and unprincely, and it made Jungkook withdraw even more, hiding from the world, hiding from our father -- hiding from everyone but me. Or so I’d thought.”

Jimin’s voice was growing more unsteady, and he cleared it roughly. “Nine years had passed. I-I thought he was doing better. He smiled a lot, even laughed, and spent most of his time baking with the old women in the kitchen. He was beautiful, full of so much joy, so much life. He was everything to me. Everything.”

His hands were shaking. “He seemed better. I never imagined…”

Jimin’s voice choked off and he bowed his head, breathing deeply for a moment. Yoongi only caught a glimpse of his eyes, but they were burning, broken, a world collapsing into piles of ash and flames.

“He left me a note,” Jimin whispered. His rings were digging into Yoongi’s hand. “He didn’t even say goodbye. Just left that stupid, fucking note.”

Jimin chuckled, a raw, broken sound, dark and ironic. “I was so mad. I let myself be mad for a long time. I thought it would protect me from the hurt, th-the pain,” he said, his voice still a near-whisper, crackling at the edges. “But once my anger faded, pain was all that was left. It knocked the breath out of me. The knife in my heart twisted and twisted and twisted until I thought I would die, and everyone said it would get better, that it would hurt less, fade with time, but it didn’t, it doesn’t, and I can’t—”

His breathing grew harsh, voice openly trembling and knuckles white. He looked at Yoongi, and his eyes were agonized, hell trapped inside an angel, glassy with unshed tears.

“You have to help me, Yoongi, p-please. I can’t do this anymore, I c-can’t—”

Yoongi wrenched his hands from Jimin’s and wrapped them around his shoulders instead, pulling the shaking prince into his chest, one hand cupping the back of his head, cradling him close.

“I’m here,” Yoongi said, his own voice unhinged. “I’ll help you, Jimin, I’m here. I’ve got you.”

He felt a foreign tear spatter against his shirt, and that was all it took for Jimin to break.

His hands fisted in Yoongi’s shirt and he was suddenly sobbing, tears falling fast and hot, his frame hunching over and shaking in Yoongi’s grip. Yoongi held him tighter, his stool nearly tipping backwards as Jimin leaned into him and cried. He gently pulled Jimin up and lowered them to the floor, Jimin all but sitting in his lap as Yoongi cradled him close, rocking their bodies gently, stroking Jimin’s hair as cutting, broken noises caught in the prince’s throat.

Yoongi’s own eyes watered, his throat bobbing as Jimin sobbed in his arms. His pain was a brand Yoongi understood all too well. He imagined that if he were to tear their chests open, their hearts would have the same scars, raw and jagged despite the passage of time. Because Jimin was right; time never truly healed those wounds. It made them bearable, perhaps, allowing your pain tolerance to grow enough to take the edge off. But the scars were always there, throbbing when you least expected them to, a constant, painful reminder.

He held Jimin until the sobs subsided and their shirts were both damp with tears. Jimin was quivering, his breath stuttering and catching in his throat. Slowly, his hands loosened from Yoongi’s shirt, falling into his lap instead, his forehead still resting on Yoongi’s shoulder. His breathing eventually evened out as Yoongi continued to stroke his soft hair in smooth, steady motions.

With a final sniffle, Jimin leaned back. He wiped away the last few tears. His eyes were puffy and red-rimmed, his cheeks splotchy and lips slightly swollen. He sat there, half in Yoongi’s lap, simply looking, and Yoongi looked back, the air between them settling into something familiar, soft, vulnerable.

Jimin placed his hand on Yoongi’s cheek, gently thumbing against the skin and trapping a tear Yoongi hadn’t realized was there. His touch lingered, and he said nothing, but Yoongi felt it. Jimin’s eyes said it all.

“I’ll make us some coffee,” Yoongi said quietly.

──

Jimin stayed on the floor, his sleeves tugged down over his wrists. Yoongi carefully handed him a fresh mug of coffee, settling cross-legged on the floor next to him. Jimin sipped it slowly, closing his eyes, savoring the warmth. He pulled one hand away from the mug and rested it on Yoongi’s knee.

