Chapter Text
Yoongi is the most beautiful man in town.
It’s true— even the grumpy potions seller down the street agrees.
Yoongi is the most beautiful man in town, and the worst part is that he doesn’t even know it.
It sounds boastful, it really does, but in a town this size it didn’t take much. Even the term “town” was generous. It was more of a ramshackle assortment of cottages hosting a handful of year-round residents who dared to brave the cold. Winters were harsh this deep in the foothills. Ogre raids were fairly frequent and the occasional troll managed to stumble down off the mountain, terrorise a couple of maidens, nab a few sheep, and wander off again. There wasn’t a lot to boast of here beyond the blue wildflowers that dotted the hillsides that Yoongi’s grandmother swore made the best sleeping potions this side of the mountain. It certainly worked to bring in the traders from across the foothills. Their little town always hosted the trader’s fair that started in the spring and stretched into early autumn. It brought in all sorts of folk from even the most remote areas of the mountain to swap goods, food, and stories late into the night.
It is on one such night— the sort of heat-heavy evenings at the peak of summer where the stars were at their brightest and wine was sweetest— that Yoongi first realises just how beautiful he is.
He’d always been a pretty boy and had his fair share of admirers in his school days, but something had changed over that winter in particular. His chest had broadened, his eyes grew darker, and he finally, finally had lost that lanky, half-starved look of adolescence. He’d noted the changes, of course— as had the girls at his grandmother’s shop. He’d notice the same few faces every time he dropped in to help sort stock and do some of the heavy lifting for her. They’d whisper and giggle, especially when he’d lift sacks to the higher shelves and the edge of his tunic rode up, exposing a strip of his hips.
He wasn’t oblivious, of course. He knew he should welcome such tittering, but it did nothing but make him flush wine-dark with embarrassment, tucking his chin to his chest and muttering to his grandmother about coming later in the week.
It wasn’t more than that though, until tonight. It is Midsummer; spirits are high, and the wine is flowing freely. Yoongi's on the sidelines, face glowing in the half-light thrown up from the fire. He prefers it here, where he can observe and absorb without the demands of others plucking at his shirtsleeves. It is easier to slip away in the moments when his own skin fits too tight across his chest.
There is a dwarf telling some outrageous tale about the most beautiful maiden he’d ever seen and when he finally managed to get her attention, it turned out she was actually a he and a cousin to boot.
“Stupid little bugger,” he rasps, spitting into the fire. “Here I thought I was about to get the best sleep in thirty years when it turns out to be Earl all along— gawd fuckin’ dammit! Us dwarves are too damn hairy— how am I supposed to tell a dame apart from my own damn cousin?”
Yoongi chuckles with the rest, gulping down another swallow of lukewarm mead. The company is good, the night is warm, and the mead settling into his bones makes him glow slightly in the buttery light.
“You ain’t the only one there, pal.” Archie claps his hand on the dwarf’s shoulder, flashing a grin across the circle. Archie's the town blacksmith. Yoongi knows him in passing, enough to nod politely in the street before continuing his business.
“Romance is a tricky subject, as the girls around here could tell you— hell, even the guys.”
There are sighs of sympathy as the circle is lulled into silence for a few moments, waiting for Archie to continue. He takes his time, taking a long draw from his mug and wiping the back of his hand across his mouth.
“Care to elaborate?” An elvin man speaks from his perch on an upturned bucket.
“There’s not much more beyond the classic story,” Archie says, eyes glinting as he sweeps the crowd, making brief eye contact with Yoongi before smirking. Too much wine, Yoongi thinks.
“There’s a handsome heartthrob who’s completely disinterested, detached, and utterly mysterious, regardless of the women throwing themselves at his feet.”
Scandalised gasps erupt. The elf raised an eyebrow.
“Ah, c’mon Archie. People in a town this size are all cousins— you’d think a hibernating mountain troll was pretty if it meant some new blood.”
