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Yoongi was in love once. Her hair was always cut short with her own scissors and her nails were always painted light blue. In the summer, she got tan lines on her feet from her sandals and wore dresses with thin straps and big flowers. She had a beaded necklace looped and looped around her wrist like a bracelet and when she laughed it was like a bell.
Yoongi loved her for so many summers, and then winter came, and now she’s gone.
He hasn’t been able to sleep since.
At least, not well.
At night, all he can do is remember, and remembering is hard and ugly and lonely, and so his dreams are hard and ugly and lonely, and then the dreams turn into something vicious and destructive, black and harsh, and then Yoongi doesn’t dream at all. He just never sleeps.
He’s an ambitious man, hard-working, only partially because working to create something new for himself is a distraction. When he’s working he doesn’t have to remember, and sometimes nightmares bleed through the night and into the day, but if Yoongi works himself to exhaustion, he barely even notices.
It’s a shallow form of living.
He’s started to forget what it’s like to look at himself and not think wow, that person looks tired. It’s not even an opinion anymore, it’s a fact. Yoongi looks tired. He feels tired. He is tired.
Yoongi smiles at himself in the mirror and goes about his day.
He lives a good life. He has a nice apartment he can pay for on his own. He has a job that he loves and enjoys doing, and at least one coworker he doesn’t want to throw out of a window. He has a tank of goldfish that he remembers to feed everyday, even if he doesn’t always remember to feed himself. He lets himself be soothed by habits and routine, and it doesn’t matter that he’s not happy as long as he’s okay.
Being happy is difficult, and Yoongi is an ambitious man, but he doesn’t have the energy to try and achieve two goals at once, so he’s okay, he’s good, he can wait.
He’s been waiting for a long time.
It’s the sleeping issue, more than the happiness, that finally ruins the routine.
“Yoongi.” Namjoon’s voice is lighter, lighter than it used to be, soft, and Yoongi blinks at him dully. “How long have you been here?”
“Uhhh…” Yoongi looks at the clock on top of his computer, processes the time, and then decides to lie. “Just a few hours.”
Namjoon doesn’t believe him, not at all. “Have you gotten a lot of work done?” he asks, instead of calling Yoongi out.
Yoongi has finished production on two songs and finished writing another, but if he says that then Namjoon will know for sure that Yoongi has been at the studio for too long. “Some.”
“It’s late,” Namjoon notes, like it has anything to do with what they’re talking about.
“I write better at night.”
Namjoon hovers, his hand reaching for the mouse, and Yoongi isn’t even a little bit surprised when his coworkers hits save and quietly logs out of the computer. “It’s late,” he says again.
Yoongi doesn’t fight it. There’s nothing to fight when Namjoon is right.
It is late.
Looking at Namjoon used to be like looking in a mirror. A warped one, maybe, a different kind of tired, different reasons, but the dark circles and the heaviness and the look in Namjoon’s eyes…all of those things, Yoongi recognized as well as he recognized himself. It was a comfort, almost, in a twisted kind of way, to see exhaustion etched clearly in the lines of someone else’s face and know that he isn’t alone.
Things have changed.
It started slowly, subtly. Brighter eyes, lighter steps, a song with a melody that Namjoon would hum as he walked the halls, and a name that Yoongi had never heard before. Jimin. Something about Jimin soothes the ache out of Namjoon’s head, lessens the tension in his shoulders and makes Namjoon into something lighter and more free. Or at least, Jimin makes the space for Namjoon to smooth out his own edges.
Yoongi doesn’t see too much of himself in Namjoon these days.
That’s probably for the best, but it does make things a little lonely.
Namjoon sighs, running a hand through his hair. He bleached it a while ago, the black roots showing when he pushes his hair back, but he still looks nice. Tired in a way that is normal for this time of night, the I can’t wait to get home to my loving boyfriend and fall asleep in his arms kind of tired that is soft and gross and romantic or something. Yoongi isn’t quite sure what that looks like but he knows what Namjoon looks like when he thinks of Jimin and that’s it.
He looks like he’s in love.
It’s been a long time since Yoongi has been able to recognize himself in Namjoon.
Yoongi watches the screen of his computer go black with a sigh, and barely struggles when Namjoon manhandles him out of his chair. “Go to sleep,” Namjoon chastises, soft, fond, irritating.
“Staying here or going home won’t make a difference,” Yoongi tells him, soft, fond, not as irritated as he thinks. He barely reacts when Namjoon puts Yoongi’s hat on for him and wraps his scarf around his neck. Like a child being taken care of by its mother.
“Are you going to use the keyboard as a pillow?” Namjoon asks flatly.
“Won’t sleep even in my own bed,” Yoongi grunts, pulling his hat down more firmly over his ears, but even as he protests he collects his things off of his desk. It’s the least he can do, when Namjoon is worried about him. “And I don’t get anything done by lying awake in bed.”
“Do you have problems sleeping?”
Yoongi shrugs, pocketing his phone absently and pushing his chair back under the desk, where it will be tomorrow, after maybe two hours of sleep and three cups of coffee. “I don’t sleep well. So I don’t sleep.” It’s not a big deal, honestly. He sleeps in short spurts during the day, too short to sleep too deeply, and works in the in-betweens.
His mom calls him a functional insomniac, but Yoongi isn’t sure if it counts as insomnia when Yoongi could sleep if he let himself. Falling asleep isn’t the problem.
He just doesn’t like what he sees when he closes his eyes.
And sometimes it bothers Yoongi how comfortable he’s grown with living that way, but he’s living, and he’s making it through his days, and he enjoys some of them, and that seems like enough to ask for most of the time.
Namjoon hasn’t moved, but Yoongi can’t lock up until Namjoon leaves, so he pauses at the door and looks behind him. “You coming?”