Yoongi chewed his lip, conflicted. “The memories will always hurt,” he eventually said. Jimin’s hand stiffened, but he didn’t pull away. “But do you really want to let them all go?”

Yoongi thought of Hoseok and Taehyung, the only people who’d ever meant anything to him, who had made life seem a bit brighter and the world less awful. He cherished the memories of Taehyung’s throaty laugh and Hoseok’s heart-shaped smile, even if they stung. He wouldn’t trade those memories for anything, not even a promise of life without pain. Without joy, without the emotion attached to those moments, what was the point of life at all?

Jimin stared down into his mug, serene and exhausted, his shirt still tear-stained.

“How can I rule a country if I can’t even control my own emotions?” he sighed, taking a long sip of coffee. “Life in the palace is stifling. I’m disconnected from the world, yet everyone expects me to lead it. How can I enact real change when I’m so far away, lost in my own head, my own suffering?”

Yoongi set his mug down and fiddled with the cinch of his apron. “This kingdom needs empathy and emotion, more than anything,” he said honestly. “Nobody gives a shit about the lower islands. The people there, they need someone like you, Jimin. Someone who… who cares. Who understands,” he finished gently.

Jimin pursed his lips, blinking down at the floor.

“Ruling requires a steady hand,” he eventually muttered. “I can’t allow my own emotions to get in the way. That’s what my father did, after my mother passed. It made him cruel and rash. I don’t want to be like him; I can’t be like him.”

“But what about Jungkook?”

Jimin flinched at the name, but his hand remained on Yoongi’s knee, and Yoongi persisted.

“Your memories are all that’s left of him. But after the operation… the thought of Jungkook won’t make you feel anything at all. No joy, no love, no fondness; all of it will be gone. Just emotionless memories of someone you used to know.” His voice dropped to a murmur. “Doesn’t he deserve better than that?”

Jimin inhaled sharply and retracted his hand. Yoongi’s knee suddenly felt cold.

“I thought you understood,” Jimin hissed, eyes flaring, the iciness creeping back in.

“I do,” Yoongi said hastily, leaning closer, “I do, Jimin, but—”

“No,” Jimin cut in, his bottom lip trembling faintly. “Clearly, you don’t.”

“Jimin,” Yoongi said softly. Jimin sniffled once, but he didn’t scoot away when Yoongi leaned closer and cupped his cheek. Their eyes met. “I’ve got you,” Yoongi said again.

Jimin’s eyes slipped closed and he nodded, leaning into Yoongi’s palm, his own hand coming up to hold it close. It hurt to see Jimin in pain, but what hurt worse, what dug into Yoongi’s skin like shrapnel and made his blood feel like acid, was the knowledge that Jimin was giving up. Yoongi had fought against his own pain and circumstances for his entire life, but he’d had hatred to fuel him – a goal, a purpose, an outlet.

Jimin just needed something to ground him. And with his cheek trustingly rested in Yoongi’s palm and his fingers wrapped around a mug that had gone unused until four weeks ago, his heart was something Yoongi desperately needed to keep beating. Commission be damned.

─────

When Jimin arrived the next day, Yoongi was waiting.

“Why are you still in your cloak?” Jimin asked, pausing by the front desk in confusion. His brow furrowed. “Wait, why isn’t the forge heating?”

“We’re going out today,” Yoongi announced, stepping forward to tug Jimin’s cloak hood up to shield his face. “I think we could both use a break.”

Jimin’s brow furrowed. “But—”

“It’s not up for debate,” Yoongi said sternly, grabbing Jimin’s hand and tugging him out the door. The tiny bell chimed in farewell as Yoongi locked the shop. He missed the way a smile slowly curved on Jimin’s lips, hidden beneath the recesses of his hood.

Yoongi took his hand again and led them out of the hidden alleyway and into the bustling main street, where lively socialites and rich merchants were beginning their day, the city square a flurry of colors and sounds as steam-powered transportation devices zipped to-and-fro. Yoongi squeezed Jimin’s hand, shot him a grin, and pulled them directly into the thrall, weaving among businessmen and gossiping women and unsupervised children until they arrived at a small pastry wagon at the edge of the square.