Good-natured laughter breaks out as Archie covers his mouth in mock offense.
“Damn, Vanderbilt. I thought you’d at least pretend to be polite. Nah, even by elvish standards this man’s a beauty. No wonder these poor girls are going crazy. Did you know,” he says, leaning forward and gesturing emphatically. Archie is nothing if a good storyteller and an insufferable gossip. Yoongi finds himself drawn in regardless. “Did you know, this man had three separate marriage bouquets on his doorstep last week and he just stepped over them to continue on his way?”
Horrified gasps ring out, the almost-incestuous dwarf clutching his beard dramatically.
“Who is this man, Archie? We simply have to know now.” Vanderbilt weaves his slender fingers together, regarding the smith with slight amusement.
“You guys know the witch specialising in sleep potions, right? Looks to be about a thousand years old, give or take?”
The crowd nods enthusiastically. Yoongi’s stomach lurches as he realises that yes, in fact, he happens to know that particular witch quite well.
“Yeah, her grandson. Min Yoongi. He’s a poet or something— no one really knows what he does beyond taking long, solitary walks. Why? Who knows. Maybe an old lover, an unatoned sin. Like I said, the man is a mystery. In fact,” Archie says, eyes glittering with mischief. “Why don’t you ask him yourself? He’s right there.” He gestures with his mug, and all of a sudden Yoongi wants nothing more than to shrink out of existence.
As one, the crowd turns to look at him. Yoongi blinks. Once. Twice. He’s half-cloaked in shadows and then-- he’s gone. No one sees more than a blur of white hair as he darts out of the circle and into the night.
He gets home in record time. Magic— and panic— are good for that. Yoongi doesn’t even bother with the lantern as he heads upstairs, not stopping until he flops into bed and buries his face in his pillow.
Ugh, this is humiliating. He knew he was pretty. He knew plenty of people harboured crushes on him, but he’d assumed that was all they were. He firmly ignored the letters: probably misaddressed, he told himself, despite not knowing a single other Min Yoongi. Those bouquets of flowers, well. His grandmother was an herbalist. Flowers were one of the more normal doorstep deliveries. And the town was small. It wasn’t his fault that he always bumped into the same half dozen people in every store. Archie’s tale of a mysterious, detached god of a man was laughably far from the truth. Yoongi isn’t cold or mysterious. He's just Yoongi. All he does is help his grandmother out at the store and occasionally hike up to the abandoned tower to think about things and scribble down melodies whenever he needed some space. These are all normal, usual things for someone to do. He isn’t some lofty prince, and he certainly doesn’t want some empty-headed, flustered excuse of a lover to sweep him off his feet. He just wants to help his grandma and write his music in peace, for Merlin’s sake.
Yoongi groans into his pillow, eyes falling shut in frustration. It’s all the mead, he thinks, rifling his hands through his fair. I’m just overreacting. If I get some sleep now, it won’t be this bad in the morning.
He blames the nearly full moon for why he tosses and turns for another hour before finally slipping into sleep, sheets painted silver in the moonlight pooling across his room.
☾
The doorbell is excruciatingly loud. Yoongi groans and rolls over. It isn’t even midmorning and his head is still slightly wooly from last night’s mead. His grandmother is out already, he’s sure. It must just be a delivery. The rosemary and pine tips are due today.
He drags a hand over his face, rubbing the sleep from his eyes and attempting to flatten his fluffy hair.
The rap on the door is more insistent. Yoongi grumbles under his breath.
“I’m coming,” he grunts, pulling on a cloak to mask his rumpled pyjamas.
The light is awfully bright as he opens the door, so it takes a couple moments of squinting and muttered cursing for him to realise that it is not, in fact, quite the delivery he was expecting.
“Hello…?” Yoongi mumbles, peering up at the taller figure.
“Min Yoongi.” The speaker has a velvet voice, sweet with sympathy. “I’m sorry to wake you so early, but my people are leaving for the forest this morning and I wanted to speak with you before we left.”
