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The sound of footsteps against the dark wood of the floor is recognizable before anything eyes. His eyes open and then narrow, a golden tint coming over them before he blinks, and the tint is gone. Namjoon lifts his hand and rubs at his eyes, pinches the bridge of his nose. He holds his breath for a minute and then blows out a small smoke ring.
The sound of fingers against a computer keyboard comes next, followed by a muffled, “Fucking mechanical keyboard.” Namjoon resists the urge to smile; he bought the keyboard for a reason.
“It’s rude to go into people’s things without asking,” Namjoon raises his voice to be audible across the library, the hundreds of rows of bookshelves. The sound of the keyboard goes silent, and is followed by the sound of metal against leather; a knife, Namjoon muses. “Doubly so if you know what they mean to people.”
“It’s rude not to share,” comes the gruff response after a minute of silence. Namjoon snorts and the gold tint returns to his eyes. Slipping a pair of tinted glasses from his pocket and raising them to his face, he steps out of the darkness and strides down the center aisle, shoes clicking with each step. At the end of the room, sits a single computer, and a human in front of it. The login screen is visible and a small exhale of relief escapes Namjoon.
The human, Namjoon notes, is on the slight side, delicate features offsetting the gruff voice and hard look on his face. Something, though Namjoon can't quite place what, is off. He rakes his eyes over the human and smirks when the human’s face contorts into a scowl. Cute.
“If you had asked, I might have let you in,” Namjoon says. He knows he’s lying, and given the look on the human’s face, he knows so too. Interesting, Namjoon notes, and he cocks an eyebrow. A flush passes over the human’s face and Namjoon whiffs the air. He slips his hands into the pockets of his dress pants and leans against one of the bookshelves.
“You’re not scared,” Namjoon says, and crosses a leg neatly over the other. The human starts, clearly surprised, and after a moment, he nods.
“You don’t have a history of violence,” the human says, his voice soft. Namjoon’s eyebrows arch up and he crosses his arms, waiting. The human swallows heavily, audible in the otherwise silent room. “You- don’t have a history of arson or violence. They keep that on record.”
“In sealed files,” Namjoon says, voice so low that a natural growl accompanies his words. He watches as the human turns away and tries to hide a shiver. “Civilians aren’t able to access the registry. So. How can you?” The silence that follows the question drags on, seconds, minutes. Namjoon remains still as the human shifts from foot to foot.
“Someone owed me a favor,” the human answers finally, and his fingers drop, touching the keyboard. Namjoon growls. The human jumps back and looks up, the fear finally reaching his eyes.
“Don’t touch it,” Namjoon pushes off of the bookshelf and goes to his computer, shuts it down with a few clicks. The human backs away every time Namjoon takes a step, holding his hands up, as though it would defend him. Namjoon resists the urge to laugh.
“Sorry,” the human whispers, barely audible.
“Someone broke the law,” Namjoon starts, voice dangerously calm. “Because they owed you a favor. And you broke into my home to steal what is mine ?” Namjoon turns quickly and the human takes another step backwards, eyes firmly on Namjoon’s glasses. Namjoon pauses and cocks his head. “But you’re quite knowledgeable, aren’t you? You know about the glasses.”
Namjoon slowly pulls the glasses from his face and the human doesn’t blink, his eyes, dark brown, meeting Namjoon’s golden eyes. Slowly, the human nods. “How do you know?” Namjoon asks, voice calm once again and the human takes another careful step back.
“I know one,” the human says slowly, and Namjoon raises his eyebrow and waits. “My brother is a part of his hoard.”
Human hoards are unusual, but not unheard of, so Namjoon merely waits, hands settling into his pockets again. The human swallows again.
“I’m looking for something specific,” the human says and Namjoon raises an eyebrow. “A specific story. I remember hearing it when I was a kid, and I- I know your hoard isn’t books .” Both of their eyes focus briefly on the computer screen, now dark. “It’s stories. Your hoard is stories. And I’m looking for one. I don’t know if you- you have it. But if you don’t, and I can find it, then I’ll give it to you, when I’m done with it?”
It’s almost, almost , endearing the way the man’s voice lilts up into a question and his voice cracks, minutely, as he practically pleads. Namjoon takes the time to mull it over, more to watch the man squirm than to really think it over. “You’ll give it to me, if I don’t have it?” Namjoon asks, and he pretends his voice doesn’t give away how interested he is in that scenario. The man nods.
