Work Text:
[one]
When Seokjin shows up on Yoongi’s doorstep that night, Yoongi’s already alone.
He knocks on the door a few times, and the sound echoes loudly in the silence of the aftermath, jarring Yoongi from the stupor he’d sunken into. Yoongi’s head whips up, eyes immediately darting to the other side of the apartment; to the room with a door that’s slightly ajar. It stays quiet, so after a few more moments, he pushes himself to his feet unsteadily, and goes to answer the front door.
Seokjin’s texting on his phone when Yoongi pulls it open, a small half smile on his face. He looks up to greet Yoongi, and immediately, his expression drops.
“Yoongi,” he says, voice pitched soft like he’s talking to a spooked animal. “What’s wrong?”
Yoongi shakes his head mutely, steps aside to let him in, and when the door shuts behind Seokjin, he finally breaks down.
. . .
The rest of their friends arrive a little while later. Yoongi can’t muster up the mental capacity to deal with them so Seokjin does it for him, answering the front door and shepherding them into the living room. Their expressions range from joy, to confusion, to anger and pity when Seokjin fills them in on what happened—quietly, so that Yoongi doesn’t overhear. So he doesn’t have to relive it.
They don’t say much to him after that. But it’s not like Yoongi really cares, anyway; nothing they could say to him even matters.
“Will he be okay?” Yoongi hears Hoseok ask Seokjin quietly. Seokjin just lets out a sigh, shrugging his shoulders in reply.
Hoseok shakes his head. “Honestly I never liked him,” he says, tone resigned. “He’s the worst. Truly.”
A pause. “I’ll kill him,” says Jimin, his voice low and seething. “I really will.”
“I’ll help you hide the body,” Jungkook immediately pipes up. He looks just as angry as Jimin sounds, which is something because Jungkook never gets angry. “When we get our hands on him—”
“It’ll be a slow and painful death,” Jimin promises. “He doesn’t deserve shit, hyung. I swear to fucking God.”
“I don’t think,” Namjoon cuts in, “that will do much good.”
From his periphery, he can see Jimin roll his eyes, his anger deflating as he flops back down on the couch. “It’ll make me feel better, at least,” he mutters. A pause. “It’ll probably make Yoongi-hyung feel better, too.”
Yoongi takes this moment to check himself. To analyze what’s going on in his body: the surprising regularity of his breaths, the way his broken heart is still dully beating. The gaping hollow in his chest, as if someone ripped out parts of him—all of him—and left him there with nothing but white noise and static.
Everything hurts. And yet, everything seems to be functioning like normal. Which, he thinks, is the fucking problem.
It comes before he can stop them, tears springing into his eyes. They’ve been coming in waves, pulling him under—whenever he thinks he’s all cried out, there’s always more things to cry about, more parts of him that ache. Inside, he’s raw—every part of him stinging at the slightest touch.
He sniffles, averting his face to wipe his tears. He doesn’t want to see the pitying looks on his friends’ faces.
“Hey,” Seokjin says, crouching down in front of him. He’s already got a clean tissue in his hand, which he passes to Yoongi. He’s the one Yoongi trusts most, the one who can read Yoongi’s moods the best, probably because they’d been roommates for a good while. “You alright? Do you need anything?”
Yoongi shakes his head minutely. Seokjin regards him for a moment, lips pursed, then pushes himself onto his feet and heads to the kitchen.
“We can’t just sit here and do nothing,” Jimin starts up again, his voice louder this time.
“Jimin—”
“He broke Yoongi-hyung’s heart, hyung,” Jimin continues, gesturing furiously at Yoongi.
“I know, but we can’t just…” Namjoon trails off, clearly unsure of how to finish that sentence.
“It was an adult discussion,” Hoseok pipes up, his tone placid. “And Yijeong made some adult decisions. Some stupid adult decisions, but adult decisions nonetheless.”
Yijeong. The sound of his name leaves a bitter, acrid taste on Yoongi’s tongue. It already feels like it’s been years since he left—packed a bag and walked out of Yoongi’s life forever. In reality, it’s probably only been a few hours.
(“I’m sorry,” Yijeong had said, his voice breaking. His expression had been destroyed, but his eyes had been determined. “I can’t…I can’t do this, Yoongi.”)
If Yoongi were more mature, he wouldn’t begrudge him for leaving. Or well, he shouldn’t—after all, Yijeong was nothing but honest with him.
But he isn’t, so he does.
“Adult decisions don’t excuse people from being a fuckface,” Jungkook insists, sounding almost insulted. “He’s a fucking coward.”
“A fucking coward and an asshole,” Jimin hisses. “Who the fuck even does that?”
It’s at this point that Seokjin returns to the living room, glass of water in hand. “Now is not the time,” he cuts in sternly, before turning his attention back to Yoongi. “Here,” he says gently, and the sudden change in his inflection would make Yoongi laugh if he wasn’t already crying. “Drink.”
Yoongi takes a sip of his water. Stops, then stares down at the contents of his glass, his tears still flowing out.
“Look at him, Seokjin-hyung,” Jimin protests, voice getting louder. “He looks terrible.”
Seokjin ignores Jimin. “Hey,” he says softly, rubbing circles into Yoongi’s back. “It’s alright.”
“Hyung, Seokjin-hyung, you have to be on our side,” Jungkook insists. “I mean, Yijeong just fucking left him.”
“Hey,” Hoseok interjects, “tone it down.”
Hoseok gets ignored. “He can’t just do that,” Jungkook insists. “He made a fucking commitment. He promised—”
“And he broke it,” Jimin finishes. “He fucking broke it. And he broke Yoongi-hyung’s heart, too, because an asshole coward who runs away when things get too hard for him.”
Yoongi knows they mean well, but somehow their words seem to cut deeper into his heart, the open wound gushing. The sobs crawl up his throat and spill out like a wave; he has to press a hand to his mouth to try and stifle the sound.
“Guys,” Seokjin snaps, but Jimin and Jungkook aren’t deterred.
“What fucking asshole just leaves someone in the middle of the night?” Jungkook seethes.
