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It’s Yoongi’s fourth cup of tea since midnight and so far, it’s done nothing to alleviate the sheer torment of having to be awake and functional at ass o’clock in the morning on a Saturday. What it has done, however, is make him want to pee. Urgently. Right now. Except, he can’t because some dipshit’s probably shooting a tiktok or some such crap in the only available cubicle at the airport restroom into which he’d dashed fifteen minutes ago. Why all the other cubicles should be out of order is beyond his comprehension, but he chalks it up to the universe’s obvious and boundless love for him.
Fuck, he’s really got to pee. And he’s got to board the plane in…shit on a shingle, seven minutes?!
Now, anyone you ask will tell you Min Yoongi’s not a violent man. By anyone, of course, we mean Namjoon and Hoseok, his best (and only) friends and Taehyung, his endearing and occasionally annoying little brother. Because Yoongi doesn’t believe in social circles larger than his current list of Acquaintances He Tolerates, which is just yoongi-speak for People Whose Hands He Likes Holding. Or, you know. Larger than the space available on the couches in his living room, which he thinks is a rational way to make friends. Have you ever entertained a bunch of people at your house, only to have no room for everyone to sit? And then there’s just a lot of awkward standing around and/or endless chains of people offering each other their seats? Best to ration the space available. And your patience for social interaction.
Anyway,we’re digressing. The point is, Yoongi’s not a violent guy. If you piss him off, he’d likely level you with the exact look your father gave you when you flunked fourth grade math, instead of raising his voice or, god forbid, throwing hands. And somehow, that’s more effective.
But the door to the cubicle is (fortunately) opaque and Yoongi can’t clear his throat pointedly and shoot the offending toilet-hogger a Look that would send his toes curling in shame. So, he settles for banging on the door. Repeatedly.
“Oi, jackass! You doing arts and crafts in there? Hurry up, some of us have planes to catch! Jesus.”
Not his finest insult, he thinks, but it should do for now.
There’s silence for a beat, and then:
“I-I’m sorry. I’ll be right out. Sorry.”
Yoongi pauses. The voice sounds young and, if his sleep-addled brain isn’t starting to make up narratives for random toilet-occupying strangers, he’s almost certain whoever’s in there has just had a really good cry.
Well, fuck. Now he feels like a dick for interrupting what might as well be a breakdown in a not-entirely-clean airport bathroom. He clears his throat. “Um, you, uh, okay in there?”
Instead of an answer, the door swings open and out walks God.
Okay, not God, but it’s got to be one of his angels, because holy shit, no mortal looks that good after sobbing in an enclosed space for fifteen minutes or more. The boy who’s walked out is the prettiest Yoongi’s ever seen (the bar’s kind of high, his brother’s a literal supermodel, but this guy could give him a run for his money). He’s got hair the colour of cotton candy (why the fuck are you thinking about food, Yoongi, you’re looking at hair), cheeks stained with pink, the plumpest pair of lips that have ever graced this plane of existence and cute, droopy eyes glistening with unshed tears.
For a second, for just one, honest-to-god, delirious second, Yoongi thinks he’s looking at the Angel of Death. Because his heart’s doing a Thing and he might as well be dead before it keeps doing that troublesome Thing, and he can’t stop gaping at this beautiful, gorgeous, heaven-sent presence that’s probably the last thing he’ll see before he dies.
Because things like this simply do not happen to Yoongi. He does not address potential loves of his life as jackass and consequently nip whatever meagre chance of romance there might have blossomed over here before they’ve even had a conversation. He does not fuck things up this royally. Not even back when he was a freshman in college and Smith Peterson (weird name, weirder guy) dared him to ask out the prettiest girl at the party and Yoongi, in his weed and alcohol addled haze, had walked up to Hoseok, planted a fat kiss on his mouth, thrown up on his shoes and passed out right there in his arms (it’s how they met).
But here he is. Staring at the prettier version of Moaning Myrtle and wondering why science has not progressed enough to invent time travel.
Hang on, the boy’s saying something, he’s got to stop staring at his mouth and actually listen to the words pouring out of it.