“What do you want?” Yoongi asked, pulling a coin from his pocket. Jimin glanced at him and smiled, sweet and breathtaking, his eyes sparkling.

“I like cinnamon whorls.”

“Two cinnamon whorls, please,” Yoongi told the woman, handing over the coin in exchange for two prettily-wrapped pastries. He and Jimin nodded in thanks before disappearing down the road, away from the chaos of the square and towards the quieter side of the city.

Jimin hummed, biting into the warm pastry and licking cinnamon sugar from his lips.

“It’s been so long since I’ve had one of these,” he said cheerfully. His smile dimmed, but it was still just as sweet. “My mother used to make them for me.”

They meandered past a toy shop, where bright-eyed children pressed their hands to the glass and stared at mechanical airplanes and wind-up toy soldiers and steam-powered miniature train sets. They strolled past the fashion district, where bizarre hats and daring accessories adorned every figure. They walked past bakeries and cafes, the scents of coffee and bread lingering in the air and smelling like comfort.

As they finished the last of their whorls, they arrived at the park, Yoongi’s favorite place in the city. The sun was shining with abandon, framed by wispy clouds that made the sky feel exceptionally blue. Yoongi took Jimin’s hand, not sparing it a thought as he laced their fingers, and led him through the park, past lush trees and over the small footbridge, stopping to watch multicolored fish lazily swim downstream, their scales shimmering beneath the water. Jimin crouched down to graze his fingers through the stream, tilting his head back until his hood slipped and the sun kissed his cheeks. Yoongi stared for a moment at Jimin’s full lips, his graceful cheekbones, the three tiny freckles on his nose and the soft shadows of his eyelashes. Everything about Jimin was beautiful. It took every ounce of Yoongi’s strength to look away.

Jimin tugged his hood back over his ears and they continued. They meandered through the botanical gardens, stopping to smell roses and hyacinths and chrysanthemums. Jimin’s hood kept slipping, but neither of them fixed it.

After a while, they rested on the grass near the duck pond, partially in the shade of an old oak. Yoongi laid on his back, watching the clouds, but mainly watching Jimin, who was enamored by the ducks pattering about by the lake. His expression was soft and open, a smile playing at his lips as he watched ducklings scurry after their mothers and chirp in tiny noises. His hair gently ruffled in the wind, his posture easy and relaxed. Yoongi felt his heart thump loudly, expanding in his chest.

Jimin’s eyes turned to him. His smile grew. “What?”

“Hm?”

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

Yoongi’s ears turned pink. “Like what?”

Jimin giggled, laying down in the grass next to Yoongi, hair falling over his forehead. “I like it,” he said instead. “Keep looking at me.”

Yoongi felt the heat spread to his cheeks and he groaned, moving to roll away, but Jimin laughed, that airy, sparkling sound, and threw himself over Yoongi’s torso, burying his head into his chest.

“I’m sorry! Don’t be embarrassed,” he said, laughter still in his voice, muffled into Yoongi’s shirt. He looked up, propping one arm on the ground, the other moving to tuck a strand of Yoongi’s hair behind his ear. Jimin’s voice was a whisper, nearly carried away by the breeze.

“You never seem to notice that I look at you the same way.”

His fingers trailed down Yoongi’s cheekbone, thumb settling just below his lips. Yoongi’s pulse was going wild, the look in Jimin’s eyes making his breath falter.

Jimin simply smiled and tapped Yoongi’s cheek, then rolled off of him and back onto the grass. He closed his eyes with a happy sigh.

“Where else are you taking me?” he asked. Sunlight seemed to pool on his lips, golden and entrancing. Yoongi blinked.

“I have one more place in mind.”

They found themselves in Yoongi’s favorite bookshop, a chaotically disorganized place with manuscripts and novels stacked upon every available surface, sweeping bookshelves reaching to the ceiling and equipped with ladders for access. Yoongi led Jimin straight to the fiction section, gesturing to the bookshelf with a sweeping arm.

“Choose your escape.”