“And it’d be one thing if he just hurt Yoongi-hyung,” Jimin adds. It’s clear that this whole thing is pissing him off, his voice growing angrier with every word. “But it’s not just him. He also left—”
As if on cue, a loud, piercing cry breaks the tension. Everyone startles at the noise, heads whipping to the door on the other side of the apartment, to the baby monitor sitting on the coffee table. Yoongi’s on his feet without realizing it, a pavlovian response to the sound.
“Ara,” he manages to get out in between his sobs.
And that’s the crux of the matter right there: if Yijeong had just left him, then Yoongi would be able to deal with it. His heart’s been broken in the past; no matter how long-term the relationship had been, Yoongi would’ve moved on eventually. But Yijeong hadn’t just left him, he’d also their baby daughter, a tiny thing just shy of eight months old, and Yoongi is losing his mind at the thought of having to raise Ara alone.
Losing his mind at the thought that Yijeong hadn’t even wanted her. That he’d only been swayed by Yoongi, and that he'd never wanted to be a father—not now, not ever.
“See, now you woke her,” Seokjin hisses at Jimin and Jungkook.
Ara’s cries grow louder. Yoongi wants to go get her, but his knees feel weak, unable to hold him up.
“No, stay,” Seokjin scolds, pushing him back down on the couch. “Someone else will get her.”
“I’ll do it,” a strangely-familiar baritone volunteers, the sound making Yoongi’s head whip up in slight confusion.
It’s only then that Yoongi registers the presence of a seventh person, one he hasn’t seen since their university days. For the last few years it’s only been the six of them, Taehyung having moved to Europe right after he graduated university to pursue a career in art. Yoongi can count on one hand the number of times he’s seen him in the last eight years—usually in group dinners hosted by Jimin whenever Taehyung finds himself in town.
But he’s here now, mutedly pushing himself onto his feet at Seokjin’s words, dressed in a grey hoodie that’s a little too large for him and some sweatpants.
“No, I…I should,” Yoongi replies, getting onto his feet again. It’s the first true words he’s said in an hour, and his voice comes out scratchy.
He takes a step forward, unstable.
“Sit down,” Seokjin chides gently, pushing him back down again. “It’s okay, Taehyungie can do it.”
“But she’s just…” Yoongi trails off, unsure of what to say.
It’s Taehyung who speaks up this time. “Don’t worry, hyung,” he says. His voice is husky, and his tone slightly comforting. “I’ll bring her to you.” He shoots Yoongi a small, reassuring smile before following where Seokjin points him to.
Seokjin must sense Yoongi’s confusion. “I hope you don’t mind that he tagged along,” he tells Yoongi quietly. “He just flew into Seoul tonight; Jimin picked him up from the airport. They drove straight here. His bags are actually still in the trunk.”
Now that Seokjin mentions it, Yoongi can vaguely remember Jimin saying something; talking about bringing a surprise guest for board game night in the group chat. “No, no, it’s fine,” Yoongi says. “I just…I didn’t notice when he came in.”
Truth is, he and Taehyung have never really been close. They’d been in the same friend group in university, but they never really spoke to each other much—Yoongi hanging out more with Seokjin and Namjoon, whereas Taehyung tended to stick to Hoseok, Jimin and Jungkook. Yoongi likes him just fine, and they got along when they all hung out together, but that really was the extent of his and Taehyung’s relationship.
He looks a little different now, compared to the last time Yoongi saw him. Older, in places Yoongi doesn’t have the brain space to identify.
Against his better judgment, he stays seated as Taehyung disappears past the door. The others have gone back to quietly discussing Yijeong’s deserved punishment—Jimin and Jungkook vehemently argue murder, while Hoseok claims that maybe a light castration is enough, all while Ara keeps crying in the background.
Yoongi curls his hands into fists, his fingernails digging into his palm as tears drip down from his face. He and Yijeong were supposed to be a team. Now Yoongi has no idea how he’s going to do this—any of this, all on his own.
Taehyung emerges back into the living room with Ara in his arms. She’s all mussed up from sleep, hair matted and sleep lines on her cheek. There are tear tracks on her face, but her eyes are wide and alert, looking around confusedly at the amount of people in her home.
“Ara,” Jimin immediately coos when he sees her, all his anger melting away as he reaches out for her. But she shies away from him, turning to hide her face in Taehyung’s shoulder.
“You still don’t like me, huh?” Jimin says, pouting. She turns her head to peek at Jimin, then immediately turns away when Jimin levels his face to hers. “Aw, Ara.”
“Hi Ara,” Namjoon coos, reaching out to stroke her with a finger. Ara promptly shakes it off, keeping her face hidden. She seems perfectly relaxed in Taehyung’s arms.
It’s a little surreal, watching this happen. Ara has never really taken to people quickly, moody around strangers, and even people she sees on a regular basis. Even until now, the only people she truly lights up at seeing are Yoongi and Yoongi’s own mother.
She didn’t even like Yijeong. Which was apparently, the straw that broke the camel’s back. But it’s not like it matters anymore. Yijeong’s gone.
“Ara,” he calls out to her. Her head whips up at the sound of his voice, eyes searching the room until they find him.
And then she wails like a banshee unleashed, struggling out of Taehyung’s hold as she reaches for him. She babbles urgently, a mishmash of nonsensical sounds, and Taehyung crosses the distance between them to pass her to Yoongi.
She throws her arms around Yoongi as soon as he grabs her, burying her face into his neck. Yoongi shushes her, rubs a hand down her tiny back.
“You’re okay,” he murmurs to her. “You’re fine. Appa’s here. Appa will always be here.”
She hiccups once, then settles. Yoongi squeezes her gently, presses his nose to the side of her head, and just breathes her in.
. . .
The simple explanation is: Yijeong left them. For good too, and Yoongi knows this because Yoongi knows Yijeong, knows how he hems and haws and sits on a problem until he’s a hundred percent certain of his decision. He’s never been one to half-ass things, and he’s certainly not one to come groveling back.
Yijeong’s gone, and he’s gone for good.
