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Yoongi can’t help but curl his lips into a snarl around the cigarette hanging between his teeth as watches Kim Taehyung produce a spray can from the insides of his backpack. “Again?” Yoongi crows, still leaning against the wall, hands deep into the pockets of his leather jacket. “Jesus Taehyung, have you forgotten what happened the last time you tried to pull this off?”
Taehyung merely smiles at this, shaking the spray can as he takes a few steps back from the wall, a hint of admiration upon the blank canvas—soon to be filled with the freedom of his expression. “Whatever happened to learning from your mistakes?”
“I like to think you’re smarter than that when it comes to something like this,” Yoongi lets out before scoffing at his friend. “And out in public too for fucks sake.”
It’s true—Taehyung has always been a little too reckless for Yoongi’s taste, always electing to do something and worrying about the consequences later on. The latter would know this from experience, of course. Taehyung almost got them all arrested a few weeks back because of the very item Taehyung is showcasing in his hands. Under broad daylight.
Taehyung tsks at the older boy, tossing the spray can to Jimin before retrieving another from his backpack. “Where’s your sense of adventure?”
Yoongi scowls in disapproval but doesn’t say anything as he turns to face Hoseok. He knows that no matter how many times he could try to lecture the younger boy, or even try to enlist Seokjin in this matter, it would all be pointless. More often than not, Taehyung had a mind of his own and was often more stubborn than anyone would even care to admit.
Jimin and Taehyung barely get four strokes down across the wall before the sirens echo in the neighborhood, growing so loud that it soon becomes obvious that word of the group’s misbehaviors had spread around to the cops. They see the cars turn the corner before any of them can react properly to it.
“Holy shit!” Hoseok manages, summarizing the feeling for everyone as Yoongi practically touchdowns his cigarette onto the ground, barely giving himself time to step on it before he dashes after the other boys. The silence of the once relatively peaceful area is filled with the rather hysterical laughter of Taehyung and Yoongi crowing ‘I told you so you little piece of shit!’.
The cop cars increase and sound like they are getting closer, but Yoongi refuses to look back as Hoseok drags the attention by shrieking an ‘over here’, directing the group towards one of the properties within the neighborhood. Everyone easily scales the wall separating homes from one another, and Yoongi finds that they’re all landing in a clearing of soft dirt housed in an area of green grass and two closed-off sections for plants. Trees of all kinds, tulips, lilies, peonies of all varying colors, a stone walkway leading up to the two different gardens, directing up to a concrete sidewalk. The house itself is a baby blue color, bricks for steps and windows with curtains across the glass. He can only imagine what kind of a person must live here—and the image that is conjured up in his mind is such a striking contrast to himself that he stops.
It’s a peaceful settlement, one that looks much different from the neighbor Yoongi was just running through seconds ago. He feels a strange sort of contentment, just standing amongst the different flowers—sunflowers and roses, birds of paradise…
Oh. Speaking of which.
Some (most) of them having been trampled underneath the harsh steps of 7 boys who live in leather jackets with a cigarette between their teeth on more than one occasion, the 7 boys who were just outrunning the cops. The flowers once blooming up and out, full of pride and beauty, being reduced to nothing more than crumples, crushed against the very dirt they once grew from. The sight is such a sad one to behold that Yoongi is about to try and step out of the box holding the garden before the backdoor of the house opens and shuts, signalling the arrival of the homeowner.
At once, all 7 boys snap their gaze up to study the owner of the garden. Yoongi hadn’t known what to expect, but he certainly hadn’t been expecting you from the mental profile he was already trying to create. Dressed down in black jeans with holes at the knee and a big gray sweater to fight the cool of the late autumn afternoon breeze, your once panicked expression diffuses into one of complete distress as you take in the sight before you. The sight of 7 boys you have never seen before in your life, combat boots crushing the life out of the garden you have spent years planning for, saving up for, committing time on…
You bite your lip long enough to mask your disappointment and sadness into one of a more harsh kind of curiosity. “What are you doing on my property?”
