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“He’s here,” Jimin said as he came into the kitchen. He didn’t need to say who he was. “Again.”
Jimin seemed just as amused as Yoongi was, which, of course, was not at all. He had been at first, when the snobby asshole started coming around, his name attached to the best food critiques that covered the entirety of Seoul. Jimin had thought him almost charming, at first, when he didn’t mind his flirting (and when he made sure to include in his first review that his waiter had been excellent, if not as professional as some other establishments) and complimented his hair and praised him for never having to ask for a refill.
But by now, six months later, when he ordered something new every other week and always found something to complain about, not even to their faces but to the face of the internet, where locals and foreigners seemed to believe they didn’t need to form an opinion of their own—
Jimin didn’t like him. And neither did Yoongi.
“The fuck does he want this time?” he grumbled, not looking away from the dish he was putting together. He didn’t need to give Kim Seokjin, Acclaimed Food Critic any more time than was strictly necessary. He couldn’t help but squint at the plate when he finished, though, seeing all the ‘flaws’ Seokjin would have written about. Messy plating, sauce on the rim, noodles not in a need little birds nest in tiny portions that good food was apparently supposed to come in—
“The special,” Jimin told him, taking the plate and putting it on his tray.
“‘The special,’” Yoongi huffed. “I’ll make it extra special—I’m joking.”
Jimin pouted. “I wouldn’t be mad if you weren’t. He’d probably be able to taste piss in the broth, but I can spit in it if you want!”
“I know where your mouth’s been, even he doesn’t deserve being subjected to that.”
“You’re mean,” Jimin accused, but at least he didn’t spit in the bowl Yoongi handed him when he came back a few minutes later. “Surely he can’t find anything wrong with this. Surely.”
“Surely,” Yoongi said wryly. “Yeah, we’ll see.”
Undersalted, he read later, the article forced under his nose by Jimin’s boyfriend—who was not supposed to be in the kitchen, he had already chided, because he wasn’t an employee and his hair wasn’t even up and Taehyung had just kissed his cheek and sat on the counter that Yoongi had just cleaned.
Undersalted, overspiced, an insult to the traditional cuisine Suga’s supposedly offers.
Yoongi underlined traditional inspired on the chalk board outside their door. Asshole.
-
It was always something.
The meat was sliced too thick, the vegetables sliced too thin, the rice tasted hours old, it had taken too long to get to the table, still undersalted, still overspiced, too big portions, tables were too close together, plates were messy, water was spilled, people were too loud, on and on and on and on, week after week.
Yoongi didn’t care. Or, at least, he tried not to. It was hard to not let it grate on him, the constant criticism that he would argue was at least mostly unjustified. People had their tastes, their opinions—but if that opinion was negative, every single time—
“I’ll kill him,” he told Jimin mildly. The new assistant chef, Jungkook, was already used to this threat, and just washed the dishes behind them.
“Want me to take him? I mean—I can win in a fight, if you want, chef-hyung.”
“I believe it,” Yoongi said, patting his back. “But I’m pretty sure that would take us from three stars to two.”
“Maybe we'd get a Michelin star for taking care of him."
Yoongi waved him off. He really, truly, did not give a fuck. “What does he want?”
Jimin didn’t answer and Yoongi felt a slow wave of dread sweep over him.
“What does he want, Jimin?”
“Dakdoritang,” he said, and Yoongi squinted at him. “But sub beef for chicken and tteok for potatoes and hold garlic but extra scallions.”
Yoongi stared. “I’ll kill him.”
“I swear I can do it for you, chef-hyung,” Jungkook said again.
“You’re sweet,” Yoongi said, “but I want his blood on my hands. I could use it to undersalt and overseason. Why the fuck—” He grit his teeth and bit back the tirade that could have easily fell from his lips. “Fine. Fine!”