(And the more complex one is: It’s been almost eight months since they came home from the hospital with Ara. She’s shaping up to look a lot like Yoongi; some days, Yoongi can see his own childhood self reflected in the slants of her eyes, in the cute little curve of her button nose. She’s his biologically, which was something he and Yijeong agreed on before looking for surrogates. But not like it matters whose blood she shares—Yoongi’s always held firm belief that family isn’t whose blood is in you, but who you love and who loves you.
She’s always been a little standoffish. In the beginning, it didn’t really matter that she was closer to Yoongi—she was asleep most of the time anyway, and even if she cried whenever Yijeong held her or tried to change her diaper, it was easy to ignore. It would only take some time before she and Yijeong bonded; Yoongi had faith.
But then days turned into weeks turned into months, and Ara grew and grew. She spent more time awake. She became curious and playful, started to smile and laugh and babble. And she also started to scream bloody murder whenever Yijeong would hold her, struggling out of his grip to get to Yoongi.
At first, Yijeong took it like a champ. He’d tried over and over again, reaching out to her day after day. But then tonight, when he tried to put her to bed, Ara screamed so loud that Yoongi was sure the neighbors could hear her. Yijeong had screamed back, frustrated, and then—
And then that was it. Frustration and anger came pouring out, and then Yijeing had looked at Yoongi like he was sorry, packed a bag and left him to deal with the aftermath.)
Ara had refused to go back to sleep, too wary of the people (read: her uncles) sitting in the living room. She sits on Yoongi’s lap as the others discuss the situation quietly, leaning against him and occasionally reaching for her feet. Her presence doesn’t go unaccounted for; Jungkook and Jimin stop talking about murder and keep things strictly PG, and Hoseok and Seokjin make the occasional face at her. In those moments, she presses closer to Yoongi, turning to hide her face against his collarbone.
It’s comforting having his friends around; they listen to the whole story, offer platitudes and dole out hugs and let him cry it out when he needs to. It grounds him a little, their presence an anchor in the ocean of sadness threatening to swallow him whole.
He’s always had a slightly terrifying history with sadness.
Eventually, he doesn’t feel quite so fragile anymore, doesn’t feel like he’s about to fall apart with one ill-timed word. He unsteadily pushes himself to his feet, shifting to perch Ara on his hip; she’s started to get drowsy, nodding off every so often, but very stubbornly refusing to succumb to sleep.
“It’s late,” he tells them, averting his gaze so as not to make eye-contact with anyone. “I should…um, I should put Ara back to bed.” He pauses. “Thank you for comforting me. Sorry about, uh, game night.”
Jimin shakes his head adamantly. “It’s fine, hyung,” he says, as sweet as ever.
“We can always have game night another time,” Hoseok adds.
Yoongi lets out a breath, trying to stop the tears from coming out again. He’s cried enough tonight, he thinks.
“Yeah,” he says. “I promise I’ll make it up to you guys.”
His friends don’t dawdle for much longer; they have a short discussion to make sure one of them (Seokjin, as he lives closest) stays with Yoongi tonight, and then they’re pushing themselves to their feet and heading out. Ara turns away from them when they try to bid her goodbye, resolutely refusing to interact with them.
Jimin and Taehyung are the last to head out, the latter clearly more exhausted than everyone else. Still, he manages to shoot Yoongi a small smile, leaning over to give him a loose one-armed hug.
“Bye, hyung,” he says. “Good night.” Then he’s leaning down so he’s eye-level with Ara. “Bye, Ara.”
Yoongi doesn’t think Ara will respond, but surprisingly she shifts in his arms, her head turning so she can regard Taehyung with one eye. Taehyung’s smile grows, and he reaches out to tap her light on the back of her hand.
Ara’s arm uncurls from Yoongi’s neck, a tiny hand reaching out to hold Taehyung’s finger.
Taehyung chuckles. “Sleep well,” he murmurs to her, before gently pulling his finger away. He gives Yoongi one last smile before heading out, following Jimin out the apartment.
The instant they're gone, Ara curls back into him, her breathing slowing. From the fond look on Seokjin’s face, he can assume that Ara’s finally fallen asleep.
“I’ll just go put her down,” Yoongi says quietly. “Then, um, I can—”
Seokjin saves him the trouble. “Don’t worry about me,” he says, waving a hand. “I know where everything is.” He pauses, taking a moment to study Yoongi’s expression. “I can even pull out the alcohol if you wanna get shit-faced. Reasonably, of course.”
Yoongi feels himself crack a smile. “Maybe not tonight,” he says. “Probably have to be up bright and early for her.”
It hits him again, the way Ara’s been left behind, cast aside by someone who was supposed to love her; the way he’s all she has left. The future looks daunting, insurmountable. Yoongi has to blow out a breath to stop himself from spiraling into an anxiety attack.
“Hey,” Seokjin says, his voice snapping Yoongi out from his thoughts. His brows are knitted together worriedly. “If you need any help at all, or if you’re feeling too overwhelmed with Ara or anything, just let hyung know, okay?”
“I will,” Yoongi promises.
“In fact, let us all know.” Seokjin shoots him a small smile. “We’re all here for you. You know that, right?”
Yoongi swallows. “I know, hyung,” he says, then goes to put Ara in her crib.
. . .
Saturday, 27 May 2023
Min Yoongi:
yijeong please
please
come back, we can figure this out
i don’t know how to do this without you
. . .
For a scant few moments right after Yoongi wakes up, he’s blissfully unaware—limbs contentedly heavy, mind peacefully blank. But then his hand instinctively reaches out, ghosts down the side of the bed that’s strikingly cold, and it all comes crashing back.
Yijeong’s gone.
The ache starts small, starts from somewhere deep inside him, and spreads quickly, until there isn’t a single part of him that doesn’t hurt. His throat closes up with the onset of tears, and it’s difficult to breathe, difficult to think beyond the sadness that’s now making its presence known. He’s gone, a small voice in his head whispers, each word piercing enough to hurt. You forced it all on him. You forced him to stay. He never wanted any of this.
Yoongi curls in on himself, squeezes his eyes shut, and cries.