They sat on one of the plush benches near the window, sunlight falling through the panes to land on the pages of Jimin’s fantasy novel and Yoongi’s book of poetry. The bookshop was calm and serene, tucked in an alley away from the main square. It felt like their own little bubble, and Yoongi let himself imagine that it would last forever, a dream they never had to wake from. But as the sun set, blanketing the shop in the preamble to dusk, they left their books and illusions behind and stepped out into the city once more.

Jimin pulled up his hood. “Thank you, for today,” he said, his smile warm in the fading light. “I think… this is the happiest I’ve been in a very long time.”

Yoongi felt his chest swell with hope. Then don’t leave, he wanted to beg. Stay with me, and maybe life will hurt a little less.

But he didn’t push his luck. He just smiled, squeezing Jimin’s hand, their rings clinking softly. “I’m glad.”

─────

The air in the workshop felt different.

The mechanical heart was nearly complete, having passed the first round of rigorous tests with flying colors, and it was truly a technological wonder, breathtaking in its motions and details. But every time Yoongi looked at his creation, he felt sick.

Jimin seemed different, too. His eyes watched Yoongi with unbridled intensity, focused and unwavering, and it made Yoongi’s skin feel hot. When he brushed passed Jimin to grab a tool or make coffee, Jimin’s breath seemed to hitch, his hands clutching tightly in his lap. The air felt heavy, sweet and thick like molasses, and each time Yoongi caught Jimin’s gaze, he felt the workshop heat by a degree.

Now, with the afternoon fading into early evening, Yoongi was at his wit’s end. His pulse thumped loudly in his ears and his fingers trembled, and he could blame it on the coffee, but he knew it was because of that heavy gaze, the eyes he felt searing into his skin, the air sitting thick and heavy.

Frustrated, he set down his tools and turned. Jimin’s eyes were on him, of course, but they were burning and dark in an entirely new way. Something hot curled in Yoongi’s gut.

“Jimin, are you okay?” he asked carefully. Jimin’s teeth dug harshly into his lip, hands clenching into fists in his lap. He nodded, but Yoongi frowned. “Are you sure?”

He leaned forward and tentatively pulled Jimin’s lip free, plush and smooth under his fingers. “Careful,” Yoongi murmured, “you’re bleeding.”

Jimin’s breath hitched again, and then his hands were in Yoongi’s hair, dragging him down into a scorching kiss.

Yoongi froze in surprise, but then his lips were moving, shaping themselves to Jimin’s with desperation. His hands found purchase on Jimin’s waist and tugged him closer, out of his stool, and suddenly they were pressed against the wall and Jimin was running his tongue over the seam of Yoongi’s mouth, his hands fisting Yoongi’s hair, Jimin’s back arching from the wall and their frantic breaths loud in the quiet workshop. A spark ignited, and what Yoongi had mistaken for molasses was a actually a cloying combination of honey and bourbon and gasoline, setting everything on fire: his skin, his pulse, Jimin’s body pressed against him, everything hot and overwhelming, his mind clouded with a need he’d been denying for weeks.

“Jimin,” he tried, barely able to pry his mouth away, Jimin’s lips chasing after his.

“Please, Yoongi,” Jimin begged, his lips glistening cherry-red, pupils blown, chest heaving. His hands found Yoongi’s shirt, fumbling with the buttons, skin blistering hot where it brushed Yoongi’s.

“I w-want to feel something good, I need an escape. Please, please,” Jimin mumbled, his hands shaking as they exposed Yoongi’s chest, his body firm and wanting where it pressed against him. Yoongi tightened his hands on his waist, trapped in lavender and roses and spice, trying to remember why this was not a good idea. Why his heart was yearning to touch but his brain was screaming to run.

“Say you’ll stay,” he said desperately.

“What?” Jimin panted, focused on the buttons.

“Say you won’t take the new heart, that you won’t replace every good feeling you’ve ever had with nothing. Say you’ll stay.”

The heat in the air simmered and turn to ash.

Jimin’s fingers went still. The silence was deafening, their breathing harsh and their heartbeats loud.

“I can’t do that,” Jimin finally whispered.

Icy realization cracked down Yoongi’s spine. He wasn’t enough. Jimin wouldn’t stay; not for him, not for anyone. Yoongi had always known, deep in his gut, but it still hurt, a winding punch to his stomach that broke through skin and grabbed hold of his innards, squeezing and twisting, pain knocking the air from his lungs.