He made his stupid dakdoritang that wasn’t dakdoritang at all, and brought it to his table, putting it down in front of him roughly. Some of the broth sloshed over the side. He could write about that in his review, too.
Seokjin blinked and looked up at him, taking in the bandana Yoongi had tied over his hair and the worn apron that he’d had since Suga’s opened years ago. “You’re the chef.”
Yoongi scowled and bowed low enough that he hoped the bastard could feel the mockery. “Enjoy your meal,” he said, and stormed back to his kitchen to make great food for the good, loyal, and new customers that took up the other tables.
Messy presentation, the next review read. While the meat was cooked well, the near-flavorless broth made up for it. Three stars.
“Taehyungie can find out where he lives,” Jimin said distractedly, painting Jungkook’s nails at Yoongi’s coffee table. Yoongi couldn’t escape them.
“And I can get a sword,” Jungkook offered with probably too much enthusiasm.
“You can just get a sword, Kook-ah,” Jimin huffed. “You don’t need to kill anyone with it to get one.”
“It seems like an unnecessary expense if I’m not gonna use it.”
Yoongi did not care about reviews. He did not care about stars. He quickly glanced at the plethora of five star reviews that greatly outweighed Kim Seokjin’s stupid three star review and turned off his phone. He heaved out a sigh and laid on the couch, legs kicked over the arm.
Jungkook made a sympathetic little noise and patted his hair with the hand not being painted, using only his palm to keep the polish from being messed up. “Just say the word, hyungnim.”
Yoongi sighed and nodded, closing his eyes.
“Your back will hurt if you fall asleep like that,” Jimin told him.
“Your back will hurt,” Yoongi grumbled back.
“Is that—” Jungkook lowered his voice to a whisper, “Is that a sex joke?”
“I wish,” Jimin clicked his tongue. “Hyung’s a prude.”
“Shut up, Jimin-ah. If you only knew half the shit I got up to in my day—”
Jungkook whispered, “How old is hyung?”
“He’s literally thirty-three, Jungkook-ah,” Jimin said, unimpressed. “His day is practically my day. Taehyungie and I get up to more shit than he ever did, anyways—”
“Gross,” Yoongi sighed. He was used to it. “You’re my employee. This is harassment. Somehow.”
“Really?” Jungkook asked, clearly perked up. “I’ve never been up to anything, will you tell me about it?”
“A virgin,” Jimin whispered, amazed and reverent. “Oh, baby doll, I have so much to teach you.”
“Can you corrupt the kid outside of my apartment, please—”
“Go to bed, Yoongi-hyung, I don’t want to hear you whining about being sore all day tomorrow.”
Yoongi grumbled again, wordless and only a little annoyed. He pushed himself up with a groan he would never admit to. “Lock the door when you leave. And actually leave, you hear me? If you steal all my eggs again—”
“I made some for you, too!”
“And they were burnt.”
“Oh, so Kim Seokjin isn’t the only snob around here?”
Yoongi didn’t slam his bedroom door behind him, if only because it was a sliding one.
-
It was slow and Yoongi had sent Jungkook to the wet market and let Jimin go early to shop for his and Taehyung’s upcoming anniversary. Yoongi was pretty sure it was a real anniversary this time, not their ‘third locked eyes across the room anniversary’ or their ‘hundredth time boning down’ one, so he didn’t feel too annoyed at his obvious glee as he threw his apron on the hook near the back door.
He had handled a busier floor when he had just opened Suga’s and it was just him with occasional hastily hired servers, and he’d handled last year’s Lunar New Year’s eve rush when they were flooded with locals’ visiting relatives. He’d handled much, much harder things than a third of his tables being occupied, but he had never gotten such an immediate tension headache as he had when he called out a ‘welcome, come in’ at the chime of the door and looked up from bussing to see fucking Kim Seokjin at the door.
He didn’t have it in him to glare. “Sit wherever.”
