Chapter Text
Yoongi took a flying leap, landing in an exhausted heap on his bed. He didn’t even bother with pajamas, - or the battered worn in sweat pants he considered pajamas –bearing all in nothing but a pair of skin tight black boxer briefs and exposing pale skin to the chill in the air. He was grateful to have made it to his favorite piece of furniture at all, his body put-putting on little more than fumes. He’d crashed in some pretty unfortunate locations before. As usual, he’d pushed it passed the little red dash mark that indicated empty on his internal gas tank and he was burnt out.
It was a little past four in the morning from what he could see when he had blearily squinted his eyes in the direction of the red numbers glowing from the clock beside his bed. His body ached, forcing a groan when he moved, but his blood still pumped with adrenaline leaving him with shaky aftershocks of sensation. The Hyungs he’d met in the two years he’d hustled in the underground – the only ones with enough balls and seniority to comment – often made fun of the way his hands trembled before a stage performance. Some people mistook it for fear…others for intimidation…those people and their false sense of security, never saw him coming.
He’d heard rumors that at first impression people thought he wasn’t much; he gave the impression of a cute pocket sized opponent they could coo over. It wasn’t until they were onstage and the beat dropped that Yoongi turned vicious and their smug smiles dropped. Even as he closed his eyes now to welcome his first respite in days, his lips mimicked the ghost of a smile. In that warm cocooning ocean between full sleep and alertness, his body drifted weightlessly and his mind took him back over the cheers of his fans as he battled one rapper after another, coming out victorious.
He wondered if he’d dream of it tonight; standing center stage in the spotlight, sweat dripping from his newly bleached strands between rapid-fire movements and the sharp articulation he was known for. He’d left his opponents bleeding onstage from metaphorical wounds dealt with a razor sharp wit and a quick tongue.
After the event, a producer for one of the only hip-hop labels in the country had approached him. Yoongi had stared down at the card he’d been handed in dumbfounded shock. The CEO himself, a powerhouse in the Korean hip-hop world, had liked his style and wanted Yoongi to give them a call. Yoongi was wary of going mainstream, he’d known too many people who’d forgotten their original intent in the face of that all powerful motivator…money.
He wouldn’t compromise his aesthetic for anyone, but…he wanted people to hear his music. He’d lived too many days selling his material for less won than it took to buy a cup of ramen and finding promotional CD’s he’d handed out stuffed in the nearest trash bin. Music was what he did; it was what he lived for. An opportunity like this…
Nobody had expected the nugu from Daegu to rise up the ranks of the Seoul underground so quickly. He was making a name for himself, people knew who he was and whispered when he walked by. This made everything worth it. All his hard work, all his sacrifice, all his endless all-nighters, leaving his family and his friends behind, starving himself to pay studio fees…it hadn’t been for nothing. For the first time in a long time he was peaceful. His dreams were filled with flashing lights and an ocean of uplifted hands bobbing along to beats of his creation.
Finally, finally, things were going his way.
Scrinching an eye open against a lone beam of sunlight laser beaming him in the face. Yoongi slowly cracked both wider to see a corner of his heavy black curtains lifted just enough to allow morning light to filter through. Growling in annoyance and sounding as foreboding as a bear woken early from hibernation, he flipped over and peevishly curled up into a darker corner of his bed, fully prepared to go back to sleep. Whatever time it happened to be, he knew one thing for sure, it was too damn early for him to be awake.
He was in the midst of recommencing his favorite activity – second only to making music - when an odd sound gave him pause. He frowned with his eyes closed, trying to pinpoint what exactly it was.
It sounded like…crying…horrifyingly loud, really upset crying. A baby.
One of his neighbor’s kids would be throwing a tantrum when all he wanted was a leisurely morning of blissful, uninterrupted sleep. Was that too much to ask after spending the last month cooped up in a studio morning, noon and night with nothing but a steady, balanced diet of ramen and black coffee to keep him going? And it wasn’t like he could block out the sound either. The walls of the building were so paper thin in some areas it was a wonder nobody fell through just from leaning against one.
When after five minutes the sound only seemed to intensity, Yoongi was wide awake, drumming his fingers against his mattress irritatedly. Just how much of an asshole would he be if he pounded on his neighbor’s door irately and asked – politely of course – that they do something about their kid? It wasn’t like he was being unreasonable. Some people were still trying to sleep at – Yoongi glanced over his shoulder – ten in the morning.
When the sobs turned to near screams, Yoongi was done. He’d never been one to care about appearances. He was an asshole and the rest of the world just had to deal with it. Muttering obscenities beneath his breath, he violently kicked off his blankets.