He stepped back, hastily doing up his shirt buttons. He could hear the jagged edge to his breathing and saw the way his hands shook, differently than before. He felt Jimin watching him, those damn eyes. 

“Alright, then.” Yoongi nodded curtly and brushed imaginary dust from his clothes. “I need to keep working before the metal stiffens,” he said, turning to walk back to the workbench. Jimin’s hand flashed out and grabbed his wrist.

“Yoongi—”

“Don’t.” Yoongi’s voice was quiet and lethal. Jimin pulled his hand away, eyes wounded.

“I—I want to be with you, Yoongi.”

“But you can’t, right?” Yoongi replied scathingly, voice flat and cracking like a whip. Jimin didn’t flinch.

“You know I can’t.”

“Bullshit.”

“Excuse me?”

“Bullshit,” Yoongi seethed, whipping around to face him. “You’re a coward, Jimin. You live your life in an ivory tower, too afraid to let anyone in, but here I am, someone who cares about you, someone who—who might fucking love you, and even that isn’t enough.”

Jimin’s eyes were wide, his cheeks spattered in patches of red.

“Don’t you feel anything for me?” Yoongi asked, voice trembling with anger, with fear, with betrayal. “Anything at all?”

“Yes,” Jimin breathed, taking a tiny step forward. “Of course, I do. You know that.”

“Then why can’t you try?” Yoongi bit out, teeth gritting. “If you care for me, why isn’t it enough? Why won’t you stay?”

Jimin straightened his posture, shoulders back. “You know why.”

“No, Jimin, I really don’t,” Yoongi snapped, stepping forward into Jimin’s space. “We all lose people. We all feel pain. Life fucking sucks, but you know what? You deal with it. You learn to move on.”

“Don’t preach down to me, Min Yoongi,” Jimin hissed, eyes flashing. “You don’t know what it’s like—”

“But I do,” Yoongi said, voice raising. “Everyone I’ve ever loved has fucking died, Jimin! You’re not special!”

“Hey!” Jimin snapped, lunging forward and aggressively poking his finger into Yoongi’s chest. “Get off your high horse, Yoongi. This is not your decision to make. I’ve got a kingdom to rule, people who need me, and—”

“But what about me?” Yoongi asked, voice breaking. He slumped, the white-hot fury leaving as quickly as it had come. “What about me, Jimin?”

Jimin’s expression softened slightly, his eyes still wild, flickering between yearning, regret, and finally, resignation. “Yoongi,” he murmured.

Yoongi jerked backwards as Jimin’s hands reached for him, but Jimin determinedly pressed forward until he was firmly cradling Yoongi’s cheeks.

“I’m not strong, like you,” Jimin whispered. “Every day, the pain consumes me. That knife lodges in my chest until I can’t breathe, and I wonder what the point is. Of living, of loving people only to inevitably lose them.” He swallowed thickly, hands trembling against Yoongi’s jaw. “What if I lose you, too? How will I survive?”

“You’ve already lost me,” Yoongi said, the words stinging his tongue as he pulled Jimin’s hands away. “Don’t you see? Don’t you understand?” He stepped back again, running an unsteady hand through his hair, scrubbing his hands against his cheeks in agitation. “God, Jimin, you’re so selfish. The only pain that matters is your own, am I right?”

Jimin’s lip was starting to tremble. “Yoongi—”

 “You’re giving up, Jimin. We could—we could be something, you know? I can make you happy. I know I can.” He could feel himself shattering, emotions rolling through him in hot, relentless waves, eroding him, leaving him raw. “You think I won’t be in pain? That once you trade your heart for a lifeless hunk of metal, everything will be just fine and dandy? That’s bullshit, Jimin. And you know it.”

“No,” Jimin said desperately, taking Yoongi’s hand. “This doesn’t have to be the end. After the operation, w-we can… we can still be together. Right?”

His eyes were so hopeful it hurt, but Yoongi could tell that deep down, Jimin knew the truth.

“No,” Yoongi said flatly. “We can’t. Not if my design works the way it’s meant to.” He closed his eyes. “And it will.”