If Seokjin was thrown off, he didn’t show it. He picked a table close to the window, settling into the chair—the one single chair Yoongi had been debating replacing, of course. It creaked quietly and he knew Seokjin had clocked it.
He had handled harder things, yes, but he didn’t want to push it into unhandleable territory, not when he couldn’t make someone take over while he fumed in the kitchen.
He didn’t bring Seokjin a menu, but just placed a mug of green tea in front of him before walking off.
“Are you—” Seokjin called after him, clearly confused. “Aren’t you going to take my order?”
“You’ll get what you fucking get,” he called back. At least most of the tables were regulars and didn’t seem too put off by his sudden brusqueness.
He made sure everyone was set before going back to the kitchen, starting on the orders. He’d kind of limited the menu for the rush, emphasizing rice-based dishes so at least a majority of them wouldn’t have to be made completely from scratch, and Kim Seokjin’s would be no different. He made a little extra of every order and put it on a plate, not bothering to make it pretty. He was sure he’d read about that in Kim Seokjin’s stupid fucking review later. He couldn’t bring himself to care.
A half serving of curry, an easy spinach salad, a bowl of bone broth set haphazardly on the plate, and whatever else he felt like adding over the next ten minutes of speeding through the ten-some orders. There were some days when they were fully staffed with servers and Jungkook and a high schooler bussing for some spending money and he felt more harried and rushed than he did now.
He felt in his element like this, honestly, focusing on nothing but making good food. His hands never rested, his mind never wandered, his eyes measured without measuring and he seasoned like it was an instinct. He loved cooking, and there were some days that reminded him just how much he did. Kim Seokjin, with his three star reviews and petty critiques, could never take that away.
Maybe he wouldn’t even look at the review this time, he thought, putting Seokjin’s dish in front of him without a word. He’d gotten himself water from the serving station, Yoongi saw, and it was more amusing than anything else. Good. Let him work for a change.
He’d served Seokjin last and sat at an empty table in the corner, letting his feet rest as he took a break, watching his patrons eat happily with lazy eyes, waiting for someone to need his attention.
He felt Seokjin’s eyes on him and he glanced over, feeling a surge of vindication when the asshole looked back to his food with a subtle blush on his cheeks. Yoongi looked at him lazily, watching his ears get redder and redder. Serves him right. Let him feel watched. Let him feel reviewed.
And when the review came out—
The head chef of Suga’s puts care into every dish. The curry reminded me of my time in university when my friends and I would get too drunk for our own good but our drunkeness made the food we put together taste all the better—however, like the curry in my memories, it is oversalted and overseasoned.
And bafflingly, 4 stars.
“Can’t believe your curry pushed us up,” Jimin laughed the next day, reading Seokjin’s blog on his phone. He was supposed to leave his phone in the back, but Yoongi only got after him when he was bored and felt like griping so it very rarely was. “It’s not even on the menu.”
Yoongi shrugged. “Gisik-ssi from the pottery place requested it. I didn’t feel like making something special for the enemy.”
“Maybe you should put it on the menu,” Taehyung suggested. Jimin was supposed to leave him in the back, too, but Taehyung was absentmindedly washing dishes so Yoongi didn’t mind too much.
“I’m really good at curry,” Jungkook offered, perking up. He was sitting beside the sink where he was supposed to be washing dishes, but Yoongi didn’t begrudge him letting Taehyung take over. Hell, one of the top reasons he’d hired Jungkook was so he didn’t have to do dishes himself as much.
“I know,” Yoongi said, and he really did. Jungkook had made it for them a few times, usually in Yoongi’s kitchen with Yoongi’s ingredients. And just to see his hoobae have a well-deserved preen, “You’re good at everything. I’ll think about it. Maybe in a few months, though. I don’t want him to think his four-fucking-stars are doing anything for me.”
“Of course not,” Jimin soothed, and Yoongi scowled at the very obvious placation in his voice. “Once we get a five can we ban him, though?”