Yoongi looks over to take in the expressions of the all the other boys, who all wear a strange mixture of emotions: from amusement to worry to vague concern to complete apathy over the matter. It’s Jimin who finally decides to speak. “We were trying to outrun the cops,” He starts, using the kind of smile he displays whenever he wants to try and get out of trouble. It’s a gesture Yoongi can’t help but discreetly roll his eyes at.
Under normal circumstances, the nickname would make most girls blush up to their hairline, especially under the presence of 6 other unfairly attractive boys. But instead, your eyebrow twitches and your lips line themselves into a straight line. You don’t just look upset, you’re fuming at this point. “You ruined my garden!” You say, placing emphasis on the verb in a way that makes Yoongi flinch slightly. You speak the word with so much venom, there’s no doubt how much it had meant to you.
Perhaps guilt should be a new word to add to his mental list of emotions running through the group.
Jimin is the first to approach you, moving with steps so calculated and eyes never leaving yours. He doesn’t stop until he’s met you at the halfway point between the house and the garden, reaching up to tuck a stray piece of hair behind your ear, taking your hand soon after. Without a warning, he ducks down to brush his lips across the top of your hand. “No harm done, sweetheart.”
Eyebrows knitting together in the form of pure disgust, you rip your hand away from his touch. “I want you all to leave before I call the cops.”
All the boys look surprised that you’re letting them off the hook so easily without causing a public scene, but none of them breathe a word as they climb over the wall they emerged from. Yoongi, however, remains rooted to the spot, face expressionless as he watches you try to recompose yourself from the recent encounter. You seem to realize that one of the boys is still here, because you look him and fix him with a sharp glare.
“I thought I told you to get off my property.”
Struck with a strange sense of determination, Yoongi steps off the garden platform and approaches you. “Let me help you fix this.”
You give him an unamused smile that doesn’t come close to reaching your eyes. “I don’t need your help.”
But he doesn’t listen as he moves toward the garden again, kneeling down to start pulling the now dead flowers from the roots. “You’ll need a trash bag to get rid of these flowers.”
He ignores the first few times you try to get his attention before you get so exasperated by his unwillingness to just leave you the fuck alone that you shove him away from your garden. “I told you I didn’t need your help!” You snap, lips quivering and tears filling up your eyes as he staggers onto his bottom. You tower over him—and although you’re much shorter than him, your body is shaking with so much anger and bitterness. “God, just leave me alone, okay? You and your idiot friends have done enough already.”
Yoongi sees the tears flooding past your eyes, slipping past your cheeks as you try (but unsuccessfully) try to rub them away with the sleeve of your sweater. Yoongi is supposed to be hard, weathered, unbreakable, yet his heart beats and hurts at the sight of seeing you (a stranger, for that matter) hurt so deeply over something so insignificant.
“Fine,” He manages, straightening up and brushing past you to follow his friends over the wall. He tells himself not to look back, but of course he does. Of course he looks over just in time to see you slump defeatedly onto the platform of your garden, picking up one of the dead flowers he has just plucked from the dirt, the sob escaping from the back of your throat.
It’s the only sound that resonates through Yoongi as he follows the others down the sidewalk, the only thing he can think about when he leans against a wall with a cigarette in his mouth, the only thing that occupies his mind when he’s alone. He doesn’t know why he’s so caught up over a mere person, a stranger (an innocent one at that), but he knows that he cares too much to let something like this slip over his skin like oil. There are just so many unanswered questions that he has about you, and it’s so frustrating how hung up he’s become—he’s caving, and he’s caving fast.
.