He doesn’t know how long he spends crying—only that by the time Seokjin knocks on his door, his eyes are swollen and his throat is raw. Seokjin’s holding Ara, who also looks to be on the verge of tears—unhappy to be held by someone who isn’t Yoongi.
As soon as Ara spots him, she wriggles in Seokjin’s grip, face contorting. Yoongi manages to sit up and Seokjin passes her over before she throws a full blown tantrum. Her presence grounds him, comforts him; her tiny warm body an anchor in the sea of sadness, and in that moment, Yoongi can breathe again.
“Morning,” he manages, voice raspy from disuse.
“Morning,” Seokjin replies kindly. He sits on the bed next to Yoongi, a few inches away. “How are you feeling?”
“Like shit,” Yoongi replies immediately, forgoing his own no swearing around the baby rule.
Seokjin hums sympathetically. “Yeah, I can imagine.” He points at Ara, who’s decidedly not looking at him—her chubby cheek pressed against Yoongi’s shoulder. “I hope you don’t mind that I grabbed her,” he says. “I went to check on you and found her already awake in her crib. She had a full diaper, so I changed that.”
Yoongi could cry. “Thank you, hyung,” he replies hoarsely. He runs a hand down her back, mostly for his own comfort. “I really appreciate your help.”
Seokjin only stays until a little past eight in the morning. He’s extremely apologetic about not being able to stay longer, but Yoongi waves him off. It’s fine, Yoongi can handle himself; he’s got a baby to take care of and there’s no way he’ll allow himself to break down.
As soon as Seokjin’s gone, Yoongi busies himself with Ara. He brushes her teeth (or well, her tiny tooth that’s just starting to come out), feeds her, and then picks an outfit for her to wear for the day. She smiles up at him sunnily, her face rosy as she gurgles at him, and it’s hard for Yoongi to fathom that Yijeong would want to leave this, her.
But he doesn’t want to think about it anymore. Not right now, at least. The thing about being a parent is that you aren’t allowed to fall apart, not when there’s someone else relying on you.
“Yeah?” He answers her softly, smiling as he buttons her cute little cat onesie. “Sounds like you had a nice dream, huh, baby girl?”
Ara giggles in response, stuffing a tiny fist in her mouth. Talking to her, Yoongi feels the sudden emptiness of the apartment recede just a fraction.
He’s in the middle of trying to get Ara to eat some purée when the buzzer to his building rings. It’s still so early in the morning that Yoongi pays it no mind, but then immediately his phone starts ringing.
“Hyung!” It’s Jimin on the line, his voice bright. It’s uncharacteristic of him to be up so early, and Yoongi’s just about to ask why he’s awake when Jimin speaks again. “Let us up! We brought breakfast.”
At the mention of breakfast, Yoongi’s stomach rumbles loudly, and he suddenly realizes that he hasn’t eaten anything since lunchtime yesterday. He sets down the spoon he’d been feeding Ara with, dabbing her face with her bib before getting to his feet.
He buzzes Jimin in, hearing a chirpy thank you! over the phone line, before returning to the kitchen. Ara looks up at him questioningly, almost like she’s asking him what’s happening.
Yoongi smiles at her. “Seems like we have a few early morning guests,” he tells her. Funnily enough, Ara turns her attention back to the food, seemingly satisfied with his answer.
It’s only a few minutes later when the doorbell to his apartment rings. Yoongi answers it, and almost stumbles back at the force in which Jimin thrusts the bag of food at him.
“For you,” Jimin says imperiously. He pushes past Yoongi and takes off his shoes in record time, heading further into the apartment before Yoongi can protest. “Ara, where are you? Oh, there you are! Good morning!”
“Don’t bother her, she’s eating!” Yoongi calls back, unable to stop himself from smiling at Jimin’s antics. When he turns back, he finds someone else hovering at the door, looking a bit uncertain as to whether he’s allowed to come in.
“Good morning, hyung,” Taehyung says, uncertainty melting into a pleasantry.
Yoongi opens the door wider. “Come in,” he says, stepping aside to let him in.
Yoongi hadn’t been in the right headspace to take in his presence yesterday, so he does now, taking a moment to study him. The last time they’d seen each other before yesterday was about two years ago, when Jimin had organized a group dinner right before Taehyung was set to fly back to Paris, right before Taehyung’s art career really blew up. He tries to remember what Taehyung had looked like back then, tries to identify the things that changed and the things that stayed the same.
His hair was longer back then, dyed a light chestnut and styled into a mullet. Right now it’s black, cut in the same way he used to wear it when they went to university.
He seems older now, too—a lot more polished, a lot more grown-up. Gone is the air mischief that used to follow him around, replaced by something a lot more dignified. Yoongi supposes that’s what fame does to people.
“I hope you don’t mind us stopping by.” Taehyung’s words rouse Yoongi from his thoughts. “Jimin insisted on getting you some breakfast. Said that you needed company and that you probably hadn’t eaten since lunchtime.”
“No, it’s fine,” Yoongi replies. It’s more than fine, actually; he does need company and the smell wafting from the bag is divine. “Jimin does this a lot and…I appreciate it, really. Thank you.” He clears his throat awkwardly. “It’s really nice to see you again, Taehyung.”
Taehyung’s smile is small, but sincere. “You too, hyung. Parenthood seems to be treating you well.”
“Has it?” Yoongi asks. “I feel like I’m barely getting any sleep nowadays. I’m exhausted.”
Taehyung chuckles in reply. “If you are, it doesn’t show,” he assures Yoongi. “You still look exactly the same as when I last saw you.”
“In a good way, or in a bad way?”
At that exact moment, there’s a loud cry from the kitchen. Yoongi sighs, rolling his eyes as he follows the sound. “Park Jimin, what did you do?”
Jimin is standing in the middle of the kitchen, frantically bouncing Ara. “I don’t know,” he tells Yoongi, voice panicked. “I picked her up and she was fine, and we went around the kitchen to look at all the fun stuff you keep here, then all of a sudden she started crying.”