Namjoon is standing still, eyebrows knit, thinking. Staring at his own feet. When he looks up, he seems a little unsure. “Yoongi?”
Yoongi raises an eyebrow. “Yeah?” He doesn’t want a lecture, but Namjoon isn’t the type. So he waits.
It’s a moment, a deep breath, and the slightest bit of hesitation before Namjoon finally asks his question. “Do you believe in magic?”
Yoongi has never met Jimin before, despite him being a large part of Namjoon’s life for a few months, but he’s heard about him.
“He’s small and cute,” Namjoon would tell him, frustrated in the weeks before he properly asked Jimin on a date, and fondly almost every day after that. “And he’s…special. Even without like, being someone who is important to me, you know? He is just…something you don’t see everyday.”
And Yoongi isn’t sure what to think of that, and words matter to people like Namjoon more than they matter to Yoongi, but Yoongi has heard Jimin’s voice a time or two, a snippet of a melody here or there when Namjoon brings a flash drive in from home, and there are things that Yoongi can hear there.
Jimin is something special.
He’s not sure why, but Yoongi can hear it.
In person, Jimin is small, a little shorter than Yoongi maybe, but solid, and his presence takes up the whole room. It’s not dominance or power, but something soft and bright, like sun through an open window, even in the cold winter. Warm.
Yoongi can tell why Namjoon hasn’t looked so tired recently.
But, as Yoongi comes to learn, it’s more than that. More than smiles and goodness and soft words.
Magic.
“You can’t sleep?” Jimin asks, washing dishes in his own sink because Namjoon’s apartment is a mess and he won’t let Jimin step inside until it’s clean. Or something.
Yoongi is still reeling. “Magic?” he says dumbly.
“Coffee.” Jimin hands him a cup, smiling slightly. “Wake up.”
“But magic?” Yoongi shakes his head.
“A kind of magic,” Jimin agrees. “But I don’t know if I can help you.”
Namjoon perks his head up from where he’s laying down on the couch. “Why not?” He bites his lip, nervous.
This magic is clearly something that Namjoon believes in, and although Yoongi has only just met Jimin and thus can’t quite bring himself to trust his word no matter how special he is, Yoongi trusts Namjoon.
Jimin unplugs the drain in the sink and dries his hands, throwing the towel on the kitchen table as he walks over and leans on the back of the couch by Namjoon’s head. He sets a hand in Namjoon’s hair and looks at Yoongi softly. “I can’t make the nightmares go away.”
Yoongi stares at him, hands warm against the coffee mug and heart somewhere in his stomach. “What can you do?” he asks, more just to say something, eyes dropping to his hands awkwardly.
“With Namjoon, he was thinking too much, and clearing his head so he can sleep is easy enough,” Jimin says, fingers scratching at Namjoon’s scalp, and Namjoon’s eyes flutter shut like a big, love sick puppy. “I can…encourage you to do certain things, and discourage certain things…but I can’t make you do something you don’t want to do.” He watches Yoongi closely. “I can’t make you let go if you don’t want to.”
Yoongi looks at him, not sharply, but with a dull kind of pressure that usually let’s him get his way, but he can’t say he’s surprised when Jimin doesn’t waver. “And what exactly,” he starts slowly, once the room has been tense for long enough and he’s able to find the words, “am I holding on to?”
Jimin smiles a sad smile, and even Namjoon looks at him in a way that makes Yoongi feel rather small and vulnerable and see-through, a thin panel of glass instead of a person.
But Jimin is kind enough not to answer Yoongi’s question. He takes a drink of his own coffee. “I have a friend who might be able to help you, though,” he says eventually. “Temporarily, at least.”
“You do?”
Namjoon looks up at Jimin in surprise, eyebrows up. “You do?”
Jimin smiles at him, not a sad smile this time, but something doting. “Yeah. Taehyung.”
“Taehyung?” Namjoon doesn’t look convinced, and that doesn’t settle well with Yoongi’s nerves. “He’s magic, too?” He looks bewildered. “He was like…12.”
“He’s my age,” Jimin says pointedly, side-eying Namjoon. “And yes, he’s magic. How do you think I met him?”
“I don’t know!” Namjoon laughs. “Online? At college? Childhood friends?”
“Even if I met him that way, he could still be magic.” Jimin laughs. “How many people do you think you’ve met, on the daily, who are like me or Tae? We live with you all, we’re not any different.”
Yoongi blinks, confused. “How is a 12-year-old supposed to help me sleep?”
Jimin rolls his eyes. “He’s not 12,” he repeats. “And I trust him.”
“And I’m supposed to take you at your word?”
“Why wouldn’t you?”
Yoongi looks at Namjoon.
Namjoon fidgets, uncertain. “Taehyung is…something…maybe not my first choice…” He frowns at the look Jimin throws him. “I’m just saying! He came across kind of wild.”
“That’s fair.” But Jimin still doesn’t seem pleased.
“But Jimin knows more about this stuff than I do,” Namjoon admits. “So if Jimin says that Taehyung can help, then I trust him.”
“Taehyung is a very powerful person,” Jimin tells Yoongi, and it does a little to soothe his worries. “Even if he can’t get rid of the nightmares, he can still help you.” Jimin smiles. “I’m sure of that much.”
Namjoon is busy, and Jimin isn’t a friend yet, so Yoongi goes to see Taehyung by himself.
He’s not sure how much good it would do to bring someone with him. It’s late, after Yoongi’s left work, but Jimin said that Taehyung stays up late because a lot of his clients are semi-nocturnal, which is convenient, because Yoongi considers himself among that number.
Not that he’s a client yet, but.
Semantics.