Taehyung hummed. “Maybe if we get up to five we can force our way back down to one. Hyung, hire me to be his server. No one else’s, though, I’ll be really bad at it and it’ll only kinda be on purpose.”
“I’ll consider it. But I don’t care if we get five stars or not,” he decided to remind them. “I don’t care about any review that’s not from an actual patron. Kim Seokjin doesn’t count.”
-
The next time Seokjin came in to Suga’s, Jimin took his order with his typical glare, Jungkook volunteered to take out the sword he did in fact buy and did in fact keep on him, and Yoongi made his order with begrudging diligence. It was a perfect plate, he realized at the end. Truly award-winning plating. He replated it to suit his feelings about making it at all—or, rather, for the person he was making it for. If he had his way, all food he made would be treated with the respect it deserved.
And honestly, this messy plate was respectful in its own right. It didn’t need some pompous flair or inedible plate decor, it just needed to be looked at, seen for the gorgeous, delicious mess it was, and devoured with enthusiasm. Or, at least, with hunger.
Seokjin stayed for much longer than was polite, though he made sure to order a dessert to pay table rent after he had cleared his own.
“He wants to ‘speak with the chef,’” Jimin told him with a scowl. “I would have told him to fuck off but he said please. And it would be more satisfying if you told him to fuck off, anyway.”
Seokjin had waited til the dinner rush had trailed into the typical weekday evening pace, where they usually had one or two empty tables instead of a full house, and he startled when Yoongi pulled out the chair across from him with a loud enough creak it made a few people look up.
“Chef-nim,” he greeted with a bow of his head. He looked awkward when Yoongi waved for him to go on instead of offering his own greeting. “I’m sorry to pull you away from the kitchen.”
“Jimin said you had something to say.”
“Well—yes.” Seokjin sat up straighter, looking at him with something shaded but genuine in his eyes. “I wanted to know why you decided against culinary accreditation.”
Yoongi stared. “What?”
“I just think—you have the talent, obviously, and with some finesse, you could earn awards and accolades and—hell, even Michelin stars. Suga’s is so close to being perfect—”
Yoongi snorted. “Ah, so that’s why your reviews are the first results for us.”
“I—” Seokjin blanched slightly. “Are they?”
“Don’t worry, they don’t matter much. I don’t think many of our patrons are interested in—ah, what is it? 2019 Korean Chef of the Year, 2021 Outstanding Chef, 2022 Culinary Impact Award, former head chef of two Michelin star-holding—”
“I get it,” Seokjin interrupted, cheeks red, eyes averted. “I apologize, though, truly. I didn’t know they were the first reviews to come up.”
“Who else’s would? The neighborhood ahjumma’s blog? It doesn’t matter, seriously. Our cash flow is the same. I won’t say it’s more, though, and maybe that’s on you.”
“I’m sorry,” Seokjin said again.
“Listen—” Yoongi sighed and leaned on the table, squinting at him. “Why the fuck should I care about culinary school?”
“Why—?” Seokjin blinked incredulously. “Why wouldn’t you? It’s so important in this day and age, when you’re trying to run an award winning—”
“I’m not, though. I don’t give a shit about awards.”
“Why?” his incredulity seemed to multiply. “Awards are the pinnacle of—”
“I don’t give a shit about the ‘pinnacle’ of anything, Seokjin-ssi. I’m happy with what I have. Your reviews might come up before the ahjumma’s blog, but I know whose opinion I value more.” He raised his brows, letting out an ah. “Is that where those missing stars are? They’re with the accreditations I don’t have?”
Seokjin stared at him and Yoongi heard the truth.
“You can keep them, then.” He called out a welcome in to a group of teenagers who had just gotten out of cram school, greeting them by name. He gave Seokjin a parting nod of his head as he stood, undeniably dismissive, patting one of the kids on the back as he passed them, gesturing at a table in the corner before going back to the kitchen.