Yoongi sighs again. “I told you not to bother her,” he scolds, no real heat to his voice.
But before he can set down his bag of food and tell Jimin to pass her over, Taehyung walks over to Ara. “Don’t cry,” he coos softly, and in a surprising turn of events, Ara reaches out for Taehyung.
Ara settles immediately when Taehyung takes her, her cries tapering off as she stares at him. Yoongi watches as she presses a tiny hand to his cheek, her eyes wide.
“That’s it,” Taehyung tells her gently, one hand coming up to wipe the tears from her eyes. “No crying.” He gasps quietly and then makes a face at her, and it makes her giggle as she stuffs one of her hands in her mouth.
Yoongi is suddenly reminded of how Taehyung handled her last night, of the way she grabbed Taehyung’s finger as he was leaving. “She really likes you.”
Taehyung’s head tilts to look at him. “She’s so cute.”
“Why doesn’t she like me?” Jimin whines.
“You harass her while she’s eating breakfast to show her all the knives I keep in my kitchen,” Yoongi deadpans. “Why would she like you?”
Jimin ignores Yoongi and reaches out to poke Ara in the back of her hand. Ara turns away with an indignant huff.
“Oh, come on,” Jimin cajoles. “We were friends just five minutes ago.” He lowers his voice, as if imparting a secret. “If you come to Uncle Jimin, I’ll show you where your appa keeps the really big knives.”
Yoongi rolls his eyes. “Stop that.”
“It’s just self-defense,” Jimin protests. “What happens when she finds herself needing to cut a bitch in the future?”
“Language,” Yoongi scolds. “She can understand you now.”
“Good, because I have many things to tell her.” Jimin crouches down, forcing Ara to meet his eye. “Ara, piece of advice—if no one from the future comes to stop you from doing it, it means it’s not such a bad decision to make.”
Ara stares at him with big, wary eyes. Then she reaches over to smack him on the face.
“Okay!” Yoongi interjects as Taehyung bursts into giggles. “Ara, no hitting. That’s not nice.” He sighs, taking a few steps forward to set the bag down on the dining table. “C’mon, let’s eat. Help me unpack this.” He tries to take Ara from Taehyung, but Taehyung just shakes his head, squeezing Ara tighter.
“Can I hold her for a little longer, hyung?” he asks. Yoongi chances a glance at Ara, who seems fine in Taehyung’s arms, determinedly gnawing on a fist, barely even paying attention to Yoongi standing there. It’s a little puzzling, but also heartwarming to see—she’s always been a little moody with strangers.
Yoongi shrugs. “Sure,” he tells Taehyung. “Just pass her over when you get tired.” Then he turns to help Jimin unpack their food.
Taehyung holds her all throughout breakfast, and surprisingly Ara doesn’t fuss once, just sits happily on his lap and occasionally tries to grab at Taehyung’s food. The only time she’s returned to Yoongi is after breakfast, when Jimin tries to take her from Taehyung—there’s two seconds of peace before Ara starts whining, twisting her body to reach out for Yoongi. Yoongi takes her, laughing at Jimin’s disgruntled expression.
“It’s really not you,” Yoongi reassures Jimin, rubbing a hand down Ara’s back. It’s almost time for her nap, and Ara seems to know it too, instinctively leaning her head against Yoongi’s shoulder. “She’ll come around eventually, I’m sure.”
At least, Yoongi hopes she does. There’s a pang in his chest at the thought; Yijeong had left because she hadn’t come around, because he couldn’t be patient.
Because he thought she was broken.
Yoongi carefully pushes the thought away.
At least Jimin doesn’t seem offended about Ara’s dislike of him, seemingly taking her crying as a personal challenge.“I’ll make sure she likes me more than Jungkook,” he tells Yoongi as he and Taehyung head out. “More than Seokjin-hyung, even.”
“She also doesn’t like Seokjin-hyung.”
“Perfect. One small step for Ara, one giant leap for uncle Jiminie.”
Yoongi snorts. “Goodbye,” he says as he shuts the door.
“I’ll call you!”
The silence that rings out after their departure is deafening. Yoongi shuts his eyes, and takes a deep breath.
“Time for your nap, huh?” he murmurs to Ara, who responds with a sleepy gurgle.
. . .
It’s no secret that being a parent is extremely difficult. It's a masterclass in selflessness and responsibility, a balancing act of care and discipline, and a delicate blend of giving love and setting boundaries. As a parent, your world visibly shrinks; reduces itself to this one tiny, living thing that’s highly dependent on you. You’re simultaneously their biggest cheerleader and their biggest enemy, and for the first formative years, arguably the biggest presence in their lives. It’s you who shapes them into who they are, teaches them wrong from right, equips them with all the tools they’d need to navigate the world, and pray that they don’t end up with the same damage that you have.
And as a single parent, the responsibility on your shoulders only gets heavier.
Yoongi does his best not to dwell on it for the first few days of living alone, and he does succeed, to an extent—filling his days with work and with Ara. He does it so well that it becomes easier and easier to ignore the silence of the apartment, the empty spaces Yijeong left behind. How his things remain untouched for close to a week now, the laundry he’d been in the middle of folding haphazardly abandoned in the basket.
When Yoongi keeps himself busy, it’s easy to pretend that everything’s exactly the same as it was before.
But that bubble shatters on Thursday, when Yoongi’s called into the studio due to an emergency. They’d been allowing him to work from home for the time being, just until he got everything figured out, but on that day they apparently lost one of the songs he’d written for a commercial and needed him to find it as soon as possible, or—worst case scenario—piece it together from his old drafts.
When Yijeong was around, they’d both been working hybrid, alternating the days they would stay at home with Ara. But now that he’s gone, Yoongi finds himself at a loss for alternate childcare now that he needs to head to the studio.
His mother picks up when he calls, but she isn’t available to watch Ara—she’s on a weekend vacation with his father. He calls Seokjin next, but he’s held up at work and extremely apologetic about it; Hoseok’s got a full schedule at the dance studio and Namjoon’s already at the studio they both work at. Jungkook doesn’t pick up, and after the third time the call rings out, Yoongi decides to give up.