“I’m really sorry. I just received some bad news and I- um- sorry, really, it’s all yours.”
Use your words, Yoongi.
“No! God, I’m sorry. I was being a dick. Uh, you could, uh, finish up in there, if you want? I’ll just, find another bathroom, I mean, you’re obviously going through something, you look like shit, I mean, pretty shit, but...like, I mean, you’re pretty, but you look like a mess, and if someone’s crying in an airport bathroom of all places, they must really have hit the bottom of the barrel, know what I’m saying? Like, it stinks in here. So bad. Like month-old pee, they probably don’t clean that often. The smell really sticks to you! Not, not that I’m saying you stink! You probably smell nice. You look like you smell nice. Like freesia. I don’t know why I said that, I’ve never smelled freesia. I really have to pee, can you move, thanks?”
Okay, maybe don’t use your words, Yoongi. Ever again.
He sidesteps the boy, who’s staring at him, eyes blown wide and dazed, mouth slightly open, slides into the cubicle and slams the door shut. And then he stands there, imagining an uncharacteristically violent scenario in which a herd of bison runs through this particular airport bathroom and tramples him to death right this very second.
After what feels like ages, he hears the boy leave. He gives himself a moment to repeatedly hit his forehead against the door before he remembers he really, really...really....had to pee.
By the time Yoongi’s done with the toilet saga, and has replayed the whole scene thirteen times in his head already, each replay progressively worse and somehow more embarrassing than the last, he’s very late for his flight. He’s the last passenger to board which, naturally, means he’s invited the ire of just about everyone on the plane. Just a typical Monday for good old Yoongi!
He makes his way towards his seat, far less conscious of the dirty looks being thrown his way than he would have been because he’s still processing the encounter with the Angel-Toilet-Crier (he’s really got to come up with better names for the boy), and plops down when he gets to it. He settles back and is busying himself with getting comfortable when he hears the tiniest gasp. He turns around to look at his seatmate, the source of the sound, and almost throws up last night’s dinner and his four fucking cups of tea.
It’s the Lugubrious Loo-ser!
Jesus fuck, he must have said that out loud, judging by how red the guy’s face has gotten. Oh dear, he looks angry. Holy shit, is it too late to get off the plane? Can he jump off? Lord, Almighty, his kingdom for a very specifically thrown bolt of lightning.
The boy arches a brow and puffs up. The action pushes his mouth into a moue (Yoongi’s really starting to lose his shit) and makes him look 10x cuter. His eyes, however, have hardened in a way that makes Yoongi gulp involuntarily.
“Loser?” he intones. “Yeah, I was crying in an airport bathroom. So what? Does that make me a loser, sir? What, men can’t cry? Or is it a personal vendetta you have against people crying in public spaces? I shall have you know, I’m very in touch with my emotions. There’s nothing shameful about that. You get sad, you cry. It’s biology and it does not make anyone a loser. Just like being so obviously loose-lipped does not make you a winner. Jackass .”
Oh, god, Yoongi could die .
“I didn’t mean you were a loser! Fuck. I was just trying to make a pun. Or, my brain was, you weren’t meant to hear that. It’s Loo-ser. You know. Like, loo. Loo-okay, you know what, I’m sorry, I have foot-in-mouth disease, it’s terminal, I’ll pass away soon, please remember me as a fond memory to avoid future hauntings. Not that I’d be a malevolent entity, I’d probably just follow you around seeking forgiveness for being so fucking rude. I swear it wasn’t on purpose! You’re very pretty, my brain short-circuited, my mouth started running, palms sweaty, mom’s spaghetti- okay, I’m doing it again. I’m gonna stop.”
Yoongi clamps his lips shut, sits up straight and looks resolutely at the seat in front of him. This was a four hour flight. He could totally do this. He would not be considering bolting to the restroom and barricading himself in there for the entirety of the flight, no, sir, he would not.
And then, just as the silence starts toeing the line of becoming uncomfortable, Yoongi hears church bells. A choir of songbirds. The tinkling of a fountain.
An abso-fucking-lutely adorable high-pitched giggle.