Seokjin was gone the next time he glanced into the dining room, his table cleared and bill paid, and he didn’t see Seokjin again for a long time.
-
Seokjin didn’t review his dish that night, and Yoongi pretended that he didn’t check his posts more than a few times to see if he did later on. In fact—Seokjin hadn’t reviewed anything since he left Suga’s the last time, which was incredibly unusual (and Yoongi pretended that he didn’t know Seokjin’s posting schedule enough to know what was unusual). He usually posted twice a week, on Mondays and Thursdays, with a frequent third review on a random day. Suga’s was usually one of the randoms. He saved the scheduled posts for what Yoongi was sure he considered 'real' restaurants.
But there were no reviews for a week, then two, “real” or not. It was almost concerning—Yoongi pretended he wasn’t concerned, and pretended his concerns lessened when he just happened to see Seokjin comment on someone’s post the first day of the third week of Seokjin’s silence.
He made himself stop checking after that. The asshole was alive, even if he wasn’t currently being an asshole. At least he didn’t have to deal with feeling any amount of responsibility for his death.
-
“He’s here,” Jimin said a week later.
Yoongi hummed and checked his remaining tickets. Not many, it was an odd time between lunch and dinner. “Kook-ah, can you handle this?”
His sous chef had become a proper chef himself, really. Jungkook nodded happily, always glad to be given more responsibility.
Yoongi took the fried rice he’d been keeping warm for himself and split it into two bowls, grabbed a bottle of soju, and sat across from Seokjin.
Seokjin didn’t look at him, but he did take the glass Yoongi poured for him and threw it back.
“Thanks,” he said belatedly.
Yoongi grunted, and took a shot of his own. Seokjin only started eating when Yoongi did, and before he even said it, he knew that this dish was five stars and it would not end up on Seokjin’s blog.
“I quit,” Seokjin said.
Yoongi nodded and poured him another. Seokjin sipped it this time, tracing a finger through the condensation on the glass afterwards.
“I’ve quit everything I’ve ever started,” Seokjin muttered. Yoongi ate another bite and didn’t interrupt, and Seokjin continued a moment later. “I quit college, I quit my first three jobs, I—well, almost everything. I didn’t quit culinary school. Came close, a few times. I quit being a chef, I quit working in restaurants altogether, I quit all of my dreams—” He scoffed at himself. “I quit my stupid fucking blog.”
“It was a stupid fucking blog,” Yoongi agreed. He blinked when it made Seokjin laugh—a pitiful laugh, sure, but a laugh nonetheless. “So what?”
“So—” Seokjin blinked, finally looking up to meet his eyes. “What do you mean so what? There’s nothing it’s not ‘so.’ I quit—”
“You hated it, didn’t you?”
Seokjin stared.
“You did.” Yoongi shrugged and took another bite. When he swallowed, he added, “No one happy writes like you did about something you're supposed to love."
“I do love it. Not ostensibly. I love food.” Seokjin looked incredibly uncomfortable as he looked away. He ate, too, both of them silent for long minutes that should have felt longer than they were. “I loved food.”
Yoongi hummed.
“I did,” Seokjin continued. “I really did. I loved food, I loved it more than anything, I loved cooking, I loved eating, I loved—” There were tears in his voice, Yoongi was sure. He didn’t glance up to check. “Fuck. I loved it. What happened? I was so good at it, I was passionate, I poured my soul into every single plate. I won so many awards. I was proud, I was successful, why did I stop loving it? I thought if I got another star, I’d feel it again, feel that spark, but then I did and I didn’t, and when I broke my arm—I could have gone back to work, I could have done the same shit when I was out of the cast, but I just—didn’t. I quit.”
“Good,” Yoongi said.
“Good?”
“Yeah. If you have the ability, you should do something you love.”
“I loved it.”
“And then you didn't.” He looked up at him, squinting almost assesingly.