When Jimin answers the phone, it’s incredibly clear from the ambient noise that he isn’t available to watch Ara, either.
“I’m so sorry, hyung,” Jimin says, his voice cutting in and out. Probably taking the metro then. “I have to—wait, the train’s here, I gotta go, but call Taehyung! I know he’s free!” And then he hangs up.
Call Taehyung. Jimin’s words seem to echo in his ear, reverberating in his skull. Sure, he could technically call Taehyung, but there’s a part of him that’s a tiny bit embarrassed asking him.
Especially when Taehyung is quite probably his most famous friend.
But Yoongi is one hair shy of desperate, and he really needs to go as soon as possible, so he takes a calming breath, pushes away every single ounce of embarrassment, and calls Taehyung.
He isn’t even sure if Taehyung will pick up—does he even still have Yoongi’s number?—but surprisingly enough, Taehyung’s voice floods through the line in the middle of the second ring.
“Hello? Yoongi-hyung?” There’s a bit of background noise; it takes a moment for Yoongi to realize that he’s watching TV.
“Taehyung,” Yoongi says. “Hi. I’m sorry to bother you, and I know it’s kind of short notice, but I was…I was wondering if you were free to watch Ara? There’s just this dumb emergency at work and I have to come in, and…”
Even more surprisingly, Taehyung doesn’t even hesitate. “Oh! Of course,” he replies. “I’d be happy to watch her for a few hours, no worries.”
Yoongi lets out a breath. “Perfect,” he says, and the relief in his voice is audible even to his own ears. “That’s—thank you so much, Taehyung. Do you mind—like, is it okay if you come over? Or should I bring her to you—”
“No, no, I’ll come over,” Taehyung reassures him. The TV in the background abruptly shuts off. “I’m staying at Jimin’s, and it’s—well, let’s just say I’m not sure how safe it would be to have a baby here.”
That makes Yoongi laugh. “That bad?” he asks.
“It’s messy. Your place is better! Plus, she’ll have all her toys there!”
“Alright.” Yoongi pauses, chews on his lower lip. “Do you know where it is? Or should I text you the address—”
“Text me the address, hyung!” Taehyung replies. There’s a jangle of keys, some rustling as he moves around. “I’ll be there as soon as possible.”
“Okay,” Yoongi says. “I’ll see you then.”
“Bye!” And then the line goes dead.
Yoongi texts him the address, and Taehyung is at his doorstep not even fifteen minutes later, windswept and grinning happily.
“Ara’s still asleep,” Yoongi tells him, letting him into the apartment. “But if she wakes up, just give her some milk—the formula’s on the table in the bedroom. You can use any bottle, they’re all sanitized.”
“Got it.”
“I also set aside the amount of formula you need, but just in case something happens, it’s four level scoops for eighty milliliters of water.”
“Okay.”
“And then, like, just make sure to change her diaper too if it’s full. Do you know how to change a diaper? I can show you—”
“Hyung,” Taehyung interrupts, and the curl of his lip is amused. “I got it, don’t worry. She’ll be just fine, I promise.” The smile he gives Yoongi puts Yoongi’s heart at ease, at least for a few moments. “Now go. The sooner you leave, the sooner you’ll be back here with her.”
“I—yeah, okay,” Yoongi stammers hurriedly. “Yeah, I should go.” He slips his feet into his shoes, wracking his brain for anything else he might need to tell Taehyung. “Just…if there’s any problem, anything at all, feel free to call me.”
“I will,” Taehyung reassures, and with one last nod to him, Yoongi pulls open the front door and steps outside.
. . .
Thursday, 1 June 2023
Min Yoongi:
fuck you yijeong
you fucking promised you’d stay
do you know how fucking hard it is?
. . .
When Yoongi returns home four hours later, he’s not quite sure what to expect—maybe Ara crying, or Taehyung disheveled and at his wit’s end. But his apartment is quiet, nothing but the low hum of the TV punctuating the silence.
He kicks his shoes off, then heads down the short hallway and turns into the living room. He finds Taehyung with Ara on the playmat—she’s sitting with her back against Taehyung, diligently focused on a few blocks while Taehyung occasionally makes noises and pretends that one of her Pokémon plushies is out to eat her.
“Oh, you’re back!” Taehyung exclaims when he catches sight of Yoongi. He taps Ara on the shoulder to get her attention, then points at Yoongi’s direction; Ara’s face lights up when she spots him.
She squeals as she reaches out for him. Yoongi crosses the distance between them, and she immediately throws her hands around his neck in a semblance of a hug.
“Hi, baby girl,” Yoongi murmurs to her. “Appa’s back.”
She pulls away, stares at him with an expression of joy. “Aah,” she says, then hugs him again. Yoongi presses a soft kiss on the top of her head.
“How was she today?” he asks Taehyung as he picks her up.
“Absolutely perfect,” Taehyung praises. He pushes himself to his feet and moves forward to poke at Ara’s cheek; Ara hides her face against Yoongi’s shoulder but it’s clear from the way she peeks playfully at Taehyung that she doesn’t mind one bit. “The best little angel. We played with so many toys.”
“She didn’t cry?”
“Well, she did,” Taehyung admits. “Once when she woke up and realized you were gone, and another time when she got hungry. Oh, and when I did this.”
Then he takes Ara from Yoongi and sets her down gently on her stomach.
There’s a one, two, three seconds of silence where Ara just looks up at them, her eyes wide in shock. Then all of a sudden, she lets out a deafening, ear-piercing wail.
“Yeah,” Taehyung says wincing, “like that.”
Yoongi laughs. “Yeah,” he tells Taehyung, picking Ara up again. She stops crying the instant she’s back in Yoongi’s arms, her wails trailing off into hiccups. Yoongi uses a hand to wipe away her tears. “Yeah, she hates tummy time. She also hates sitting down by herself unless it’s time to eat.”
To demonstrate, he tries to sit Ara down on the play mat. Immediately she wriggles, shifting down until she’s lying on her back.
Taehyung’s flabbergasted. “Hyung, isn’t she eight months old?”