It’s raining, not the heavy kind that drowns but the annoying kind that tickles and lulls you into a false sense of security, and Yoongi is well into his walk before he realizes that he’s slowly being drenched by mist and it’s seeping into his bones. He turns his face up to the clouds. Everything is gray, the sun has long set, and Yoongi feels right at home.
Yoongi laughs. “When did I get so sad?” He shakes his head, smiling. He’s cold and ridiculous and sad and laughing. He jumps in a puddle. His socks are soaked.
He feels better.
Taehyung’s store is small and hidden in a part of town that Yoongi has never been to before, not dangerous, not really anything, a city street that could be nowhere and everywhere and it wouldn’t make a difference. The stone of the building is dark with rain, and the window doesn’t have a sign or anything. There’s nothing in the display.
But the light is on, a warm orange glow, and Yoongi steps up and knocks on the door.
It takes a moment, but there are footsteps, soft, leading up to the door, and the warm orange glow seeps into the outside, and when Yoongi wipes the water from his eyes, he looks up and sees that the orange glow has taken the form of a person. Tall and soft and warm, all tans and browns and a flash of white, a big smile.
Soft.
“It’s raining,” the stranger says. No greeting. No introduction. No questions.
“Yes,” Yoongi replies dumbly.
His voice is deeper than Yoongi would expect, from that face.
The man grins. “I was just making hot chocolate.” And gently leads Yoongi inside. Pulls Yoongi in where it’s warm and glowing.
“In the spring?”
“Firstly,” the stranger says, holding up a finger, “hot chocolate is for all seasons. And secondly, winter wasn’t that long ago.” He smiles. “And winter tends to linger, don’t you think?”
Yoongi has to agree. It feels like it’s been winter for so long.
But in the warmth of the shop, Yoongi’s heart feels calm.
Not tired, not anxious, not heavy.
Calm.
Yoongi is led into a side room, a small study filled with books and dried plants and a weird little cactus garden perched delicately on the window sill, set against rain beaten glass. There’s a little pink flower blooming on one of them, and Yoongi finds it oddly fitting.
The room is quiet, the way one should be when there’s a fire in the fireplace and the sun has set, no sound but the crackling of the fire and the soft thump thump thump of their footsteps. “I’m Taehyung,” he says, and unlike the rest of him, his voice is not soft. It’s low and deep and bright, not hard but not soft. Loud, maybe, is the word, but not harsh or grating.
Maybe it is soft. A new kind of soft.
Yoongi is too tired if he’s thinking about these sorts of things.
He shakes it off. “I’m Yoongi.”
“I know,” Taehyung replies, bright. There’s a large purple chair in the corner by the fireplace that matches nothing else in the room, and there’s a large, fluffy white cat curled up on it that Yoongi almost mistakes for a pillow. It’s head perks up when they enter, and it is a cat, looks like a cat, and acts not at all like a cat. Its tail wags when Taehyung gets closer. Taehyung picks it up, cradles it in his arms when he turns to smile at Yoongi. “I’m assuming you prefer Yoongi to Gloss or Agust D?” he asks casually.
Yoongi almost chokes on his own tongue. “How do you even know about that?” Gloss is a name he hasn’t heard in a long time.
Taehyung doesn’t seem to mind. He just shrugs. “I also know that you’re a producer and you like animals even if you won’t admit to it. I know that your blood type is O. I know you wanted to be a firefighter when you were young.” He tips his head to the side, one hand lazily scratching at the cat’s fur. “I know you’ve been having nightmares regularly for the last three years.”
And even though Yoongi feels warm, is warm, suddenly it’s like someone has poured a bucket of cold water over his head. “Did Jimin tell you about me?”
Taehyung moves the cat to one arm expertly and picks up a blanket for a basket by the chair, handing it to Yoongi. “Jimin barely knows you.”
Yoongi’s clothes are rain-damp and heavy, sticking to clammy skin, and he takes the blanket even as he keeps his eyes trained on Taehyung. “Did Namjoon tell you about me?”
“I barely know Namjoon.” Taehyung is still smiling, soft, like Yoongi isn’t watching him like he’s a threat that he needs to be wary of.
It doesn’t seem to bother him, that Yoongi has flipped the switch from numb to on-edge, and maybe it shouldn’t. Maybe it’s to be expected. Maybe Taehyung is a threat. What does Yoongi know of magic, and the sort of people that use it?
Namjoon called Taehyung wild. Yoongi isn’t sure that’s what he sees, but he sees something, and Taehyung isn’t hiding it. Is it power? Is it confidence?
Is it magic?
“Then how do you know?” Yoongi asks, when the other question gets lodged in his throat. It’s the same question, maybe, worded in a way that Yoongi can stomach.
Taehyung doesn’t seem in a rush to answer. He sets the cat down gently on top of the chair and goes over to the small table in the corner, by the bookshelf full of an equal amount of heavy texts, half-filled jars, and comic books.
There are two mugs of hot chocolate waiting there.
Two.
“Did you know I was coming?” Yoongi asks, even though the answer is clear in the form of a nondescript white mug with a chipped lip and hot chocolate that’s been sitting out for just long enough that it’s the perfect temperature for drinking.
He doesn’t take the mug when it’s held out to him, just stares up at Taehyung, jaw locked, unsure. What am I doing here? he asks himself. Taehyung, what are you? Who are you?
The magic thing makes Yoongi’s head spin, makes his skin prickle in a way that mirrors discomfort. Is that what it is? Is Yoongi uncomfortable?
Taehyung smiles at him, soft, and the answer is no, Yoongi isn’t uncomfortable.