The boy’s laughing . And, okay, he’s laughing at Yoongi, but he’s pretty sure, at this point, he’d sign up to be the whole fucking circus if it meant he could make the boy laugh again.
Drat, his heart is still doing the Thing.
“I really can’t stay mad at you, you’re a disaster, omg. I’m Jimin.” The boy beams at him and Yoongi realizes he really is a goner because the fact that he just heard his seatmate say ‘omg’ has done nothing to lessen the fire of his painfully obvious crush. It’s endearing now, even though every time Taehyung does it, Yoongi threatens to lob a slipper at him.
Love really changes people.
“Uh. Yeah. A disaster. That’s me. I’m gay. Fuck, I mean, I’m Yoongi. I’m also gay, but that’s...yeah. Okay. Hi, are you feeling better now?” That’s it, Yoongi. You can make normal conversation without cocking it up. You can do this! “Did you get dumped or something?” Nope. You actually cannot do this.
To his surprise, the boy- Jimin’s face dims instantly. He looks down at his lap and starts fiddling with his sweater paws. ( Sweater paws . This was it. The final circle of Hell. Dante was wrong all along.) His answering whisper is so low, Yoongi has to lean in a little to hear it.
“Yeah. Yeah, I got dumped.”
Well, fuck.
“They’re a moron. Whoever they are.”
Jimin smiles a little sadly. “Nah. He’s just not in love with me, is all. It’s been a while since the break-up. Just found out he was cheating on me the whole time he was with me. And, I’m over him, you know? I’m not hung up on him or anything, but it still hurt something fierce to learn that there wasn’t a single honest moment in our relationship. The whole thing was a sham. I feel really stupid, I wasted a lot of hours sobbing over this guy. And I still cried today. Isn’t that pathetic?”
Yoongi thinks he can actually hear his heart breaking. He shakes his head furiously, his hands balling up into fists. “No! The fuck. The asswipe’s the pathetic one. Imagine cheating on-” he waves a hand in the general direction of Jimin’s sweater paws- “all this. You look like a baby duck, what kind of heartless monster makes a duckling cry? Not me. I wouldn’t. Which, you know, is not the point. My brother’s got a pet duckling. Weird coincidence, it’s also called Jimin! Named after his best friend who lives overseas. Kind of looks like you, now I think about it. Very tiny. Point is, he’s a dick. Your ex, not my brother, he’s an angel, not that I’d ever tell him that. Bitch already has the biggest head this side of the ocean. Or maybe your ex does. You’re really better off.” Yoongi pauses to breathe. He’s not entirely sure why he’s taking this whole thing so personally, but he does know Jimin’s ex is having some kind of effect on his generally non-violent demeanour. He’s pretty sure he wants to pummel the guy. And also duct-tape his own mouth shut because the verbal diarrhea he’s currently offloading on Jimin is starting to be painful in the same way dying by a thousand paper cuts must be.
Jimin’s staring at him with that same wide-eyed look from before. He tilts his head (god, Yoongi really can’t stop being reminded of Tae’s duckling) and smiles a little. “Are you always this wonderfully talkative, or is this a special treat just for me?” He giggles adorably again and his eyes crinkle up. Yoongi did not know it was possible for a person to have kind-looking cheeks.
He flushes. “No, I really don’t talk much at all. My friends say I’m very taciturn. I think it’s just you. You’re making me nervous.” Well, well. Look who woke up and decided today was the day he started vomiting out every thought in his head. Yoongi’s the captain of a sinking ship and he’s not even sad about going down with it. Drown, motherfucker, he thinks viciously.
Jimin startles a little, perhaps not having expected the admission. But it’s obvious that he’s flattered because his smile widens into a dazzling grin and he throws his head back and laughs. This, Yoongi realizes, must be the music they play on the elevator up to heaven.
“You’re very cute too. And I don’t believe I caught your name.” He rests his cheek on his palm and leaves his elbow on their shared armrest. The action brings his face very close to Yoongi’s. Anyone else, and Yoongi would have exerted his concentrated efforts to use his entire arm to stealthily nudge his seatmate’s elbow off the armrest. But Jimin could have it all. Hell, he could plant his ass in Yoongi’s seat too, if he wanted. Preferably with Yoongi still in it.