Oh. That explains the obnoxiously early hour, then. Curse elves and their inability to get hangovers.
For that’s exactly who’s standing in front of him— the elf who was so curious about Archie’s story last night. What was his name... Vaderbuild? Vanderberk? Yoongi has no idea.
Knowing his name doesn’t answer the most pressing question, though— why the hell is he here?
“No problem,” Yoongi grumbles, though it is very clearly a problem. “Come in. Need anything?”
The elf shakes his head, silver hair almost blinding in the sun.
“I am fine, thank you.”
Yoongi lets him in, turning to the kitchen. Maybe the elf doesn’t want tea, but Yoongi sure does.
The elf ducks his head as he enters. The early morning light catches at the dust in the air, making it seem much dirtier than it actually is. Yoongi notices and makes a mental note to clean out the potion closet that afternoon.
“Min Yoongi,” Vladerbink says once he’s been situated, reclining gracefully in the squashy rocking chair that happens to be Yoongi’s favourite. Not that he’d say anything.
“I had just wanted to express my desire, before I left, to court you formally.”
Yoongi stops thinking about scrubbing out pantries.
“Wh--what?” His eyes dart to Voldybonk’s face, searching for a deeper indication of what exactly was going on. The elf meets his eyes, blinking slowly.
“Your reputation precedes you. You’re beautiful, Yoongi. And I want to pursue things a little more formally with you. You’ve made quite the ripple across the fair this summer.”
Yoongi suppresses his desire to hide his face in his hands and groan loudly until Verdyboot leaves him alone and never speaks to him again.
Instead, he dips his chin slightly at the compliment, keeping his face blank.
“Thank you for the offer. However, it’s not exactly what I’m looking for at the moment, you see.” Yoongi has no idea where these beautiful, well-rehearsed lines are coming from, because it certainly isn't him. Maybe he should get hungover more often. “I’m currently engaged in other projects. Having a courtship as well is too much for me at the moment.”
Vonderbench eyes him with a sad sort of smile, nodding once in understanding.
“I appreciate it, Yoongi. Thank you for opening your home and being so gracious.” The elf smiles once more as he stands up with more grace than Yoongi could ever muster, showing himself to the door.
“Perhaps our paths will cross again next summer.” He pauses on the top step, looking at Yoongi with a whisper of hope.
“Perhaps.” Yoongi hums, leaning against the doorway. “Thank you again for your offer.”
The elf waves a hand and makes his way down the street.
Yoongi collapses against the doorway as soon as the elf is out of sight, burying his face in his hands.
What the hell was that? he thinks. You don’t just offer courtship to anyone, especially if you are an elf. They take these sorts of things very seriously.
Yoongi makes his way back inside, slumping into the rocking chair and taking a sip of the tea he’d forgotten about during the visit. It’s slightly too bitter.
The fire flickers as he tucks his feet under him, almost purring in contentment. He slips into a doze, the sunlight splashing across the cobblestone floor.
He’s woken a second time by another knock, this time at the backdoor. His mind is still cobwebbed with sleep and sun as he stretches, stifling a jaw-cracking yawn with the back of his hand.
“Yeah?” he grunts, cracking the door and stepping out into their herb garden.
Archie stands there, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly.
“Hey, Yoongi. About last night—”
Yoongi waves his hand, cutting off his awkward apology. “It’s okay. You were just embellishing for the story’s sake. People have already forgotten, I’m sure.”
Archie is still uneasy. He grabs Yoongi’s wrist and pulls him closer, shading them in the doorway. Yoongi baulks at the smell of the other man’s sweat and stale ale.
“They haven’t forgotten, Yoongi. Have you been outside today? I know you’ve already received at least one other visitor, and the other ones won’t be nearly as kind…” Archie cranes his neck around the garden, making sure it is still deserted. “I’m sorry for this Yoongi, I really am. Everyone’s taken notice of you…”
He trails off, licking his lips nervously and releasing Yoongi’s wrist.