He had put a glass wall between himself and Seokjin since the very first review, but he could see cracks forming in it already. There was no way it could stay solid when he saw the pure desperation on Seokjin’s face. He wasn’t sure what the desperation was for, though. Was it for Yoongi to understand, or for Seokjin himself? Was he hoping to find answers to questions that couldn’t be articulated?
He was spiraling, that much was clear. He’d probably been spiraling for weeks, but now he was at the center of it, where it got faster and faster. Yoongi cleared his throat and stood, jerking his head towards the kitchen. “Come on.”
Seokjin stared at him, but as soon as Yoongi took a step away, he scrambled to follow, chair creaking against the floor. Jimin stared at them with wide eyes as they passed him, as did Taehyung—who did not work there, but was still refilling drinks and running plates like he was on the payroll.
Jungkook made a strangled noise when they came into the kitchen, hand flying to his side like he kept his sword there. Thank god he didn’t.
Yoongi ignored them all for now.
“We need to prep for dinner,” he muttered. “I’ll peel potatoes for the jorim, you chop some carrots. Medium diced is fine. Don’t worry about them being even, they’ll get eaten no matter how perfect they are.”
Seokjin nodded jerkily and scrubbed his hands at the sink, either very good at ignoring how Jungkook was gawking at him or not noticing at all. Yoongi was pretty sure it was the latter.
Yoongi hip checked Jungkook lightly, nodding to the stove. “Jimin has some new orders, take care of them for me, please.”
He stood beside Seokjin at the prep counter, peeling potatoes, quartering them roughly, watching Seokjin dice the carrots out of the corner of his eye. He was methodical about it, obviously practiced, though Yoongi wondered how long it had been since he prepped at all. When the knife slipped enough for some of the cubes to come out wonky, it felt like a success.
Seokjin stayed even when the dinner rush started coming in, taking quiet orders immediately, executing them with precision—with a few tiny mistakes, like he was testing Yoongi without thinking about it. He was silent as he worked, putting together dishes of banchan and refreshing ingredients as Yoongi and Jungkook worked through them. If his shoulders didn’t relax little by little, Yoongi would have felt like he was taking advantage of free labor. He kind of was, though, but he couldn’t feel bad about it.
Not when Seokjin breathed easier, not when he held himself more loosely, not when his face no longer looked like he was carrying the weight of the world on his stupidly broad shoulders.
Before they even knew it, the rush was over. Tickets slowed and Yoongi ran out of things to give Seokjin to prep without wasting ingredients, which, even for his still-an-enemy’s peace of mind, he wasn’t willing to do.
But then Seokjin started washing dishes, drying them and storing them away instead of setting them up to be immediately used again. Jungkook glanced between the two of them behind Seokjin’s back. Even if he did it to Seokjin’s front, Yoongi wasn’t sure he would have noticed. Even clearly better off than he was before, Seokjin didn’t seem exactly there, at least not in full.
“Hey,” Yoongi said. He touched Seokjin’s back when he didn’t seem to hear. Seokjin jumped, looking back at him with wide eyes. “Hey, do you want to head home?” He wasn’t entirely surprised when Seokjin hesitated. “Or you could hang around. We eat together after close on Saturdays.”
Seokjin blinked. “Is it Saturday?”
Jungkook, protective of his hyungs to an insane degree and having been ready to pull a sword out at a moment’s notice every time Seokjin set food in Suga’s, said, “I made Dubai chocolate cookies. They’re good.”
Seokjin blinked at Jungkook, then blinked at Yoongi, and nodded. “Yeah. Thanks.”
Jimin wasn’t necessarily cordial, but he didn’t stop Jungkook from serving Seokjin. Taehyung kept peering at him silently before eventually asking him what his favorite color was, if he was an animal what was his second choice of what it would be, if he could drink only one drink for the rest of his life and it would hydrate him like it was water what would it be—and only made a face when Seokjin answered “Water.”