Two days later finds Min Yoongi struggling to make his way down the slightly more familiar sidewalk, balancing two sets of potted flowers in his arms—12 sunflowers and 12 lilies, to be more exact. He doesn’t know how he manages to narrow down the selection of houses along the row to determine which one is yours, but he decides not to question it as he makes his way up the porch. There is a dream catcher hanging from the roof, dangling near the door, and the sight makes him think. He thinks of the brick steps of your backyard, flowers carved into the ground with so much care and love, and mentally adds all these things to the music sheet that makes up your life. Piece by piece, note by note, maybe he’ll have a whole song about you one day.
If he can pull himself together enough to knock on the front door, that is. But somehow, he manages, knocking a few times in case you didn’t hear him.
You open the door after the third knock, swinging it wide open like the smile you give off as a greeting and something in Yoongi’s heart stings. He wonders if this is how you always greet people, and if this is how you would have greeted him if the pair of you met under different circumstances.
But the wide smile you display quickly dissipates into a guarded one and you inch the door closer to the frame when the realization dawns upon your features. “Oh,” You say, voice slightly raspy and he wonders how much time you’ve spent crying over that garden. “It’s you. What do you want?”
Yoongi tries for a smile of sorts. “An apology gift—a chance to make it up to you.”
You look down, some of the hazy hatred disappearing as you take note of the flower cases in his arm, carefully observing the quality. You seem to find them acceptable, because you let out a sigh and open the door wider once more. “Come in.”
He steps through the threshold, immediately taking in the long hallway, rooms branching off along the sides. The hallway is decorated with photos—people, places, things. He catches one where you’re grinning widely amongst friends, but you’re moving through the house so quickly he barely has any time to take everything in.
The back of the house is the kitchen, sunlight from the early afternoon streaming in and highlighting different things like mason jars and marble surfaces. Through the window, he sees the remains of the garden—most of the flowers have been pulled and the space is so empty and barren that he can’t help but feel guilty all over again.
“You can set them on the counter,” You say at long last, voice distant as Yoongi does what he is told. He finds that you won’t make eye contact with him when he turns back around to look at you. “Is that all you wanted?”
He knits his eyebrows. “I wanted to help plant them, if that’s okay.”
This answer provokes something in you, because you finally look up to stare at him. Unlike the time at the door, there isn’t contempt in your eyes—making him realize that your gaze has a naturally soft touch to it, even if you want to try and hide that. “What’s your deal?” You ask him instead.
It startles him. Yoongi blinks. “Sorry, I don’t know what you mean.”
You smile again without humor. “I know your type,” You finally say listlessly. “The rebel against society. You smell like cigarettes and both times I see you, you’re in leather jackets. You have piercings. You must have seen enough, because why else would you try to outrun the cops. You don’t give a fuck about anything. What’s so different about me?”
“My friends are the ones who don’t give a fuck,” He steps in. “Honestly? I don’t know. But you looked so upset about your garden, and I can tell you worked hard on it. I know how difficult it can be to dedicate so much time to something, only to come up short.”
You raise an eyebrow. “You have experience about applying yourself to something that requires actual effort?” There’s something slightly different about your tone, there’s a touch of amusement, a touch of teasing to it, but it’s a slight reassurance to know that Yoongi has moved into your (tentative) good graces and it feels like a weight has been lifted from his shoulder. A little.
Instead of answering, he smiles back. “So can I help you with the garden or not?”
If you notice about how he actively refuses to answer the question, you don’t comment. Instead, you look down and appear to be pondering over something.
“If I let you help me with my garden,” You finally start, a delicate edge to your voice as if your question could possibly be breaching dangerous territory, one that could probably be much too early in regards to your standings with each other. “Will you tell me about the dream you gave up on?”
Yoongi feels his breath catch in the back of his throat. “What makes you think I had a dream in the first place?” He tries to make his voice as even as possible.
You give him a half-hearted shrug. “How could you know so much about dedication if you didn’t?”
He exhales in a laugh, because you’re a lot sharper than he ever gave you credit for. “Touche.” And it makes sense that you could come to this conclusion. His friends don’t know much about applying themselves so strongly to a task, unlike him, unlike that failure—!