He’s confused and wary and…unsure. He has no idea what to expect and usually he’s okay with flying by the seat of his pants but it’s late and there’s a promise in this shop somewhere, of a good night’s sleep or maybe something else, and Yoongi might be a little more hopeful than he’s ever admitted out loud.
“You ask a lot of questions,” Taehyung notes, still holding the mug out. The cat looks at Yoongi curiously, like it’s also wondering whether Yoongi is going to accept the offer.
Yoongi blinks a couple of times. “That’s generally what happens when someone doesn’t have any answers.”
Taehyung gently sets the plain white mug on the end table by the big purple chair, casually gesturing for Yoongi to take a seat, and takes a sip from his own mug, an enormous purple monstrosity with the words Dog Mom curling around the side.
“Shouldn’t it say ‘Cat Mom?’” Yoongi asks dully, because he can’t think of anything else to say. He doesn’t move to take a seat.
Taehyung frowns. “I don’t have a cat.”
Yoongi blinks at him again before looking pointedly at the cat on the chair.
“Soonshimie’s not a cat,” Taehyung says after a moment, his mouth falling in a little o of understanding. “There was an accident.” He laughs, embarrassed. “I’m gonna fix it. I just…have to remember what I did.”
“You turned your dog into a cat?” Yoongi asks incredulously. “Why?”
“It’s not like I meant to!” Taehyung pouts. “Although, I do like cats. I like all animals.” He leans back against the wall by the fire, holding his mug in both hands.
It’s silent for a moment.
“I knew you were coming,” Taehyung says eventually, quietly, like it’s a secret. “Or…” He bites his lip. “I knew that someone was coming, and I knew that I would be seeing you soon, so I assumed.” He grins. “I’m a good guesser.”
Slowly, Yoongi steps forward and picks up the mug.
Taehyung perks up, brightens up the whole room.
“And how did you know those things?” Yoongi doesn’t drink the hot chocolate, but it’s warm in his hands and it seeps into his bones.
“I know a lot of things.” Taehyung tilts his head to the side. “They just pop into my head. Sometimes, when I’m day dreaming, I think, huh, there is a person out there named Jeon Jungkook, and he is very stressed because he has a math test and also wants to ask out his old babysitter. I hope he has a good day.” He shrugs. “It’s a nice skill, but not always useful. Fun at parties or when I want to freak people out.”
Yoongi runs his thumb over the edge of his mug, feeling the chip in the imperfect ceramic under the pad of his finger, back and forth. “So, you just woke up one day like, ‘hey, here’s a list of facts about one Min Yoongi.’” It sounds ridiculous.
“Well.” Taehyung laughs. “Mostly. I knew Agust D before I knew Yoongi.” He smiles. “I’m a big fan, or something.”
“Or something.” Yoongi’s mouth feels dry.
“But the other things…” Taehyung hums, stirring his chocolate with a spoon before sticking the spoon into his mouth as he thinks. “The nightmares, and the fact that you feed stray cats sometimes but forget to buy yourself groceries…” He shrugs again. “It’s weird that way.”
For a second, Yoongi remembers all of the things his mother taught him about staring at people, namely that it’s rude, and then he proceeds to stare anyway.
There’s a gentle sort of fire that burns somewhere deep under Taehyung’s skin, a contained sort of energy repurposed to make a human being feel so bright and warm. A campfire maybe. Or a an early morning on a summer day. Something that envelops.
Yoongi takes a drink of his hot chocolate.
Taehyung takes a drink of his, not bothering to fight down a smile.
“You know,” Yoongi says, after a moment. “Namjoon told me you were wild.”
Taehyung nearly chokes. “I met him one time!” he wails, a volume shift Yoongi hadn’t expected. Soonshim the cat/dog startles at the noise. “And I was drunk! That’s not fair!”
Yoongi raises an eyebrow. “What did you do?” Namjoon has a pretty even temper, and is prone more to second-hand embarrassment than judgement, and Yoongi isn’t really sure what his version of wild entails.
“I!” Taehyung starts, but quickly loses his fire and takes a quiet, embarrassed sip of his drink. “I don’t remember.” He looks up at Yoongi, eyes wide, neck a little splotchy and red. “I don’t drink very often.”
“For a reason, apparently.” Yoongi is teasing him now, but Taehyung makes it easy, so Yoongi doesn’t even feel like he’s being too familiar. He takes another drink of his hot chocolate and tries not to be smug when Taehyung pouts.
“You accidentally start a fire one time and suddenly you have a reputation.” Taehyung shakes his head.
“Uh.” Yoongi frowns. “Is that what you did?”
“Well.” Taehyung scratches his head. “That was a different time.” He looks at Yoongi sheepishly. “I try not to get drunk very often. Because…” He laughs, embarrassed, deep in his chest. “I get a bit…”
“Wild.”
Taehyung sighs. “Wild,” he agrees. “I might have made out with Jiminie once or twice.”
Yoongi chokes on his drink.
“Before Namjoon!” Taehyung rushes to clarify. “I’m not about that life.”
“You made out with your friend?”
“I have no regrets,” Taehyung says with a happy sigh. He looks at Yoongi. “Are you warm enough, yet? Would you like a spare set of clothes?”
Yoongi is warmer than he has any right to be, between the blanket and the hot chocolate and the boy standing in front of him, but his clothes are still damp and clammy against his skin and his hair is sticking slightly to his forehead.
Still, Taehyung is wearing a huge t-shirt and what looks like gaucho pants, and if Yoongi wanted to drown he would have stayed outside in the rain. “I’m okay,” he says, pulling the blanket a little tighter around his shoulders with one hand. “I’ll be leaving soon, anyway.” There’s still a good amount of hot chocolate left in his cup, but this is a business transaction, and Yoongi is already feeling like he wants to seep into the floorboards and stay for awhile, and that means it’s time to go.