Namjoon takes a step away from the computer and gestures for him to come close. “What’s your name?” Namjoon asks as the man hesitantly approaches the computer again, each footstep slow and careful, like he’s testing each wooden board of the floor before he puts his weight on it. As if expecting a trap.
“Yoongi,” he says. “Min Yoongi.”
“Min Yoongi,” Namjoon repeats, tasting the name on his tongue. He gestures to the computer again when Yoongi clearly hesitates before he finally approaches. Yoongi looks uncomfortable, shifting away from Namjoon, even as Namjoon reaches to log into the computer and opens his archive, typing in all three passwords to that . “Ruin anything in my archives,” Namjoon says, his voice low, breath hot. Yoongi shudders. “Ruin anything in my archives, and I will end you.”
This wasn’t how Yoongi had thought it would go. He had done his research, had spent the past six months asking pointed questions of Hyukjae in the hopes of figuring out what he needed to without Hyukjae figuring out Yoongi’s intention of stealing from another’s hoard.
Hyukjae would have eaten him alive, Yoongi knows, hoard protection be damned. Ilsan dragons were the most vicious of the city.
But Namjoon hadn’t said no. That was, perhaps, the most surprising thing of all. Yoongi instinctively shied away from Namjoon’s touch–nearly impossible to avoid, given Namjoon’s position approximately ten centimeters from his side. Namjoon was interested in this story that he was looking for, curious to see if he had it, or if, more likely, Yoongi would be able to find him some long-lost story.
Yoongi’s hopes were low. It had been a bedtime story his mother had told him one night, when he was very little. He barely remembered any of it, with the few details remaining in his memories and the sheer number of things in Namjoon’s archive meaning this would take a while.
“I haven’t found it,” Yoongi says after nearly eight hours of standing still, Namjoon breathing down his neck, and Yoongi tilts his head up to look at Namjoon, steeling himself against the pure gold of Namjoon’s eyes, soon hidden behind his glasses.
“You’ve only gone through,” Namjoon pauses, checks the computer screen, “three hundred items. I have over thirteen thousand.”
“It’ll take me forty three days of just standing here to find it,” Yoongi says, scowl tugging at his face. Namjoon cocks an eyebrow at him and then smirks and ducks his head. Yoongi turns and looks at him again. “What?”
“You’re smarter than you let on, Min Yoongi,” Namjoon says, amusement licking at each syllable, dripping like honey from each word. “You can return if you bring me new stories.”
“New stories,” Yoongi repeats.
“I’ll give you four hours, for every new story,” Namjoon nods and crosses his arms. Yoongi swallows heavily and nods, stepping back away from the computer. “Shall I expect you in the morning?”
“Yeah. Yeah,” Yoongi clears his throat and nods, glancing towards the window of the library, before he turns. Namjoon watches with a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes as Yoongi flees the room, and soon, his home.
*~*
Yoongi is back at his door the next morning, and Namjoon lets him in without a word spoken. Namjoon is surprised when Yoongi offers him a throwaway cup. He opens his mouth to refuse it but Yoongi just shrugs and walks past him. Namjoon frowns, furrows his brow, and takes a hesitant sip from the cup.
It’s a taste Namjoon recognizes instantly, the sweet kick of the devil’s snowdrop tea and the icy warmth it sends shooting through his body. Very few drinks affect him; coffee and most caffeinated teas make Namjoon sick, like most other dragons, and he rarely sees the point in seeking out cold drinks as they just make him nauseous. He, like most dragons, mostly drinks teas and honey water, boiled recently. Devil’s snowdrop tea is Namjoon’s favorite, something his mother would make for him on winter days to keep him warm and breathing.
Namjoon follows Yoongi to the library and watches as Yoongi stops by the computer and realizes it’s still locked. He turns and looks and Namjoon smiles and sips at his drink again, cocking his head. Yoongi swallows.
“My mother would tell me this story when I was a kid,” Yoongi starts, his voice low, gruff, and he pauses to drink. Namjoon closes his eyes and inhales deeply.
“Once upon a time, a boy was born in a poor village. He was born with a strange birth defect, because, see, in place of his belly button, there was instead this golden screw. For years he and his parents did their best to remove it; they tried everything they could think of, using regular screwdrivers, using any sorts of things lying around, but nothing ever worked.
