Chapter Text
The ship docks with a groan, metal on metal, like an old man rising from a too-soft chair. Yoongi winces at the sound, knowing it’s not just the station’s fault. His ship is tired, its bones creaking with every maneuver. It shudders to a stop, and for a moment, he holds his breath, waiting to see if it will settle or collapse. It holds, barely.
He flips switches, powers down the engines, and the silence that follows is almost oppressive. The hum of the station seeps in, a background radiation of life and decay. He unstraps himself, stands, and stretches. The cockpit is small, cramped, and he’s been in it for too long. His body protests as he reaches for the hatch.
“Welcome to Station Seven,” an automated voice crackles over the ship’s comm. “Docking fees will be assessed—”
He cuts it off with a flick of his wrist. He knows the drill. Knows the fees. Knows he can’t afford them.
The hatch opens with a hiss, and a wave of stale, recycled air washes over him. He pauses, hand on the frame, and takes a deep breath. The station’s air has a particular smell, a mix of ozone and sweat and something metallic. It’s not pleasant, but it’s familiar.
He steps out, and the gravity shift makes him stumble. The station’s artificial gravity is set lower than standard, a cost-saving measure commonly used in these distant neglected space stations that makes everything feel slightly off. He catches himself, straightens, and looks around.
The docking bay is a cavernous space, lined with ships in various states of disrepair. Most of the vessels here bear the scars of desperation: hulls patched with mismatched metal, scorch marks from close calls, and names half-painted over as if disowning a former life. His own ship is no better, a patchwork of survival rather than pride. He frowns, turns, and starts walking toward the exit.
His mind races ahead of him, ticking off the list of things he needs to do. Find a parts dealer. Haggle for an air filter. See if he can scrounge up some work. Get back to the ship before the docking fees eat into his already nonexistent budget.
The corridors of the station are narrow, winding, and dimly lit. He navigates them with the ease of a seasoned traveler, following coded signage and taking shortcuts through maintenance shafts and service tunnels. The walls close in on him, a claustrophobic embrace, but he doesn’t mind. He likes the feeling of being cocooned, of having something solid and real around him. The station feels alive in its decay, each creak and groan a heartbeat, each flickering light a reminder that nothing here is permanent.
He emerges into the main promenade, and the noise hits him like a physical force. The space is open, two levels connected by a central staircase, with shops and stalls crammed together in a chaotic bazaar. People shout, laugh, argue. A child runs past him, nearly knocking him over. He steadies himself, takes a moment to orient.
The promenade is the heart of the station, a place where all the disparate elements of life here come together. Above him, banners hang limply in the stale air, their bright colors dulled by time and grime. Neon signs flicker overhead, advertising everything from cheap repairs to dubious medicinal cures. The air is thick with the mingling smells of street food, oil, and the faint metallic tang that clings to everything in space. It’s chaotic, loud, and messy—but it’s alive.
He scans the crowd, looking for familiar faces, for threats, for opportunities. His eyes land on a stall selling fresh fruit, and his stomach growls. He hasn’t eaten since he left the last station, and the idea of something fresh, something with color and life, is almost unbearable.
He tears his gaze away and starts walking. The crowd swallows him, and he moves with the current, letting it take him where it will. His mind drifts, thinking about the ship, about the air filter, about the job that got him here.
It was supposed to be easy. A simple smuggling run, no questions asked. But the cargo had been more than he’d bargained for, and the clients more dangerous. He’d barely escaped with his life, and now he had nothing to show for it but a broken ship and a list of enemies.
A familiar face appears in the crowd, and he ducks into a side alley. He presses his back against the wall, listens to his heart pound in his ears. The face had been one of the clients, or maybe just someone who looked like them. He can’t be sure, and he doesn’t want to find out.
His hand goes to the pocket of his coat, feels the outline of the data chip. He pulls it out, turns it over in his fingers. It’s small, unassuming, but the information on it is dangerous. He should destroy it, but he can’t bring himself to. It’s his only leverage, his only hope.
He puts it back in his pocket and steps out of the alley. The crowd closes in around him again, and he lets it carry him.
He pauses outside a small shop, lingering. The sign above swings gently, its paint chipped but still legible: “Tailor.” He glances back at the corridor, dim and flickering with the station’s unstable lighting. The crowd flows past him like a river around a stubborn rock, and he hesitates, caught between the current and the shore.
His hand moves to the tear in his cloak, feeling the frayed edges. It’s not just fabric. It’s history, memory, a piece of himself. He sighs, a deep, resigned thing, and weaves through the crowd to push the door open.
A bell chimes softly as he enters, and the warmth of the shop envelops him. It’s a small space, cluttered but organized, with bolts of fabric stacked high and mannequins dressed in half-finished garments. An aetheric sewing machine hums in the corner, its glow casting a serene light over the room. The air is thick with the scent of cloth and something else, something magical. Lining one of the walls are shelves filled with odd trinkets: an intricately carved wooden box, a delicate glass orb that catches the light in a kaleidoscope of colors, a small collection of mismatched pins and buttons. Each one seems out of place, as though it has its own story.
“Welcome!” A voice calls from the back. Yoongi tenses, then relaxes as the owner steps into view. The tailor, with a smile that could disarm a warlord. “My name is Taehyung. What can I do for you?”
Yoongi opens his mouth, closes it. He’s not here to make friends. Friends are too easily lost. “I need this fixed,” he says, holding up the cloak.