He blinks, willing himself to look back over at you. “Did you have something in mind for the layout of your new garden?”
You smile again, but it reaches your eyes this time and Yoongi has to tell himself more than once that the sudden racing of his heart had been from trudging two cases of flowers to your house and not from the way your eyes crinkle in the corner.
“What’s your name?” You finally ask after the pair of you have brought out the flower cases to the backyard. You tie your hair up into a ponytail and Yoongi tries not to linger his gaze too long over your neck.
“It’s Yoongi,” He answers, sticking out his right hand.
You take it. “I’m Y/N.”
.
The following day, when the rest of the boys had elected to spend the day loittering around private property (Taehyung’s idea—he wanted to do more graffiti), Yoongi brings tulips and delphiniums and your smile doesn’t diffuse at the sight of him standing at your door frame. “You again,” You say in the tone of voice that implies that you half-expected him to show up anyways. After all, he did promise to help rebuild the garden.
He holds up the newly purchased flowers. “I figured it could use a bit more variety.”
“And you’re correct.” You open the door wider for him to step through, and you move slower down the hallway. This gives him more time to observe the polaroids that hang along the wall. There are sunsets, oceans, mountains, friends, you standing underneath lights with dresses and summer hats, you holding sunflowers in mason jars. He feels like he’s collecting more bits and pieces of your life, and the idea makes him smile just a little bit more, that you so willingly accepted his help and his pathetic attempt at a friendship. These kind of things have always been so foreign to him anyways.
“Why a garden?” Yoongi finds himself asking once the pair of you have made your way outside and you’re kneeling a few feet away, planting tulips into the ground.
You look at him out of the corner of your eye. “Why not?”
He shrugs a little. “I mean, if you’re trying to express yourself, I’m sure there are a lot of other ways to do that without worrying about it getting trampled on.”
“Yah, and who’s fault was that?”
He bites his lip. “You’re right. Sorry about that, by the way.”
You shake your head. “Yoongi, don’t worry about it. You came back to help me, and that’s what’s important.”
He wants to laugh at your naiveness, how easily someone could return into your good graces after ruining something precious to you. He doesn’t think he could do the same thing, he’s too weathered to trust people much.
“Well, uh, what about painting?” He tries, stopping his planting entirely to look over at you.
You meet his gaze. “Too messy,” You reply, and he has a feeling you’re talking about something else.
.
The next week becomes a blur to Yoongi. He comes over everyday like the unspoken promise set between the two of you. He comes over earlier each time, bringing two new cases of flowers that make your eyes light up and the pair of you spend most of the day planting them, figuring out a layout to give the overall garden as much variety as possible.
And sometimes when you’re both set on taking breaks, you usher him inside to share a glass of lemonade or ice tea and talk. It use to be mundane sorts of conversation, but like an onion, there are many layers to you. And him, but that’s different.
He learns more about your graceful nature, your kindness to everyone that you meet. Always seeing the good in people and believing in the things that seem so hopeless. You have such a naive quality, a naive outlook on life—but it’s endearing to Yoongi because he learns about what people can become when the world hasn’t hardened them, hasn’t hardened you.
Once, he decided to smoke a cigarette on the brick steps in your backyard, and he’ll never forget the look you gave him—one of slight judgment and half-lidded eyes. He thinks you often wonder why he would bother trying to throw his life away with this kind of lifestyle, outrunning cops and always balancing a cigarette between teeth. Although, the same could be said about you—where you spent your days hidden away from the world and planting a garden that holds no significance to anyone but you.
And maybe him—but you didn’t hear about that.
.
He brings over two new sets of flowers the next day and your smile is so bright that he can’t help but smile back. “Wow, these are beautiful!” You say, opening the door a little wider for him to step through.
He shrugs. “Truthfully, I don’t know which one these are. I just grabbed them because they looked pretty.”