“One day, this boy traveled to the city closest to his home, and wrote his story down, and passed it around. The story spread like wildfire around the city, of this boy with the golden screw for a belly button, that he was seeking a way to remove it. Doctors began to seek him out, doing their best to remove it. Healers, medics, therapists, no one could figure out the source of the screw nor how to remove it.
“One day, this restaurant owner approaches this boy and tells him of this heirloom that was passed down through his family’s generations, a golden screwdriver. The boy gets excited and follows the restaurant owner home, and the owner gets the screwdriver from his mother. The entire family gathers in the main room, excited to see what might happen. The owner gets down on his knees and takes the screwdriver and places it up to the golden screw in the boy’s belly. He turns it once, twice, thrice.”
Yoongi stops talking and the pause is long enough that Namjoon huffs, a puff of light colored smoke escaping him. Yoongi ducks his head and smiles.
“Nothing happens. The boy and the restaurant owner both go to bed, disappointed, and the boy decides that the next day, he’s going to go home. He gets up in the morning, and eats breakfast, and the restaurant owner’s family invites him to wash up before he leaves to head home. The boy agrees and goes into their bathroom, and begins to undress. And as he unbuttons his pants and steps out of them, he begins to feel unusual. He sneaks out of the bathroom and takes the screwdriver and one last time, he gives the screw a good twist.
“And his butt falls off.”
Namjoon’s eyes snap open and stare in Yoongi’s direction. Yoongi smiles and gestures to the login screen of the computer. Namjoon snarls but leans over and types in the password. Yoongi’s grin doesn’t fade for the first hour of his search.
Namjoon is bored by the end of the second hour. He has every intention of standing over Yoongi and watching him to make sure that he does nothing besides search for his specific story but Namjoon, like most dragons, has very little patience when it comes to sitting still.
Yoongi looks up when the sound of footsteps echoes away from him, and he realizes Namjoon has left him alone by the computer. His eyes widen briefly, only to return quickly to the computer as Namjoon returns, a book in his hand.
When Yoongi next looks at him, a few hours later, Namjoon is engrossed in his book, glasses perched low on his nose and his leg stretched out in front of him.
“What are you reading?” Yoongi asks, clicking to the next page of Namjoon’s archive. Namjoon looks up, his expression somewhere between surprised and suspicious. Yoongi shrugs a shoulder at him and continues to search.
“A diary,” Namjoon finally says, surprising Yoongi. “I finished translating it recently and I haven’t sat to read it through yet.”
“You translate everything?” Yoongi asks, startled enough to pause his search and turn to look back at Namjoon. Namjoon just stares at him. Yoongi frowns. “So you can speak a lot of languages?”
“I can read a lot of languages,” Namjoon says, almost dismissively, and waves his hand, nearly knocking over his empty cup. “I can’t speak much of anything. I collect stories, and I collect books. I have quite a few dictionaries.”
“What about dialects?” Yoongi asks and Namjoon raises his eyebrows. “There’s bound to be stories in local dialects that you can’t translate from dictionaries. Or stories that don’t translate well because of cultural context.”
“True,” Namjoon says finally. “You’re quite knowledgeable.”
“I have a degree in anthropology,” Yoongi mutters and turns back to the computer screen again, falling silent. He misses the curious look on Namjoon’s face, the thoughtful gaze that doesn’t leave him for an hour.
*~*
“Good morning,” Namjoon says and Yoongi snickers. He’s earlier that day, and Namjoon isn’t nearly as put together as he has been the past few days; where Yoongi is used to the dress pants and button down shirts, all pressed, and the glasses perched on Namjoon’s face, covering his eyes, his hair brushed, the Namjoon that stands in front of him is… not that.
Namjoon wears a pair of grey sweatpants, one leg pushed up to his knee, and an oversized hoodie. His hair is a mess, sticking straight up in some places. And nothing covers the gold of his eyes.
“Morning, sunshine,” Yoongi replies, and he offers him the same cup of tea that he’s brought for the past week. Namjoon takes it and squints at him. “Do all dragons have terrible eyesight, or is it just you?”
“Effects of a graduate degree in library sciences and studying in dark rooms,” Namjoon answers in a mumble, and follows him to the library again. “Tell me the story later.”
The next time Yoongi glances over at Namjoon, in his usual spot on the floor, Namjoon’s eyes are closed again and he’s sleeping. Yoongi grins when he realizes that when Namjoon breathes particularly heavily in his sleep, a small puff of smoke appears as he exhales. “For a dragon, you’re kinda cute,” Yoongi mumbles, and reaches over to move Namjoon’s cup, just in case. It’s a smart move, because Namjoon shifts a few minutes later and barely misses the cup. Yoongi moves the cup again, just to be safe.
