Chapter Text
The smell of coffee wafts through the shop like a bitter, earthy incense.
Yoongi notes the scent about halfway to the end of his dreamless sleep, his eyes fluttering open to the bright rays of sunlight filtering through the clear stained glass window of his tiny attic bedroom. It’s seldom that he wakes up after early morning, dawn his usual companion after a long night’s rest.
Maybe it’s the current location of the shop. Somewhere on the coastal roads of Busan, a seven-minute walk to the shoreline. The salty sea breeze conducts the wistful symphony of the windchimes in the living room patio as the sheer white curtains billow softly back and forth like the relentless ebb and flow of blue-green waves.
Maybe it’s the current summer air in Busan. Still fresh from the spring flowers of May, but already leaping into June with a youth-like fervor. The clicking of cicadas signals the setting of the sun over the amber-drenched afternoon trees as the tinkling of ice cubes against the tall cold glass swirls the honey citron tea around like a sparkling liquid gold.
Or maybe it’s the young man currently humming to himself in Yoongi’s kitchen. The coffee machine hisses under his fingertips as hot puffs of mist foam on the surface of the milk, gently poured over the melted chocolate-like espresso. Butter sizzles on the pan and coats two slices of fluffy white bread with a toasted nuttiness, the strawberry jam on top glistening with a deep ruby sheen.
Yoongi’s never really been drawn to Western-style breakfasts, if he ate breakfast at all. But that doesn’t stop him from slowly getting up from his bed, blinking away the remnants of sleep that nested themselves in between the corners of his eyes. He considers making his bed but chooses to just drape the light cotton blanket over his shoulders like an oversized shawl, its bottom hem dragging behind his feet with a delicate swish.
Pulling open his bedroom door, the dark French roast intensifies right above his philtrum and he makes a beeline for the stairs, his socked feet making faint padded oomphs with each step that he takes closer to the finish line. He reaches the foot of the stairs with one final oomph , this one louder than the rest and inadvertently alerting the young man in the kitchen of his presence.
"Yoongi? I made breakfast," a sing-songy voice calls out to him, "good morning" and "come eat" interwoven in between the spaces that separate his words.
Yoongi doesn't grace the unspoken offer with a reply. He doesn't really have to.
The feet of the kitchen stool dragging curtly on the hardwood floor and the soft deflated sigh leaving the stool cushion both speak volumes for him. Likewise, the bottom of a beloved ceramic mug clacking onto the wooden counter and the pleased hum escaping the upturned corners of a pair of rosy pink lips respond fervently in kind. The kitchen is pleasantly warm not only by the sunlight passing through the glass doors.
Yoongi takes a whiff of the hot comforting brew in his hands and decides. There's no harm in wanting to get used to this.