Taehyung hums, understanding, although Yoongi isn’t quite sure what there isn’t to understand. “It’s still raining.”
“Rain never hurt anyone.”
He hums again, setting his mug down on the table. “How can I help you then?”
Yoongi blinks at him. “I want to sleep.”
“You can sleep fine,” Taehyung says plainly, crossing his arms and looking at Yoongi with sleepy, half-lidded eyes. “You just don’t like what you see.”
“The nightmares, then.” Yoongi sets his jaw. He doesn’t talk about them out loud very often, but if he’s supposed to treat Taehyung like his witch doctor, it seems he doesn’t have a choice. “I’d like them to go away.”
“That’s fair.” Still humming, a melody now, something light, Taehyung goes over to another set of shelves, fingers trailing over Soonshim as he passes her. When he walks past Yoongi he smells like rain and strawberries. Taehyung pays Yoongi no mind, skimming over labels on jars. He picks up something in a mason jar, something purple and shimmery, and digs out a small glass something out of a drawer. It looks like a perfume bottle, maybe. He takes a dropper out of his pocket.
When he pops the top off of the mason jar, the whole room smells lightly of lavender.
Yoongi watches Taehyung’s hands, big hands, good for working, gentle, and only looks up when Taehyung has put some of the liquid in the bottle and is holding it out to him. “This won’t work,” Taehyung says.
“Seems like a funny way to make me want to pay you,” Yoongi replied, after a moment of finding his feet again.
“I don’t think this will work, so please only pay me afterwards.” Taehyung takes a step closer and sets the bottle in Yoongi’s free hand. “I hope that it will work, but your head is a little tricky, I think.” He presses a finger into Yoongi’s forehead, gentle gentle, right where the worry sits.
Yoongi looks at the bottle. It’s innocent-looking enough, small and delicate, and he closes his fingers around it before slipping it into his pocket. “And you’re just trusting me to pay you if it works?”
Taehyung raises an eyebrow. “You don’t seem like a man who likes to be in debt.” He smiles. “You don’t seem like you would put up with that sort of behavior, either.”
And Taehyung is right. Yoongi is a lot of things, but mostly he’s honest. With himself and with others. That’s why he keeps his mouth shut, most of the time, because his heart belongs in his chest and not on his sleeve but he’s never quite managed to keep it where it is.
“Spray it on your pillow before you sleep,” Taehyung instructs him. “If it doesn’t work, there is something else I can do.” He picks up his mug and walks out of the study.
Yoongi lets the blanket slip off of his shoulders and onto the ugly purple chair. He pats Soonshim on the head once, twice, before following Taehyung out of the room.
Rain is still beating lightly against the windows, and the night looks a lot darker from inside where it’s warm and glowing than it did when Yoongi was standing in it. It’s late. Yoongi has a long walk ahead of him.
The glass bottle feels heavy in his pocket.
His hand is on the doorknob when Taehyung clears his throat. He turns.
Taehyung is holding out a gaudy floral umbrella. “I’ll trade you for the mug.”
Yoongi is still holding the white coffee cup in his hand, hot chocolate now cold. “Oh.” He hands it over.
Their fingers brush as Taehyung takes it.
“I don’t need to take your umbrella,” Yoongi says, when Taehyung keeps holding the umbrella out.
“It’s raining,” Taehyung says simply. “You’ll return it.”
Yoongi will return it.
On the porch, Yoongi opens Taehyung’s umbrella and the night doesn’t look so dark when he’s surrounded by flowers.
“Good night, Yoongi,” Taehyung says behind him.
The door shuts.
Yoongi will be back.
It doesn’t work.
Yoongi tries the lavender whatever for three nights, and on the fourth night, he can’t even bring himself to attempt it when he knows that he’ll close his eyes and be haunted by ghosts. He tries to rest anyway, tries to force his brain to stop protecting him, to let exhaustion take over, but he’s too tired to fall asleep, and by the time he’s accepted that he’s fighting a losing battle, the sun is already peeking in through his bedroom window.
He feeds his fish, takes the floral umbrella from the corner by his front door, and heads out.
Taehyung isn’t surprised to see him. Not at all.
It’s not a bright smile that greets him this time, but a small one, a little sad. “Good morning.”
“I…” Yoongi holds out the umbrella jerkily. “I brought your umbrella.” The sky is clear and sunny, and the streets are dry, and Yoongi walked all the way here holding a gaudy umbrella, wrestled with it on the overcrowded bus, and still isn’t sure if he wants to give it back yet.
Taehyung leans against the door frame. “Keep it.” He looks up at the clear sky. “It’ll rain later.”
Yoongi doesn’t ask him how he knows that. The answer doesn’t matter as much to him as it might have yesterday or the day before.
Gently, Taehyung puts his hand against Yoongi’s and pushes the umbrella back into Yoongi’s chest. Yoongi clutches it with both hands, still unsure, but he isn’t sure what he’s not sure about. Everything seems a bit wobbly, slightly off-kilter. Not in a bad way, but maybe in a way that lets a little more light in.
“Come back tonight,” Taehyung says softly. “When it’s dark. And I will help you.”
When Yoongi walks back home, his skin is buzzing with something, either with magic or with Taehyung.
Taehyung was right. It does rain.
A soft whisper kind of rain, like the sky has a secret. A sweet one, maybe. A small, sweet secret and the sky can’t contain itself.
Yoongi walks to Taehyung’s shop surrounded by flowers and rain.
When he comes up to the door, Taehyung is already waiting for him, door held open with a smile. Soonshim is a dog again, still fluffy and white, sitting patiently at Taehyung’s bare feet. Taehyung’s shirt is too big again. It falls off one shoulder. There’s a whole cut into the hem with scissors. His hair is unstyled and his face is bare.