You laugh as you both make your way down the hall and into the kitchen. “Oh, this is easy,” You say with the wave of your hand as Yoongi sets the cases down on the counter. “These are leptospermum,” You start, gesturing to the taller flowers, violet with yellow along the inside. Your fingers gently graze the petals, a delicate smile upon your face, and the first wave of hesitate realization dawns upon Yoongi’s face—tentative and afraid, like he often is around you. “And these are stephanotis.” You gaze upon the shorter flowers, tiny and pink, almost hiding from the world. But you look at them like you believe they are so much more than that.
And that’s when the second wave of realization hits him like a brick wall, much stronger and much more powerful. He doesn’t know how he knows, but it’s a gut feeling, like a lesson he never had to learn.
Without warning, he rounds the counter to stand before you. Although you have to crane your neck slightly to look at him, it doesn’t stop the way Yoongi reaches out to cup your face in his hands before his lips come crashing down atop yours.
The sensation makes shivers travel up his spine, goosebumps forming along his arms when you hastily reach up to hold him close. The kiss is hard. Your lips are soft, warm, tasting like strawberries—he probably tastes like cigarettes and regret.
The thought makes him freeze as he rips himself away from you like you burned him.
You stare up at him, glassy eyes, lips parted and red. “What was that?” You whisper.
Yoongi feels his breathing increase as he backs away a few steps until he hits the opposite counter. “I shouldn’t have done that,” He says back, looking away from you to run a hand through his hair. “This was a mistake.”
Your eyes widen a fraction. “Wait, hold on Yoongi,” You say softly, taking a step forward to try and reach out to him, hold him close again.
But Yoongi is more alert this time. He flinches away when you try to take his shoulder, and has to pretend it doesn’t sting when he sees the flicker of hurt dance underneath your eyes. There are so many thoughts running through his mind, thoughts of worthlessness because he really really should not have done that. Not because he hasn’t wanted to for weeks now, but because you’re you and he’s… well, him.
He’s Yoongi, the boy who hasn’t apologized for shit since he was 14-years-old. It doesn’t matter if there is oh so much he longs to say to you, he doesn’t know how to open his mouth to make those goddamn words leave his mouth—!
“I should go,” He finally settles with. It’s not what he wants to say—not by a long shot, but how could he possibly apologize for damaging your life with his dirt when he’s sure he’ll never forget what it felt like to have your lips pressed against his.
He leaves, trekking down the long hallway of regret, past the pictures he’ll always long to join, and you let him.
.
He doesn’t show up to your house the next day. Or the day after that. Or even the day after that. But he can’t bring himself to provide you with the closure he feels like you need. Yoongi has always been selfish in this sense.
You’re all he thinks about, and he absolutely hates everything about that. Why couldn’t he just listen to you when you shoved him away from your garden? Why couldn’t he just get lost and leave you the fuck alone like you had asked?
When he voices these thoughts and concerns to Namjoon (because honestly, the others would not let Yoongi hear the end of it—and not in a good way), the other boy merely laughs because: “Yoongi-hyung, you’re in love.”
Instead of brushing these thoughts off, Yoongi scoffs. “Okay no shit, I know that. That’s why I’m asking for your help in the first place.”
Namjoon looks momentarily taken at how easily Yoongi has come to terms regarding his feelings for you (given that he is probably the most closed off compared to all the other boys), but he does not comment further as he tugs his own cigarette from his mouth and flicks it away without care.
“I think you should tell her,” He says simply.
Yoongi lets out a sigh as he tears his gaze away from Namjoon to run a hand through his already messy hair. “I don’t think she’ll want to see me.” He rests his face down into the palm of his hands. “You should have seen the way she looked at me.” Yoongi definitely remembers—it’s all he’s thought about for the past few days.
“Well, I mean, you did kiss her,” Namjoon chimes, voice surprisingly comforting in a way that Yoongi has rarely ever heard from the younger boy. “It could have just been a lot for her to take it. It probably didn’t help that you ran off the way you did afterwards.”