Jimin made a choked noise, and Yoongi wanted nothing more than to gather him into his arms and never let go. It felt like a stone was pressing heavy against his chest, threatening to crush him, bit by bit, rib by rib, until the broken edges of his bones pierced his windpipe and mangled his insides beyond recognition.

But his struggling heart would continue to beat long after Jimin’s had stopped, mangled or not. He needed to protect it. And once again, life threw its harsh reality back in Yoongi’s face: he could never trust anyone with his heart but himself.

“It will be done next week,” Yoongi said dully, turning away. “You probably shouldn’t come by the workshop, anymore.”

Jimin was silent for a long moment.

“I guess that’s for the best,” he eventually said, voice quiet.

He walked to the door. Yoongi grabbed the pencil from behind his ear, fingers clenching around it hard enough to snap.

“I want double,” he called. Jimin paused, hand on the doorknob. “The commission price, it’s now doubled.”

Jimin hesitated, but didn’t turn.

“That won’t be a problem,” he said. The bell tinkled as he left the shop, the door closing behind him with finality.

─────

Operation day arrived too quickly.

Yoongi’s limbs felt heavy, his blood full of lead and stomach full of rocks. He’d opened his front door to find a bottle of Namjoon’s moonshine on his front step, wrapped in a black ribbon with a handwritten note from Seokjin: We love you. Come see us when you’re ready. Yoongi took the bottle inside and didn’t drink a single drop.

He spent five minutes staring down at the mechanical heart on his workbench. He was tempted to smash it, burn it, smite its existence from the earth. Instead, he carefully packed it in a box padded with thick velvet cloth and carried to the hospital, the tiny box feeling heavier and heavier with each step.

He met with the surgeon in a fancy hospital office, walking him through the specifications of the heart’s design and leaving him written notes and a three-dimensional blueprint to use during the operation.

“Ah, before you leave, Mr. Min,” the doctor said, halting Yoongi before he could escape. “The patient is currently in room 107. He’ll be put under anesthesia soon, but he specifically requested to see you.”

“I see,” Yoongi muttered, stomach churning. “Thank you.”

His feet carried him out of the office and down the hall. His mind was mind churning, stomach filled with acid as he absently scanned the door numbers, heart pounding with increasing urgency. He stopped with a jolt when he suddenly reached door 109. He swallowed. He didn’t want to see Jimin. He didn’t want to feel his intense gaze or see his soft smile or hear his misguided apologies. But Yoongi was weak, and his feet carried him forward to the door reading 107.

It was open. Yoongi found himself peering inside. Jimin sat on a hospital bed, staring out the window, dressed in a pale green hospital gown that made his pink hair look like the petals of a spring flower. Yoongi looked at him, unwillingly soaking in every detail; the way his hands were devoid of rings, the sharply beautiful cut of his profile, the wistfulness of his gaze.

Yoongi must have made a noise, because Jimin’s head whipped towards him.

His eyes widened. He opened his mouth to speak, but Yoongi quickly turned, jerking away from the door and practically sprinting down the hall, too many feelings screaming at him at once, overwhelming him with the need to just run.

It wasn’t until he reached the end of the hall that he finally paused, staring at the exit with elevated breath. His heart begged him to go back and fall into Jimin’s arms; his mind sternly warned him to do the opposite. He closed his eyes, leaning against the wall. His hands shook, and he clenched them into tight fists, forcing himself to breathe through the onslaught of emotions and logic until he felt settled enough to ask one question: what did he want? With the bullshit pushed aside, what did he, Min Yoongi, a boy from the lower islands with a mangled heart and broken future, want in this moment? What did he need?

He turned and strode back to the room before he could overthink it, hands still clenched, pulse still racing and stomach still painfully bitter. Jimin’s eyes lit up when Yoongi reappeared at the door. There were tears on the prince’s cheeks.

“Yoongi—”

Yoongi strode forward and kissed him hard, hand cupping his neck. Jimin kissed him back with quiet desperation and longing and potent bittersweetness, trembling fingers clutching Yoongi’s shirt. Yoongi pulled away after a few seconds, his heart clenching in tender protest, then pressed his lips to Jimin’s once more, gentle and lingering.