His eyes are bright.
“I made tea,” he says this time, stepping aside, and Yoongi enters into the shop without being asked.
The shop is still warm, and this time, as Taehyung leads him back to the study, he drinks it in a little more, the soft brown walls, the little pictures drawn by thankful children stuck onto the bulletin board with multicolored pins, the weird ivy that’s hanging from the ceiling and crawling down the walls.
It sounds like something might be singing, quietly, far away, but it might also be Yoongi’s imagination.
Taehyung opens the door to the study, and the whole room smells like lavender.
“I was—” Taehyung awkwardly coughs into his hand, “—trying to think of a better spell to help you, since the other didn’t work…so the whole room smells like sleep.” He sighs. “No luck, just lavender.”
Yoongi looks at the flowers scattered across Taehyung’s work desk, brushes his fingers against some of them. There’s a jar of honey in the corner, and several herbs bundled up with names that Yoongi couldn’t even begin to guess. There are a couple of little jars full of something that makes Yoongi’s skin buzz.
He looks over his shoulder at Taehyung. “I thought you said there was something else you could do?”
“There is.” Taehyung chews on the inside of his cheek. “I’ve prepared that as well, although I had hoped that I could think of something else.” He smiles. “My head is too full, I suppose, and I couldn’t be creative this week.”
He makes his way over to the fireplace. There’s a cauldron there, smaller than Yoongi might think of as being the standard, and something silvery swirls inside. Taehyung stirs it. The room vibrates.
There’s a weird smell, not pleasant, not unpleasant. “What is—“
“Mugwort,” Taehyung answers. “And rosemary.”
“Are those supposed to help with sleep?”
Taehyung looks up from the cauldron to Yoongi. “Not usually.” His eyes are wide and innocent, and the rest of his face is rather blank. He stirs again. “But I think they might help you.” He nods his head towards the big purple chair, and this time, Yoongi takes the invitation and has a seat.
It’s weird, because he can see Taehyung out of the corner of his eye, can see him stirring, but he can’t see his face. Soonshim hops up onto the chair and plops himself in Yoongi’s lap, and Yoongi carefully cards his fingers through her fur. It’s soft and white and clean and only sheds a little.
“Are you ready?” Taehyung asks.
Soonshim’s tail wags.
Yoongi isn’t sure what he’s supposed to be ready for. “Yes.”
Taehyung stirs again. Yoongi feels a little hazy. “Close your eyes,” Taehyung tells him.
He does, fingers still pulling through Soonshim’s fur, foot tapping a little on the floor nervously.
“Be still,” Taehyung teases, and Yoongi fills his foot to stop. Soonshim whines when Yoongi stops petting her, and she’s content to rest under his hand, and her warmth is soothing. “Take a long breath, count to seven.”
One. Two. Three. Four—
“Slower.”
—Five. Six. Seven.
“Hold for seven.”
Yoongi’s lungs are full.
Taehyung stirs again. “Breath out for seven.”
Yoongi’s lungs are empty.
One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven.
Yoongi is full of rosemary and lavender.
Hold.
Out. One…two…three…
Yoongi isn’t in the study anymore.
There’s a shift in the wind, a shift in the world, and the haze clears, and when Yoongi opens his eyes he’s lying down in a white room, on a hideous paisley couch that he recognizes fondly. He got rid of that thing years ago. His head is in someone’s lap.
The hand in his hair is warm and familiar.
He looks up at her, and she smiles at him. “Hello,” she says. Her voice is soft. Just like he remembers. When she smiles, Yoongi remembers all the summers he loved her. A rush of memories he’s forcefully forgotten.
Yoongi’s heart is so heavy. “Hello.” His words are so heavy.
Her hands trails down the line of his nose, the way it used to. Her fingernails are painted light blue. It’s so familiar his heart is crying. “What have you been doing, since I’ve gone?” She knows what he’s been doing.
She’s seen him, every night in his dreams.
She sounds so sad.
“I’ve been living,” he answers.
She raps on his forehead. He doesn’t flinch because he knew it was coming. “Have you really?” she asks, incredulous. “Is that what you call what you’ve been doing?” Her palm is soft as it cups his cheek. “Why are you living so half-heartedly?”
Yoongi’s throat closes up. “Because you were half of me,” he says plainly. “And you left.”
“You are a full, complete, beautiful person,” she tells him, booping his nose. Her bangs are uneven. Yoongi is sure she cut them herself. “I just helped you become a better person.”
Yoongi looks up at her, barely breathing. It’s a bad angle. All he sees is chin and nostril. He smiles. “Yeah.”
She tugs at his hair, play-fighting. “Don’t undo all my hard work.” She smooths it out again, letting the strands fall through her fingers. “Do you remember me so poorly? That I haunt you like a demon?”
Yoongi sits up abruptly. “No!” He looks at her. Her eyes are soft, dark and expressive, and she loves him, he can see it. “I don’t remember you poorly.” He looks at his hands, curled up in his lap.
“Then you feel guilty.” It’s not a question. “It’s not your fault, Yoongi.” She tucks warms fingers under his chin and lifts his face. Her eyes are stern. “What happened to me wasn’t your fault.”
Yoongi misses her. “Please come back.”
She sighs, letting her hand drop and trail lightly down his chest until her hand rests atop his. “I can’t go back.”
“Please.” Yoongi will beg. He’ll get down on both knees. He’ll cry if it will make her stay. He might cry anyway.
“You don’t need me anymore, Yoongi,” she tells him fondly. “You’re holding onto me and it’s hurting you.”