“Good luck. If you need any more help, your grandmother knows where to find me.”
He slips away before Yoongi can respond, weaving between the cabbages and thimbleberry bushes.
Yoongi blinks in confusion for a moment longer before deciding to investigate. But first— pants.
After shrugging on his trousers and a (mostly) clean tunic, Yoongi grabs a heel of bread, smears it with soft goat’s cheese, and heads for the door. He is certain Archie was telling more stories. This isn’t some huge tizzy. The whole town already knows him. He hadn’t blossomed into some unusual beauty overnight. Archie was just exaggerating— surely, Vanburk’s courting proposal was just a coincidence.
His doubt itches at the back of his mind, though. As he pushes open the door, his worries are confirmed in blooming red and gold.
“What the—” Yoongi stumbles over his own feet, fumbling down the stairs to avoid the crush on the top step.
Waving off his blush, Yoongi squats down to take in the spread of bouquets, packages, gifts, even a basket of still-steaming scones…
Damn. Archie, it seems, had not been kidding.
Glancing up and down the alley, he gathers up no less than four bouquets, three mysteriously wrapped parcels, a small plant, and the basket of scones. Nudging the door back open with his hip, Yoongi bumbles into the kitchen and drops his armload onto the table. Despite the blatant marriage flowers included, the bouquets are pretty. Grandma will appreciate them, he thinks as he shoves them into a glass jar. The packages prove to be things of various usefulness— a soft handkerchief embroidered with posies, a scarf that promises to keep him warm in winter and cool in the summer, and a small mouse carved from a walnut shell. The scones smell delicious, but Yoongi isn’t stupid. His grandmother often proclaimed love potions were nonsense magic “made to deceive idiots who couldn’t distinguish a berry from a bear”, but caution never hurt anyone. Yoongi is more of a muffin guy himself, anyway.
He messes up his bangs in distress. What the hell is he going to do?
He catches himself in the reflection of the mirror over the mantlepiece— still pleasantly sleep-rumpled, white blond hair ridiculously fluffed. He draws closer, observing himself acutely in the smoky glass. He is pretty. There really isn’t another word for it.
His eyes are dark and quick, his brows bold across his forehead. His chin draws to a sharp point and his mouth is a soft, almost feminine bud. His cheeks bunch up when he smiles, creasing his eyes into half-crescents and revealing more gum than teeth. Without the softness of his mouth and cheeks, his face would be harsh and angular. The fluffy blond hair didn’t help, Yoongi muses, tugging on a strand. It makes him an odd combination of dark intimidation and soft sweetness.
He glances down at his body. He’s fairly tall, and the hours hauling things at the shop have made him lean and muscular instead of just scrawny. His hands are long and slender, and he moves with relative grace. Overall, he gives the impression of both ominous threat and surprising tenderness. Coupled with this ridiculous “air of mystery” Archie had prattled on about, Yoongi guesses he can see why he has a small gift shop on his front step.
He sticks his tongue out at his reflection. Still didn’t change the fact he’s awkward and prefers his own company.
Yoongi is tired of thinking about all of this, so he rattles upstairs to fetch his notebook and cello. He drags his chair out to the sunny spot on the balcony, plucking out the melody that had been curling through in his head since last night.
That’s where his grandmother finds him several hours later, bent over his notebook.
“Yoongi?”
He jolts upright, knocking the back of his head against the windowsill.
“Yeah?” He mutters darkly, clamping a hand to the back of his head.
“What were all those flowers doing in the kitchen? And those scones? Matilda’s selling her turmeric-blackberry juice as a love potion again, judging by the colour of them.”
Yoongi rumples his hair, scowling at the valley unfurled below them.
“Boy, do I have a story for you,” he mutters, shuffling his notebook away. “I’ll tell you over dinner. Let’s eat.”