“Yoongi.”
Jimin straightens his back, the expression on his face unreadable. “Yoongi? And what is it you do, Yoongi?”
“I write.” Yoongi picks at his coat and waits for the expected litany of questions that usually follow that particular admission- what do you write, have you written anything I’ve read, are you writing anything now (novels, seeing as they’ve all been bestsellers, chances are, you have, and no, because he’s got a really obstinate and anxiety-inducing case of writer’s block and a massive creative crisis going on)
To his surprise, Jimin doesn’t ask anything. He hums thoughtfully before asking, “And you said your brother’s got a duckling called Jimin?”
Of all the things to fixate on-
“Yeah. He does. He and his boyfriend raise a host of animals. I keep telling him he should quit modelling and just open a daycare centre for pets. Or run a farm.”
Jimin laughs. “Yeah, a farm really does sound right up his alley. He’ll be able to adopt a small army of canines and felines too.”
Yoongi blinks. “That’s...actually exactly what he keeps saying he wants to do. Adopt a small army of canines and felines. Exact same phrasing and all. Wow, weird.”
“Yeah, weird. Anyway, why don’t you tell me a little more about yourself ? You’re doing a pretty excellent job of keeping my mind off cheating exes and smelly toilets so far.”
Yoongi doesn’t think he’s ever felt this accomplished in his life. Not one of his writing awards has brought him this much pride and joy.
“Actually, why don’t we talk about you, instead? What is it you do? Wait, don’t tell me. Let me guess. I’m a writer, we have to have good observational skills. You’ve got a dancer’s grace and that voice, I’m gonna go ahead and say you’re in some kind of performing arts? Am I close?”
“Spot on, actually!”
“Really?” Yoongi asks excitedly.
“Nope. Aerospace engineer.” Jimin grins at the way Yoongi’s face falls.
“That’s, wow, that’s really cool. I don’t think I could ever have that much Big Brain Energy in this life or the next. I’m not even sure what an aerospace engineer does. But I was so sure you dance! My best friend dances too, and there’s something about the way dancers carry themselves that’s just...different, you know? I could’ve sworn-”
“You’re not entirely wrong. I teach dance on the weekends. Been dancing since i was a kid.”
“Aha! Just call me Sherlock Holmes. What kind of dance?”
There’s a pause in the conversation when the PA system relays captain’s pre-takeoff announcements in a lifeless, robotic tone. But soon, they’re talking again, chatting at a mile a minute, their conversation jumping from topic to topic. One second they’re talking about their respective careers, and the next, they’re discussing their pets (Jimin’s got an angelic puppy called Seol, Yoongi’s got hell’s finest demon, a cat called Pumpkin) their asshole exes, and, in a perfectly plausible turn of events, a fairly heated debate on the superior cheese (Cheddar, says Jimin. Mozzarella, argues an outraged Yoongi).
They talk endlessly, and at some point, Jimin falls asleep on Yoongi’s shoulder, lulled by the sound of his calm, soothing voice as he reads him his latest unfinished draft, an honour he’s only ever bestowed upon Namjoon. And as Yoongi smiles down fondly at the boy snoring gently and drooling on his favourite shirt, he realizes the Universe does actually love him, and he’s not going to be the kind of idiot who spits in the face of Fate. He’s going to ask for Jimin’s number when they part ways and he’s almost certain he won’t be shot down. And even if he is, it will have been worth it, because he’s already a little (a lot) gone over this boy.
When the flight finally lands, it’s fairly bumpy, and Jimin holds Yoongi’s hand through it when he sees the older gripping the armrests hard enough to turn his knuckles white. Yoongi's pretty certain he’s well and truly in love.
It’s quiet when they disembark together, the solemnity of having to part ways hitting Yoongi, and he decides he’s going to finally muster up what little courage he has, be less of a disaster gay (he can’t make any promises on that, he’s not Jesus and cannot work miracles) and ask for Jimin’s contact once they’re done picking up their bags.
“So.”
They’re standing in the middle of airport reunions and tearful goodbyes and wondering which way their brief dalliance is going to go. Jimin’s smiling softly at him. Yoongi really, really wants to hold his hand again.