“Morning,” Yoongi says cheerfully when Namjoon stretches his arms with a quiet whine. “Sleep well?”
“Don’t be rude,” Namjoon replies and Yoongi laughs and glances at him.
“Why are you so tired? You’re not usually like this.” Yoongi clicks to the next page and glances back at Namjoon, who looks more alert and reaches for his tea, now cold.
“Stayed up translating,” Namjoon admits. Yoongi can see the way Namjoon’s fingers twitch.
“Do you get like that often?” Yoongi asks curiously, and glances over. “Hyperfocused on a task? Or is it just when related to your hoard? Or is it-”
“I looked you up,” Namjoon interrupts him and Yoongi pauses, waiting. “Your dissertation was on dragons.”
“It was,” Yoongi says, slowly.
“And you got in trouble,” Namjoon says. “Because you became a part of his hoard. It wasn’t your brother, it was you.” Yoongi steadies himself and turns, meeting Namjoon’s eyes. “You’re putting me, and my hoard, in danger, by coming here. If he finds out that you’re-”
“He has no control over what I do with my life,” Yoongi says in a low voice.
“Bullshit,” Namjoon snaps. “You left your career because of him.”
“I left my career because he made it impossible for me to continue it,” Yoongi snaps back, and a brief flash of anger crosses his face before he takes a deep breath. “Hyukjae made it impossible for me to go around the country and study different dragon communities, never mind overseas. A dragon may not have a say in what their hoard is, Namjoon, but I’ll be damned if Hyukjae stops me from living.”
Namjoon is quiet after that, and Yoongi turns back to the computer. Silence falls, uncomfortable and Yoongi barely keeps himself from fidgeting as he clicks through the documents slowly. He becomes aware of Namjoon moving off to his side but ignores him, until he feels Namjoon’s fingers against his arm.
“Sit,” Namjoon says quietly. Yoongi looks away and then up at him, as Namjoon pulls a chair closer for Yoongi. Yoongi sinks down into the chair slowly.
The next time Yoongi glances over towards Namjoon, the dragon is leaning back against one of his bookshelves, leg stretched out in front of him, and a book in his hand.
*~*
“A young couple are living in Daegu,” Yoongi starts, sitting cross-legged on the floor, opposite Namjoon. Between them sits the food Namjoon had ordered, saying he was too hungry to think– though Yoongi isn’t fooled by this, had heard how loudly his stomach was rumbling.
“They have a young son, four years old, but they want a second baby. The wife wants another baby boy, but her husband wants a daughter. They decide, rather than get pregnant, they’ll start searching for abandoned children, to take in a young child left by their parents instead.
“Their search doesn’t go well for the first year; they can’t find a child anywhere. They search high and low, and they know they can’t afford to adopt a child from a group home. One rainy evening, the wife is walking home from her job in a restaurant, and she hears crying from under a bridge she crosses every evening. She walks off of the path and down to the bottom of the bridge, where a small creek runs, and a set of dumpsters keeps the rain off of a small patch of cement. In that dry square, there’s a baby lying there, wrapped in purple blankets. Pale, like the moon, with small eyes, waving little hands balled into fists.
“She takes him home,” Yoongi says, trying not to pay attention to the way Namjoon’s eyes are on him, captivated. “And she calls him gloss for the way his hair shines when it’s wet, the way his eyes glitter in the light of their home.”
“Yoongi,” Namjoon murmurs, and their eyes meet. Yoongi smiles bitterly and looks away. “Is this true?”
“I don’t know,” Yoongi stretches his legs out and mimics the way Namjoon is seated, leaning back against a shelf. Where Namjoon, only a week before, would have growled at him, snapped at him, he now only rolls his eyes with a slight, shy smile.
“I’ve never taken any blood tests or anything to find out,” Yoongi says, picking up a fish cake and taking a bite. “I look like my brother, but I’ve heard that just being around people growing up means you’ll look like them.”
“Are you human?” Namjoon asks, suddenly, and Yoongi’s head shoots up to stare at him, eyes sharp. Namjoon meets Yoongi’s eyes and they warily watch each other for a minute. Yoongi shakes his head and drops his gaze.