He leaned their foreheads together. Jimin’s hand cupped his cheek, thumb brushing his cheekbone. They stared for a long, intimate moment, memorizing. Yoongi knew Jimin’s eyes would never look at him the same way again.

“I’ll never forgive you for this,” he murmured.

Jimin took a deep breath, his eyes wet. “I know,” he whispered. “I’m sor—”

Yoongi pressed his fingers to Jimin’s mouth.

“Don’t,” he said bleakly.

He stepped back, arms falling to his sides. Jimin’s hands fisted in the bedsheets, white-knuckled.

“I—I love you, Yoongi.”

Yoongi felt his chest crack open, his scarred heart exposed and bleeding with fresh wounds.

“Goodbye, Jimin.”

He walked away and didn’t turn back. With each step, his heart splintered into jagged pieces, leaving a bloody trail down the hospital hallway and a silver garnet ring sitting alone on the bedspread.

─────

Jimin was different after the operation.

Yoongi had avoided him as best he could, burying himself in his workshop, taking on extra commissions to keep his hands busy and mind occupied, too overworked to focus on the gaping wound in his chest, the jagged edges that made it impossible to sleep, no matter how he tossed and turned. But he was forced to return to the hospital a week later for Jimin’s mandatory check-up.

Anxiety swirled in his gut as he approached the examination room. He tried to steel himself, knowing what he’d find on the other side, but it still stung like a slap to the face when Jimin looked up from the examination table without so much as a flicker of emotion.

“Hello, Min Yoongi,” he said calmly.

“Prince Jimin,” Yoongi replied, voice stiff. The prince eyed him up and down.

“You should sleep more,” he said bluntly. “There are dreadfully dark circles under your eyes.”

Yoongi inclined his head, his heart enduring silently as it was forced to beat around unhealed scars. The examination was torture; Jimin still smelled the same, floral with a soft hint of spice, but his eyes were horrid, blank and cold and glassy. The eyes of an android. It chilled Yoongi to the bone, his hands imperceptibly shaking as he used his portable x-ray device to examine Jimin’s chest and ensure his new heart was installed correctly.

Yoongi left the hospital as quickly as possible, stomach twisted in knots. He didn’t look back.

Days, weeks, months passed in a painful blur. His workshop felt haunted by the empty stool and unused mug. He ended up tossing them in the scrapyard, unable to bear their memories.

He accidentally glimpsed Jimin on the street one afternoon. To an outsider, Jimin looked the same, but Yoongi could see the dullness in his smile, the unchanging gray landscape of his eyes, the way his expression didn’t light up at the sight of the pastry stand or the children frolicking in the square. The worst part was when his eyes accidentally met Yoongi’s. Jimin looked at Yoongi as if he barely knew him, as if they were mere acquaintances, classmates who awkwardly shared pencils during exams, coworkers who sat next to each other in the break room and ate their lunches without saying a word. It hurt, to be looked at by Jimin.

And though he knew not to expect anything, it still hurt when Jimin never came back for him. The bell above the door was no longer followed by his soft smile and lilting voice, the coffeemaker was no longer set to brew for two. It was just Yoongi, alone in his workshop, the way it had always been. But it was no longer enough.

On particularly weak days, Yoongi would catch himself walking the grounds near the palace, hoping to see a glimpse of Jimin even as he begged himself to walk away. To stop searching for someone who no longer existed.

And slowly, he learned to move on. He had his workshop, and Namjoon, and Seokjin, and they helped the Jimin-shaped scars begin to scab and heal. They still hurt in the middle of the night, throbbing next to the scars of Hoseok and Taehyung, but eventually, Yoongi learned to shoulder the pain as he always had. He allowed his feelings for Jimin to condense into a cool, hard marble lodged in his chest. It rattled around, sometimes, knocking the breath out of him. But most days, it was small enough to ignore for stretches at a time.

He knew he shouldn’t have, but he bribed the doctor into selling him Jimin’s human heart. Yoongi kept it preserved in a jar hidden in his workshop, hoping that someday, the bell above the door would tinkle and Jimin would ask for his heart back.

─────

He never did.