And Yoongi—he watched it all unfold, assessing Seokjin as he relaxed even more, bowing his head over his plate, closing his eyes as he tasted, looking, finally, like he was enjoying something Yoongi had made—
“Feel free to come back tomorrow,” he told Seokjin after they’d cleaned up and sent the kids home. “Jungkook said Taehyungie posted a thirst trap of Jimin while he was serving and it went semi-viral on tourism TikTok so it might be busy.”
“None of those words are in the Bible,” Seokjin murmured. Yoongi laughed, short but genuine. “You mean it, though? You wouldn’t mind?”
“The more you’re here, the less I have to do.”
They stood in the middle of the sidewalk, Suga’s closed sign still swaying slightly from being turned on the door behind them. Seokjin nodded after a moment. “Yeah. Thanks.”
“Cool.” He hesitated. “Giving up is courageous.”
Seokjin stared at him.
“I know it feels impossible to not be hard on yourself, but—you have to have courage to recognize when something isn’t right. Especially if carrying on with whatever it is could be considered ‘easy.’ You quit stuff, sure, but that doesn’t mean you can’t start something right.”
Seokjin stared for another moment before swallowing, ducking his head. “I’ve always admired you.”
“You’ve had a shit way of showing it.”
Seokjin winced and rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah. Sorry.”
“Chop enough vegetables and you can make up for it.”
A tiny hint of a smile made the corner of Seokjin’s lip twitch before it fell away again. “I’ll do my best.”
Yoongi raised a fist, giving him a bracket smile when Seokjin looked over. “Seokjin-ssi fighting.”
Seokjin laughed, then, taking himself by surprise. Yoongi’s grin turned a little gummy before he got himself under control. Seokjin might be sidling into his good graces, but he wasn’t there yet. “Friends call me Jin. Not that—we’re—”
“Jin-ssi. Get home safely. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
-
Yoongi saw Jin tomorrow.
He saw him the next day, too. And the next. He didn’t see him the day Yoongi took off, but Jungkook did. And he saw him the next week, the next, the next. He saw him outside of Suga’s, at the coffeeshop when he volunteered to help with paperwork all morning, at the pet store when Yoongi accidentally acquired a cat that had become the love of his (and Jimin and Taehyung and Jungkook’s) life, but the love of Seoltang’s life was Jin, he saw him at Jin’s house when he called him at three in the morning after a rough and sleepless night and the only thing that fixed it was cooking for Yoongi and putting him to bed on his couch.
He saw him constantly, even before they decided to move in together, to an apartment still close to Suga’s but much better than his old one, which he had been in since he was a broke college dropout with pennies to spare after rent. Seokjin had demanded they spring for a huge shower, and Yoongi decided to never question his demands again (for at least a few weeks).
He saw him first thing in the morning, face to face on their pillows, but with Tangie curled right between them. He saw him last thing at night, when they showered off the otherwise-inescapable scent of gochugaru and garlic (which, thankfully, Jin was only allergic to when swallowed, which Yoongi had only had the presence of mind to panic about after days of asking him to mince it). Hell, he saw him in his dreams, and he wasn’t even mad about it.
He saw him when Jin’s eyes started to light up, but he kept the reason close to his chest, no matter how much Yoongi peered at him suspiciously. He saw him when he stared into the distance as he thought, hand over his stupidly-perfect lips. He saw him when he took deep breaths, working himself up.
He saw him when he figured it out, what felt right and what felt possible and what sparked something inside him again, after so many hollow years.
He saw him pushing Yoongi out of the room after begging him to stay for moral support, then when Jin pulled him back into their kitchen again because apparently being together made everything a little easier. Yoongi knew the feeling.
He saw him from behind the camera when Jin set up the kitchen for the first time, and when he broke down sobbing with his finger hovering above upload, and when he finally steadied himself and pressed it—decisively, courageously.
-
“And dul, set, dallyeora—Welcome to Eat Jin!”