“Almost eight.”
“Is she…” Taehyung looks worried, “you know, like, developmentally okay?”
Yoongi hums. “Yeah, she’s fine,” he replies, hoisting Ara onto his hip. “Her pediatrician says she’s been hitting all her milestones.”
“Oh.” Taehyung’s expression turns thoughtful. “So she’s just…lazy?”
“She’s not lazy, she’s skilled in energy conservation.”
“I see,” Taehyung says. There’s a half smile on his face. “Just like her Appa, then. Always found lying down whenever there’s an opportunity. Remember in university you said you wanted to be born a rock in your next life?”
The flat look Yoongi gives him makes Taehyung laugh, his shoulders shaking. “Yes,” Yoongi says dryly, fighting off his own smile, “And I stand by it. And I was going to invite you to have dinner with us to say thank you, but I think I’ll go lie down instead since that’s apparently all I do.”
“Nooo,” Taehyung protests, still laughing. “I’d love to stay for dinner.” He purposefully makes his eyes wider in an effort to make himself look more innocent. “Please, hyung. Feed me. You know I don’t cook.”
The expression reminds Yoongi of their time in university; of the maknaes bursting into his and Seokjin’s shared apartment during finals week, matching puppy dog eyes as they begged them for food. Taehyung was always the best at it—his wide eyes and pout often worming its way into Seokjin’s soft, soft heart. Which meant that Seokjin would agree, then badger Yoongi until he agreed to help.
Yoongi shakes his head, the nostalgia making him smile. “And here I thought Europe would’ve changed you,” he teases. “Turns out, you’re still exactly the same as I remembered.”
. . .
Ara’s bedtime is exactly at seven-thirty in the evening, which means that Yoongi has to get her ready and put her to bed while waiting for the food they ordered. He apologizes to Taehyung for not being able to stick around, who simply waves it off with a careless hand.
“I can entertain myself,” Taehyung tells him. As he says it, he bends down to turn on one of Ara’s toys—a small, light-up piano that Namjoon had gifted her a few weeks back. He presses a key, his face lighting up when it begins to sound out Twinkle Twinkle Little Star.
“I can see that,” Yoongi replies, impossibly amused.
Fortunately, it only takes ten minutes until she’s asleep, and Yoongi manages to get back to the living room just as their dinner arrives. Taehyung helps him unpack the food, and he looks delighted at Yoongi’s choice of dishes, his eyes flitting from box to box excitedly.
Dinner is a nice affair; whatever worry Yoongi had about the awkwardness between them is gone within the first five minutes. The conversation flows easily, each of them updating the other about what’s been going on in their lives. Taehyung, Yoongi finds out, is only here for two months—he’d flown in immediately after wrapping up a highly successful exhibit in Paris. He doesn’t have much planned for this stay; aside from visiting his family and friends, he’s mostly just here to unwind, searching for inspiration before throwing himself into his art once more.
“It’s easy to get way too immersed in it,” Taehyung tells him—a fact Yoongi knows all too well.
Yoongi tells Taehyung about himself too: about what he’s doing and what he’s been up to, about his producing job and his commercial jingles and the way his clients have no idea what they want. There isn’t much to tell, because it’s not anything interesting; all he really needs to do on a daily basis is churn out bland, catchy, and mildly annoying melodies for commercials and video advertisements. It’s not exactly what he’d envisioned for himself when he decided to pursue a career in music, but at this point he isn’t complaining—not when it pays well and allows him some flexibility when it comes to his hours.
“But you still work on your music, don’t you?” Taehyung asks once Yoongi is finished telling him all about it. He looks confused, and for good reason—Yoongi was always known as the workaholic in their friend group, earphones in his ear and his head bowed down over his laptop whenever he got some free time to himself.
Yoongi shrugs, busying himself with picking up some kimchi. “Not really,” he says. “It’s hard to muster up the energy to write when your whole day is spent churning out lifeless melodies.”
A pause. “Wow,” Taehyung says, bewildered. “Wow.” He lets out a chuckle. “You’ve really mellowed out, hyung. You used to be all—remember when you used to be all prickly and indignant and righteous about making meaningful music?”
“I still am,” Yoongi protests, a little embarrassed. “Sort of.” He takes a deep breath. “It’s just that when there’s someone else relying on you, your priorities sort of…change.”
“I get it.”
There’s a long pause where neither of them say anything.
When Taehyung speaks again, his voice is hesitant. “Hyung, if you don’t mind me asking, did he…did he ever contact you after he left?”
Taehyung doesn’t specify who he is, but Yoongi knows exactly who he’s talking about. He thinks about the messages he sent, the ones still left unread, and the sharp pain in Yoongi’s chest rears its head—a serrated knife lodging itself into his heart, digging in deeper.
“No,” Yoongi says. “No, he didn’t.”
Taehyung chews on his lower lip. “What…what happened exactly?” he asks, cautious. “I mean, I wasn’t here for most of when you were together—I think I only met him once? Around two years ago, when you guys first got together?” At Yoongi’s nod, he continues. “And Jimin was telling me all about how you guys were so perfect for each other on the way to your apartment, so it was a…bit of a shock.”
To Yoongi, one of the most striking things about Taehyung are his eyes—they’re large and expressive, with a disarming gaze. Taehyung’s incredibly good at keeping a poker face, but his eyes always manage to give him away, incapable of reflecting anything insincere. Right now they’re full of kindness, cutting straight through Yoongi’s defenses and making him feel a bit too vulnerable.
He clears his throat, avoiding Taehyung’s gaze. “It was just…it was just a lot of things,” he replies helplessly. “Mostly Ara, I guess. It was fine when it was just the both of us, but when Ara came into the picture it was…different.”
“How so?”
Yoongi shrugs. “There was just this whole new person, you know. Like, well—you’ve seen what Ara’s like.”
Taehyung takes a moment to think. “I mean, she’s sweet.”
“She is,” Yoongi confirms. “But she’s also a bit picky with the people she likes.”
“Oh, definitely,” Taehyung says, a ghost of a smile on his face. “But aren’t all babies?”