He sets his jaw. Swallows. His hands are jittery. He turns his palm up. Their fingers slot together. Her hands are so small. “I’d rather be hurt than forget about you,” he tells the corner of the room. Her hands are so warm in his.
“You don’t have to forget.” She flicks his forehead. “You just have to let go.”
Is this what Jimin meant, when he said that Yoongi was holding onto something? Is this why Taehyung said his head was tricky? Because he had the love of his life and he lost her and now he’s stuck?
“I’m only the love of your life if you never move on. You have so much more life to live,” she tells him. She scrunches up her nose. “I was your anchor once, when you flew too high and needed someone to tie you to the ground.” She sighs, bringing Yoongi’s hand up to cup her cheek. She looks sad. A happy kind of sadness. “Don’t use me as the anchor that holds you back. I won’t let you.”
Yoongi’s thumb traces back and forth over her cheek. “I don’t want to be afraid of you,” he admits. “I don’t want to suffer anymore, but I’m so afraid of what you’ll say when we see each other again.”
“The me that haunts your nightmares…” She raises an eyebrow. “Did she ever really exist?” She runs a hand down Yoongi’s arm and traces it back up again. The long string of beads wrapped around her wrist clatters in a way that makes Yoongi remember. “How could I ever hate you like that?”
“I—”
“You did nothing,” she says firmly, “except for love me.” Her eyes flicker down and up again. “You made me a better person, too.”
Yoongi looks at her, his hand hand still on her cheek. She lifts her hand to his face and her fingers come away wet. She wipes his tears away with her sleeve. “Don’t be afraid of me.”
“I’m not.” The words are so thick in his throat. “I won’t be.”
“When we see each other again, the first thing I’ll say will be the same as the last.”
She leans in, grasping him under the chin again. Their lips press together, sweet, solid, safe. She kisses him again on the cheek. She whispers in his ear. “Yoongi.” She smiles, and Yoongi feels it against his skin. “I love you.”
Yoongi comes back into his own body before he can force his heart back into his chest. It’s splattered all over his sleeve, messy and open and vulnerable, and he’s sobbing in a way he hasn’t cried since the funeral.
His face is pressed into someone’s chest, and there are hands in his hair. Different hands, bigger, but still warm, and they pull gently through the mess, untangling the knots with soft, sure fingers. Yoongi’s cheek is smushed into worn cotton. Lavender and rosemary. Rain and strawberries.
Taehyung hums a song Yoongi’s never heard. It might be a lullaby.
Yoongi shudders in Taehyung’s arms. Big, heaving sobs. Embarrassing. Soonshim licks his fingers. When he pets her again, his hands are shaking.
All he can smell is strawberries.
Taehyung keeps humming, sitting on the arm of the chair, rocking them back and forth, and Yoongi is only slightly embarrassed, because he’s a wreck, a three year wreck, and the hold is more comforting than anything. Taehyung’s voice is deep, vibrating low, and Yoongi is still crying too loudly, too hard, to make sense of the melody, but it sounds soft, sweet, soothing. Safe. Taehyung’s hands rub up and down Yoongi’s back, and Yoongi feels a little like a child. A weak, broken shell of a person that got too full too fast is cracking all over again.
Fragile.
He feels so fragile.
Taehyung kisses Yoongi’s head, lightly. “You, of all people, deserve to be happy.”
And even with her words still echoing, Yoongi can’t help but shake his head. He’s getting shit all over Taehyung’s shirt, but Taehyung doesn’t seem to mind.
“You do,” he says gently, firmly. “She loved you. Others do, too.”
Yoongi slips a hand between Taehyung’s chest and his face, covers his eyes, tries to control himself even as his shoulders shake. “L...look where it got her.” Gone.
“In a happy relationship with a man who loved her?” Taehyung smiles. Yoongi can feel it against the crown of his head. “With a man whom she loved?”
If there is anything that Yoongi wants right now, it’s to be able to pull his edges back in and control himself. To scrape his mess of a heart off of his sleeve and shove it back in his chest where it belongs.
Maybe he wants to be held. He doesn’t know anymore.
Gently, Taehyung pulls Yoongi away, brushes the sweaty bangs sticking to Yoongi’s forehead aside. “I know a lot about you, Min Yoongi.” His eyes are big, and bright, and maybe a little watery. The fire is out behind him, but the room is still warm. “I know what you think you do and don’t deserve.”
Yoongi stares. He’s shaking so badly, but maybe it’s just on the inside. He’s used to holding his pieces together. He’s not sure why it’s so hard all of a sudden.
“She wouldn’t want you to suffer because of her.”
And Yoongi knows that. He knows. Deep in his bones, he knows. He forgot, but he knows now. And he has to shift his entire world back into place from where it’s been sitting on its side for so many years. And he isn’t sure how to do that.
Taehyung brings his arms down and holds onto Yoongi’s shoulders, a comforting pressure.
Yoongi is so tired. “Why did you do that?” he asks.
Taehyung is quiet.
One breath.
Two.
“The nightmares never would have stopped,” Taehyung says eventually. “Even if you hate me for surprising you, I…” He bites his lip. “I want the nightmares to leave you alone above everything else.”
He pulls his hands away.
Yoongi sits on the chair listlessly. His eyes are far away. Soonshim is warm in his lap, but with Taehyung’s touch gone he feels colder. He’s missing something. It’s a feeling he’s used to, but it’s new. A different something.
He’s missing a lot of things.
“Was she real?” His voice is a croak. His sobs have stopped. He’s tired.
“Hmm?” Taehyung leans his head against the side of the chair, tired.
“Was she a ghost, or was I dreaming?” It felt real. Her touch felt real.
Taehyung smiles sadly. “Does it make a difference, either way?”
The answer is no. It doesn’t.