Yoongi groans because fuck, why could he never seem to keep his cool around you. “Don’t remind me. It just happened so fast, I didn’t know what I was doing.”
Namjoon chuckles, ducking his head slightly as if Yoongi couldn’t take anymore embarrassment at the mere mention of you. “She’s changed you so much hyung, I don’t even think you’ve noticed.”
Yoongi only manages a noncommittal grunt, because he knows that Namjoon speaks nothing but the truth, and he has no idea what he’s going to do.
.
One week later, and you are returning to your home following an early morning shift at the coffee shop you work at. You roll your shoulders carefully as you step through the threshold of your house, immediately being greeted by the ever-present lingering smell of coffee that always seems to plague the air.
In spite of the quiet week you’ve had (a silence which has not been comforting by any means), a part of you spends the first few minutes it takes for you to settle down hoping for a knock, a boy to stand in the door frame, holding 2 sets of flowers he would never have known the names to without your limitless knowledge of plants and colorful buds…
A flickering movement of a figure you know doesn’t belong to the sight of your backyard makes your heart stop and you nearly drop the mason jar of iced tea you have cradled in your hands.
Because through the window of your kitchen, sitting on the platform separating your garden from the flat green grass, is Min Yoongi. His hands are idly playing with the freshly planted daisies—one you had bought yesterday without his usual presence lingering next to you. At first, watching him through your window, you briefly fret that he might do something once more to remove the joy of your garden.
But you have to remind yourself that this is Yoongi—the boy who, in spite of his many flaws and walls that are built so high it blocks the sun—cares. The boy who laughs over stupid jokes, produces a gummy smile so contagious it makes your heart race, the boy who will always come back.
You slam the glass of iced tea on the counter and practically shove through the back door. Yoongi jumps slightly when you finally make yourself known.
He straightens at once, holding a new set of flowers in his arms, something you hadn’t noticed before.
In spite of the slightly awkward air, you can’t help but muster a slightly teasing smile. “What, not good enough to use the front door anymore?”
Yoongi just shrugs. “I had something I wanted to give you in person. And I needed to talk to you.”
It’s around then that you finally will yourself to look down at the new case of flowers he’s brought for you—and the sight makes you smile.
Red roses, deep as the blood that rushes through your veins at the thought of him, deep as the color of your lips when he kissed you, deep as the love and admiration you hold for him.
“It’s music.”
Yoongi speaks this so suddenly that it takes you a moment to recognize that he’s talking to you. Still, the statement doesn’t entirely make sense to you. “What?”
He clears his throat, face suddenly as red as the roses. “You asked me once about the dream I gave up on. It was music. I use to write and produce a lot but, well, something happened and I stopped.”
You blink, slightly taken that he would admit something so personal to you, especially given the now awkward atmosphere that surrounds you both. Still, your mind is plagued with so many questions, so many concerns. “Why would you keep coming back?” You finally whisper. “You didn’t have to help me with the garden, you didn’t have to tell me about your dream—why would you go so far?”
It looks like Yoongi is struggling to come up with the right words to express his thoughts before he suddenly kneels down to rest the case of red roses on the ground. He straightens up immediately and steps forward once more to cradle your face gently in his hands, relaxing slightly when you don’t move or flinch away from his touch. “I thought it was obvious,” He grumbles, taking in your wide eyes, lashes brushing again browbone.
Instead of thinking I’ll ruin her, I’ll ruin her, I’ll ruin her, he dares himself to believe she’ll make me better, she’ll make me better, she’ll—!
This time, you meet him halfway, a gentler touch to his lips now he’s accepted his feelings, holding you close, feeling you smile slightly against his mouth in return.
He’s the first one to pull back, kneeling down once more to take hold of the red roses. “Let’s go plant these alright?”
You link your arm with his with another smile. “I’d love to.”