Seconds later he was stomping through his tiny, one-bedroom cracker box of an apartment toward his front door. The fact that it took a total of five steps to get from his living room to his dead bolted front door should tell anyone wondering what kind of shithole he was living in. It certainly wouldn’t pass for a penthouse in Gangnam, even if it was on the top floor. Peddling CD’s on the streets of Hongdae day in and day out, only afforded you so much even if you were one of the more popular rappers on the scene.
Viciously yanking open his front door, he stumbled to a halt before he could trip over the unanticipated obstacle at his feet, the abrupt stop nearly pitching him face first.
Sitting square on his doorstep was a baby.
Before Yoongi could formulate a coherent thought that wasn’t to the tune of ‘What the F.U.C.K’, said baby quieted to despondent sniffles on spotting him. Immediately holding out chubby little arms toward Yoongi like he was the answer to all his problems. Yoongi cringed away like the kid might hold some dormant strain of leprosy; nearly tripping over his own two feet in the process. He rubbed at this eyes, sure he had to be seeing things. He knew sleep deprivation had the potential to cause hallucinations and hysteria. That had to be it, there was no other explanation…he was going insane.
He stared, blinked and stared again but the kid didn’t appear to be going anywhere. In fact, he only got clearer and more in focus with each blink of his eyes. He had an unruly mop of shockingly black hair, upset little half-moon eyes and a round face. Tears still ran rivers down plump, rosy cheeks even though his distressed cries had turned more toward feeble whimpers. Feeling a pang of guilt, Yoongi came cautiously forward. The kid’s large, tear filled eyes lifted up higher along with his arms. His tiny fingers opened and closed, begging Yoongi to do the right thing and pick him up.
Damn. It. All. To. Hell.
The kid was sucker punching him in that damn soft spot he had for cute things.
What the hell was the purpose of a conscience any way? All it ever did was fuck him over. No matter how much he tried, he was never quite the impervious bastard he pretended to be. Stooping with a resigned sigh, Yoongi awkwardly picked the child up, holding him hesitantly at arm’s length. Eye to eye now, they both blinked at each other.
“Where the hell did you come from?” Yoongi grumbled, the baby staring at him through long, tear clumped lashes.
The kid seemed to think something was funny because his lips twitched to form a gummy snaggle-toothed half smile. Yoongi rolled his eyes, but at least he could thank his lucky stars the brat had stopped crying.
Now what?
When his eyes moved to scrutinize the situation, they caught on something that had been hidden while the kid had been sitting down. Now that he was dangling from Yoongi’s hold, he could see a piece of paper had been folded in half and pinned to the kid’s little blue onesy. Seeing as he had no other option if he wanted to read what it said, Yoongi finally brought the kid into his arms and settled him against his hip, fumbling to unpin the note. In this new position, the baby took the opportunity to clasp his thin white shirt in a grip so tight Yoongi was certain it’d take a crowbar to get it back off again.
Sending his eyes heavenward and muttering in annoyance, he turned his focus to reading…
Yoongi,
I hate to ruin your Saturday but congratulations, you’re a father.
I know it’s partially my fault you haven’t been in Jiminie’s life up to now…
But then again, you never asked how I was doing.
It was cruel of you to cut things off the way you did, when we both made mistakes.
I thought I could do this but I can’t.
I wasn’t cut out to be a mother, so I hope to hell you’re cut out to be a father.
You always wanted a kid didn’t you?
Treat him well.
I won’t be back for him,
Park Na Young.
P.S.
He was born October 13th 2014, that makes for nearly a year you have to make up for.
Yoongi stared wide eyed at the cheap piece of torn notebook paper, reading and re-reading what it contained line for line as if he hoped the words would somehow reformulate and spell something entirely different.
No way.
No fucking way.
A… - Yoongi swallowed heavily - …father?
His eyes turned slowly down to the baby now gurgling happily with a fist full of his shirt stuffed in his mouth.
What the hell did he know about being a father? His had skipped out on him ages before he had any idea what the word even meant. And sure he’d wanted a kid…five…ten…years from now maybe. He’d barely turned twenty-one for Christ’s sake. He could hardly take care of himself most days, let alone a kid.
He contemplated the possibility of the child not even being his - knowing Na Young the idea might not be far from the truth - but that slight, niggling uncertainty had him hesitating. Feeling like a nuclear bomb had just detonated in the center of his placid existence; he stared helplessly at the round eyed child currently watching him with a sleepy, trusting gaze. As if satisfied with what he was seeing, the kid rested his head against Yoongi’s shoulder. With a final hitching sigh, his eyes closed tiredly. Yoongi could only stand frozen in his open doorway, arms full of a baby who may or may not be his, with no clue as to what to do next. The simplest words often left the biggest impact…
‘Congratulations, you’re a Father’ .