She told him what he needed to hear anyway.
He knows she’s waiting for him.
He knows he doesn’t have to wait anymore.
His heart aches.
Yoongi stands up. Soonshim hops off of his lap with a small sound and a thump, and Yoongi slowly makes his way towards the door. He closes his eyes for a moment, wavering. He’s not used to emotional upheavals. He feels a weird sort of empty, and a weird sort of full. He takes money out of his pocket and places it on the work table before he leaves the study. His head is cotton.
His heart is on it’s way to being clear.
Even though he can see the steps he’s going to be taking in the next months, he’s fuzzy and afraid, like he’s sifting through the dark half-awake, trying to find his way home. Half-awake, though...that’s better than being asleep. Is that what he’s been?
I’ve been living.
He’s never really believed that.
“Yoongi?”
He’s been sleepwalking towards the door, heavy steps, thump thump thump, like Atlas holding the sky, but he’s just holding himself, and that seems just as heavy. He turns over his shoulder.
Taehyung is standing there, still in the doorway. Soonshim is seated at his bare feet. His arms are cross. His face is full of something. The whole shop smells like flowers.
Taehyung smiles. “Sleep well.”
Yoongi smiles. “Thank you, Taehyung.” His voice is so quiet.
He walks out the door.
Jimin stops by his house the next day with a floral umbrella. “Taehyung says you forgot this.”
Yoongi just blinks. “It’s not mine.”
“I think it might be yours now.”
And of course, Yoongi takes it. It’s a reminder of something. A memory.
Maybe a promise. At least a promise to himself.
Jimin looks at him with a sad smile. “That’s the problem with Taehyung’s ability. He knows too much. It makes it easy for things to be one-sided.” He turns on his heels, making his way down the hallway, and it’s sheer luck, really, that Yoongi even hears what he says. “There are people out there who love you, Yoongi. Try not to take too long.”
Yoongi feeds his fish, feeds himself, and decides he’d like to live again.
Taehyung doesn’t usually let Soonshim into his office when he’s working on recipes, because, well, dog hair, and also she’s a complete and total distraction. But today is a soft day, warm, a day where spring is melting into summer and the rain that pitter patters against his window is warm and the sky is still bright.
Summer rain.
He sighs, smiling as he scrapes herbs off of his knife. One of his succulents has bloomed another flower, purple and small. Stronger than it looks.
Taehyung hums to himself happily.
Today is going to be a good day.
His last client had been a woman with chronic migraines. She was sweet, her lipstick would sometimes get in her teeth, and her smile was pretty.
Before that was a man who had lost his child and wished to forget. Taehyung hadn't been able to help him.
Before that was a young girl who didn't need magic, not at all, just a few words to set her on the right path.
And before, before, before, there was Yoongi. The small, tired man with nightmares he himself had created. Before they’d even met, Taehyung had known Yoongi was going to be important. A small, tired, beautiful man.
Taehyung sighs.
He hopes Yoongi has been sleeping well. He never came back.
A part of Taehyung misses him, and the other part realizes that they’ll probably never see each other again.
The Yoongi who had sat on his chair and pet his dog and cried in his arms hadn’t been ready for anything except to take a step or two in the right direction. To stand on both feet again instead of balancing on the line between sleepwalking and living.
Taehyung’s study still smells like lavender.
It’s might be all in his head.
He hasn’t learned anything new about Yoongi lately. His magic won’t supply him with anything, like the universe decided that story of his life was over and shut the book, and Taehyung can’t bring himself to be upset when there has never been a rhyme or reason to the people who flow in and out of his life.
Taehyung thinks about Yoongi, but he never asks.
Jimin might know, but Jimin isn’t supplying any information, not without Taehyung leading the conversation, and Taehyung has promised himself that this time, this time, he’ll let the universe do as it pleases.
That’s the problem with his ability.
Taehyung always falls in love first.
It’s the summer now, where it was once spring, and before that it was winter, and the rain is soft against his window, and Taehyung is missing something that never happened. The thought of something that might have been.
Longing is a strange sort of nostalgia.
It’s mid-morning when Soonshim perks her head up off of the chair, staring out the open study door, and jumps off to trot into the main room.
“Is there someone there?” Taehyung asks his dog fondly. He isn’t expecting anyone.
There’s a knock on the door.
Confused, Taehyung sets down his knife on the cutting board, and brushes his hands against his pants. There is green under his nails and he smells like the earth, but he’s never felt the need to impress anyone. It’s unusual that someone stops by that Taehyung hasn’t known was coming beforehand.
He’s excited. It’s always nice when the universe decides to surprise him.
There’s another knock, softer, and Soonshim parks at the door, a small, polite bark if anything, and Taehyung gently slides his foot between her and the entrance and scoots her aside.
The first thing Taehyung sees is flowers.
Big, bright, gaudy, familiar. Flowers on black plastic, and then the umbrella shifts and Taehyung sees a small, tired, beautiful face. Less tired than before. His hair is dyed blonde now. His smile is lazy and warm.
“It’s raining,” Taehyung tells him, because that’s all he can think to say.
“Yes,” Yoongi replies. The legs of his pants near his shoes are soaked through. The bags under his eyes aren’t so dark. The weight off of his shoulders has eased a little. The darkness he carried has dissipated.
“How can I help you?” Taehyung asks, pulling the sleeves of his sweatshirt down over the palms of his hands.
“I don’t need anything,” Yoongi says. The rain pitter patters against the umbrella the way it does against Taehyung’s window, soft and warm, and when Yoongi smiles, it’s like the summer rain has become a person and is waiting on Taehyung’s porch. He smells like clean laundry and something sweet.
Taehyung steps aside.
Yoongi takes it as an invitation.