“I’ve always figured I was. I’ve never noticed anything different about me, and I spent a decent amount of time trying to pick my specialty before I decided, in university.” Namjoon makes a quiet noise of understanding, and a comfortable silence falls over them again. Yoongi smiles slightly, and when he glances up again, Namjoon is smiling back at him.
*~*
Forty three days comes and goes too quickly, and Yoongi doesn’t find his story. Namjoon realizes after another four days that there’s no point getting up early in the morning; Yoongi doesn’t need to come back to his home now that he knows Namjoon doesn’t have the story he’s looking for.
Three months pass without a word from Yoongi, and Namjoon can’t help the worry that digs deep in his gut. He rearranges his archives once, twice, reorganizes them, and continues to translate his collections slowly. Little by little, his archives fill out and Namjoon runs out of busywork.
The day starts like any other, with Namjoon rising late, wiping the sleep from his eyes. He’s in his pajamas still, nursing his first cup of tea, when a series of knocks on his front door startle him enough to nearly drop the cup.
“Namjoon!” Yoongi’s hair is a different color, and his eyes are light, glittering in excitement. Namjoon stares at the door, and then instinct kicks in and he steps aside to let Yoongi into the house. Yoongi kicks off his boots and Namjoon realizes there’s snow outside–he had been unaware it was even winter–and as he turns to look at Yoongi, the man has slipped off his coat, hung it up, and held out a book with both hands.
“What- is this?” Namjoon asks slowly.
“I found it,” Yoongi says, nearly bouncing on his toes. “It took me way too long, but I found it.” At Namjoon’s blank expression, Yoongi sighs, dramatic, with a roll of his eyes. “The story I was looking for. I told you if you didn’t have it, I’d give it to you when I was done with it!” The words jog Namjoon’s memory, to their first meeting, and his eyes widen. He looks down at the book and frowns.
“What was it? The story you were looking for?” Namjoon asks. Yoongi smiles, and there’s something chilling, in his smile, that Namjoon can’t quite place.
“It’s a German folktale,” Yoongi says, wiggling his fingers. “Or, the original is, at least. The story my mother told me was always a little different.” He follows Namjoon into the archive, where Namjoon carefully places the book on his desk and turns to look back at Yoongi, his coffee forgotten.
“Tell me what your mother told you,” Namjoon requests. Yoongi smiles again, the same smile that Namjoon can’t quite place, and he sits down on the ground, leaning back against the bookshelf. The movement is familiar enough that Namjoon smiles, and sinks down to face him.
“Once upon a time,” Yoongi starts.
Once upon a time, a troll lived under a bridge. More than anything, the troll longed for a family of his own. He longed for a wife, for a child, and for people to see him as he was. But as he was a troll, he was hideous. He could not find a wife to bear him a child nor marry him.
But what the troll lacked in looks, he made up for in brains. The troll was smart, brilliant beyond human standards; the troll was a disfigured descendent of the fae. Any child he took in as his own, would too bear his race and name.
The troll stumbled upon a young couple struggling to bear a child. He promised them that he would bless them, so long as they gifted him one thing. They agreed, and swore that should they have a child, they would give him the eldest. They, too, unknowingly gifted him the greatest gift of all: a name.
The young couple has twins a year later, two babes born with shining black hair and glittering eyes. The elder, a boy, is quiet; he neither cries nor fusses, merely waves his hands about when he wishes for attention. The younger, a girl, is loud; fierce and stubborn.
The troll returns to the couple upon hearing of the birth of their children. But the young couple does not want to part with their children, and reluctantly, the troll makes them a deal: should they discover his name in three days time, he will allow them to keep the child.
They guess, again and again, every name they can possibly think of, male, female, unisex. But still, they cannot think of the name of the troll. On the third day, the troll takes the baby and leaves.
He flees the town the young couple lives in, fearing for his and the babe’s lives, and he settles under a bridge in Buk-gu in Daegu. One day, he leaves the babe, now a fae and his own blood, under the bridge on a rainy day while he goes to search for work. When he returns, the baby is gone, missing.
Namjoon meets Yoongi’s eyes. Yoongi smiles, cocks his head, and his eyes glitter in the dim light of the archive. “Fascinating,” Namjoon comments, and when his eyes glint golden, Yoongi just smiles back.
“Could I borrow your archive again, Namjoon?” Yoongi asks. Namjoon raises his eyebrows. “It seems like I have a lot to learn about my people.”
“On one condition,” Namjoon replies. Yoongi waits, and Namjoon smiles. “Tell me your stories, Min Yoongi.”