“So,” he says, rocking back and forth on his heels. “I guess this is where we part ways. Never to meet again. A brief encounter that we’ll both cherish forever. Maybe we’ll keep running into each other on flights. Maybe I’ll write a book about it. Or, wait, I think that’s been done already. Or, we could NOT be morons who don’t make stupid chance-based pacts because Fate’s already given us a chance and she’s trusting us not to fuck it up. What I’m trying to say is, I’d like your number. If you want to. Give it. To me. Unless you don’t, which is also fine. I mean, not fine, but you know... fine. Yeah.”
Guess four full hours has done nothing for the nervous word vomit thing.
“Hmm, you know what? I’ll think about it.”
Yoongi freezes.
“Uh, right. Right, totally cool. But, uh, I got to go, my brother’s gonna be here any second.”
“Yeah? My best friend and his boyfriend are coming to pick me up! How about this. We go to dinner tonight and then, when you drop me home, I give you my phone number and maybe kiss you goodnight. Sound good? ”
Yoongi’s really, really confused. And a bit dazed, because now he’s thinking about Jimin kissing him. With his lips. On his lips.
“But how- how will I find yo- oh! Oh, okay, you’re asking me out. Okay, wow, unexpected. Just name the place, I shall be there.”
“Let’s decide after breakfast, my ride’s here.”
“Breakfa-what?”
“YOONGI HYUNG!”
Yoongi loves his brother to death but right this second, in this moment, he’s toying with the idea of fratricide.
“Not a moment too soon, Tae, “ he grits out at the overexcited puppy who’s lunged at him, wrapped both his abnormally long legs around his waist and is now trying to choke him. “Hyungie, I missed you, I missed your dumpling face, I missed your little nose, God, I missed you so much, let me eat your face! I love you! Never leave me again! Jungkoo- oh. OH? JIMINIE? You’re here already!”
The baby octopus disentangles itself from around Yoongi and proceeds to wrap itself all around Jimin. They’re both screeching excitedly and talking in some kind of language Yoongi doesn’t understand. He’s not sure it’s human words. Also, he’s even more confused now. The fuck is going on?
“The fuck is going on?” Yoongi has to raise his voice to be heard over the progressively louder delighted screeching. Tae and Jimin pause, still wound tight enough that they look like a single organism. Jimin’s smirking, Tae’s doing that thing where he looks like a Golden Retriever who’s just been told he’s being taken to the park.
“Hyung! This is my soulmate, my best friend, the love of my life, Jimin! The godfather of my baby duckling Jiminie and all future children.The light of my day, the apple of my eye, finally home where he belongs, in my arms. I forgot to tell you, I’m driving Jiminie home with us, he’ll stay with me and Kook till he gets his apartment in order. But Jiminie,” the excitable toddler turns to the other, “How’d you meet my hyung?”
Jimin shoots Yoongi a mirthful look. “We were seatmates, he was excellent company.” He giggles.
Yoongi’s just standing there, gaping at his brother and his “soulmate, what the fuck?” and starting to catch up. The math, he realizes, is mathing. He can’t believe he hadn’t connected the dots-but now that they’ve been connected, oh. Oh.
He smiles, gums out, eyes crinkled. “Yeah. Seatmates.”
The two of them grin at each other, and Tae looks from one face to another suspiciously. “Well, that saves me the trouble of making introductions", he says. "You two clearly know each other quite well. Anyway, we’re all going to breakfast. Hyung, Joonie hyung, Hobi hyung and Kook are waiting at the diner. Jiminie, I called Seokjin hyung too, he’s been flirting with Hoseok hyung all morning and is getting increasingly frustrated because the man’s denser than osmium. It’s very entertaining and I need both of you to see it. Okay, let’s go! Follow me, cuties.”
They fall into step next to each other, Tae leading the way. It’s a beautiful day, clear skies and golden sun.
And when Yoongi’s hands brush against Jimin’s, he doesn’t think twice before lacing their fingers together.
He supposes he needs to make a certain edit to his List of People Whose Hands He Likes Holding.