Taehyung’s eyes sparkle with curiosity as he approaches. “Ah, a classic piece. You don’t see craftsmanship like this anymore.” He reaches out, and Yoongi hesitates before letting him take the cloak.
As Taehyung examines the fabric, his gaze shifts briefly to one of the trinkets on the shelf: a small silver compass, tarnished but still functional. “Travelers leave little pieces of themselves here sometimes,” he says, almost absentmindedly. “I like to keep them around. Feels like they still belong somewhere.”
Yoongi’s brow furrows slightly. “You don’t think that’s… extra baggage?” he mutters, not looking directly at Taehyung.
“Maybe,” Taehyung replies easily, turning the cloak over in his hands. “Or maybe it’s just a reminder that everyone carries something with them. Some things are worth keeping.”
Yoongi watches him, unsure if the comment is meant for him or just idle chatter. He doesn’t reply.
Taehyung moves to a workbench, his hands a blur of practiced motions. He doesn’t trust easily, but something about the tailor’s manner is disarming. He takes in the shop, noting the aetheric threads hanging like spider silk, the runes carved into the walls for protection and luck. The runes tug at something in his memory—a smuggling job gone bad, the cargo branded with symbols eerily similar. He pushes the thought away, focusing instead on the warmth of the room.
Taehyung returns, holding the cloak with a careful reverence. “This is a beautiful piece. The fabric is almost alive.”
He runs a finger along the tear, and Yoongi flinches, as if the touch were on his own skin. “I can mend it right now, if you’d like. No charge.”
Yoongi narrows his eyes. “Why?”
Taehyung shrugs, the gesture loose and unburdened. “Because it’s worth preserving. And because I can.”
Yoongi crosses his arms, his posture defensive. “Fine. Do it.”
Taehyung smiles again, that same disarming warmth, and Yoongi feels a crack in his armor. Just a hairline, but it’s there. He watches as Taehyung threads the aetheric needle, its tip glowing with a soft blue light. The tailor’s hands move with grace, each stitch precise and fluid.
“So,” Taehyung says, not looking up from his work. “You’re a traveler?”
Yoongi grunts, noncommittal. He doesn’t like small talk, especially when it comes with a needle so close to something he cares about.
Taehyung continues, undeterred. “I can always tell. It’s the way travelers carry themselves. Like you’re always ready to leave, but never sure where you’re going.”
Yoongi bites back a retort. It’s too close to the truth, and he doesn’t want to give this stranger the satisfaction. Instead, he watches the stitches, each one closing the wound in the fabric. The aetheric thread pulses with a gentle light, knitting the fibers together stronger than before.
“There,” Taehyung says, holding up the cloak. “Good as new.”
Yoongi reaches out, then pauses. “Thanks,” he says, the word foreign on his tongue.
Taehyung hands it over, and Yoongi feels the warmth of the aetheric thread seep into his hands. He drapes the cloak over his shoulders, adjusts it, and the tear is gone, replaced by a seamless patch that blends perfectly with the original fabric.
He turns to leave, but Taehyung’s voice stops him. “Take care of it, okay? It’s not just a piece of cloth.”
Yoongi nods, though he’s not sure he agrees. Sentimental value aside, it really is just a piece of cloth that's just happened to travel with Yoongi for a long time.
He steps outside, the bell chiming again, and the cold of the station’s corridors bites at him. He pulls the cloak tighter, feeling the warmth spread from the repaired spot. It seeps into him, a slow, creeping comfort that he doesn’t want to acknowledge.
He walks, the crowd parting around him, and his mind drifts to the ship, to the air filter, to the endless list of things he needs to do. But for a moment, just a brief, stolen moment, he lets himself feel the warmth.
~
Yoongi flops onto the narrow cot in his rented quarters, the bed creaking under his weight. The room is as bare as the rest of the station—metal walls streaked with grime, a single light flickering overhead, and a faint hum from a vent struggling to keep the air breathable. He drops his tattered bag to the floor and pulls off his repaired cloak, draping it across the bed.
For the first time since leaving the tailor’s shop, he notices the embroidery.
A single orange, stitched delicately onto the edge of the fabric where the tear had been. The threads shimmer faintly, catching the weak light, and glow faintly golden. Yoongi frowns, running a calloused thumb over it. The texture is soft but firm, and even as he presses, the stitching remains intact.
He lets out a scoff.
“Cute,” he mutters under his breath, though his tone holds no malice. It’s odd—a tiny fruit embroidered onto the utilitarian garment he’s had for years. Yet, it doesn’t feel out of place. If anything, it feels... warm.
As the room’s chill nips at his skin, Yoongi pulls the cloak back over his shoulders. A subtle wave of comfort washes over him, like the warmth of sunlight breaking through clouds. It isn’t overwhelming, just... enough. Enough to notice, enough to make him pause.
He sits there, absently running his fingers over the orange again and again, his mind wandering. No one has ever gone out of their way to fix something for him, let alone add a flourish like this. And yet, that tailor—Taehyung, with his easy smile and steady hands—has done it without asking, without charging. Just because.
“Ridiculous,” Yoongi mutters, leaning back against the wall. He tugs the cloak tighter around him, but his fingers linger on the embroidered orange. For all his irritation, a faint smile tugs at his lips. He can’t help it. The detail is thoughtful, personal, and undeniably kind.
He lets out a sigh and slumps further onto the cot, cloak wrapped around him like a shield against the world. The glow of the orange dims with the fading light, but its warmth lingers.
For the first time in a long while, Yoongi sleeps without dreaming.