“I guess.” Yoongi takes a sip of water as he tries to properly articulate his thoughts. “With Ara, it was like—well, he thought she should’ve warmed up to him by now, seeing as he’d been there ever since she was born. He was trying, but she just kept freaking out at him. That night was just the last straw for him, I suppose. Made a few buried feelings resurface.”
“Like what?”
Yoongi takes a deep breath, a bitter smile on his face. “Well, like the fact that he was never really certain that he wanted to be a father,” he replies.
It’s the second-most devastating realization from that evening, one that still hurts to say out loud. That after all the planning-after all the time and money they spent on surrogates, on medical bills—there was a part of Yijeong that had just never wanted this. Never really wanted any of this, and was just swayed by Yoongi’s enthusiasm.
(The most devastating realization is the fact he’d thought Ara was broken, all because she wouldn’t bond with him. Kind of like she was a toy he could play with and discard when he got tired.)
Taehyung’s eyes widen. “But—but that’s stupid,” he says plainly. “I mean, I’m assuming she didn’t just appear out of thin air. You guys talked about this, right?”
“We did,” Yoongi replies, “and he always said he was all-in, so I thought…” There are tears prickling in his eyes and he takes a deep breath, willing them not to fall. “I guess I should’ve paid more attention—like, I was too caught up in what I wanted, and—”
“Hyung,” Taehyung cuts in. He reaches out; Yoongi almost startles when he feels Taehyung’s hand grab his, gripping firmly. “No. It isn’t your fault at all. Yijeong’s an adult, he should’ve spoken up when he had the chance.”
“I know,” Yoongi replies weakly. “But maybe if I’d noticed, we could’ve—this entire mess could have still been avoided. But she’s here now, and it’s not like I can put her back where she came from, and I’m just—” his voice cracks. “I’m all alone.”
“You’re not,” Taehyung says immediately. There’s a furrow in his brow, almost like he can’t believe what he’s hearing. “Of course you aren’t alone. It’s not going to be easy, but—but you have your family. You have us, your friends. I’m sure we’re all willing to help out.”
“I know, but it’s…” Yoongi isn’t quite sure how to verbalize what he’s thinking, how he’s feeling after this whirlwind of a week. Taehyung’s right in saying that he has a support system, but at the end of the day Yoongi can’t rely on them as much as he wants to. They’ve all got their own responsibilities, their own schedules—whole entire lives that he can’t just ask them to give up for his daughter. At the end of the day, Ara is still his responsibility, and Yoongi is her father, which means that he has to be the one to raise her, to take care of her.
Taehyung must see the indecision on Yoongi’s face because he’s tightening his grip on Yoongi’s hand, his face turning serious. “We’re all willing to help out,” he repeats, tone firm. “I’m sure if you asked Seokjin-hyung to take her for the day tomorrow, he’d find a way to make it happen. Jimin, too—he’s been browsing for baby toys and he keeps asking me which I think would be the one that will ‘buy Ara’s love’.”
Yoongi can’t help the faint smile that grows on his face. “I promise hyung, everyone will help you out if you ask them.” Taehyung continues. “That baby girl is going to grow up so spoiled by all of her uncles.”
“Not too much though, I hope,” Yoongi jokes. “It’s going to be hard if she knows she can just run to Uncle Seokjin when she’s in trouble.”
“Ara will never get into trouble,” Taehyung replies amiably. “How will she, when all she likes to do is eat and lie down like her Appa?”
“Ha-ha,” Yoongi says, even though Taehyung’s words have made his chest grow warm. He squeezes Taehyung’s hand back, and Taehyung takes it as a sign to let go.
“But remember hyung,” Taehyung insists. “You aren’t alone. Not when you have us.”
He says it with so much conviction that there’s a part of Yoongi that wants to believe him. He shakes his head, turns away, doing his best to hide his smile. “That’s…thank you,” he mumbles, loud enough for Taehyung to hear. “That means a lot.”
. . .
Later, when Taehyung’s just about to leave, he pauses.
“You know, hyung,” he says. There’s an uncertainty in his tone, almost as if he isn’t quite sure how to say what he’s thinking. “If you ever need anyone to watch Ara, I’m always available. Like I told you, I don’t really have much to do while I’m here in Seoul.”
Already, Yoongi has his mouth open to thank Taehyung and politely reject his offer. But in that moment, he’s struck by the sudden quiet of his apartment, his splintered heart beating painfully, making its presence known.
Don’t worry about it Taehyung, he wants to say, the words already balanced on the tip of his tongue.
But the truth is—
The truth is that he’s all alone, uncertain of the future and how to navigate it. Yoongi’s never had the best track record with depression, and that, coupled with the sudden heavy responsibility of Ara, chokes him up, an all-consuming anxiety wrapping around his neck that renders him unable to breathe. He wants Ara to grow up happy and well-adjusted; he wants to give her the best life she could possibly have. But Yoongi isn’t quite sure if he’s even capable of parenting all by himself.
The truth is that Yoongi is scared shitless, and he really could use all the help he can get. Even just for a little while, even if it’s just until he sorts himself out—even if it’s from someone who’ll be halfway around the world again in two months.
“Thank you, Taehyung,” is what he ends up saying. “I’ll definitely take you up on that.”
Taehyung’s reply is a small grin—a little bit pleased, a little bit knowing. Yoongi reaches forward to pull open the front door, and lets Taehyung step outside.
. . .
Friday, 2 June 2023
Min Yoongi:
you’re really not coming back huh
you’re not even reading all these
fuck you. fuck you, asshole
[two]
Over the course of the next few weeks, Yoongi learns a few new things about Taehyung. For example:
- He’s based in Paris, but he spends a lot of his time travelling—going from London to Amsterdam to Florence to Berlin for his art. Although his own work is neo-impressionist, he has a healthy appreciation for most art movements, and his spare time is spent in galleries and art museums studying the works of all the greats. Nowadays he’s very into modern art, and he recently just spent a month in Barcelona just so he could soak up the sun, the sea, and the surrealist architecture.
- His MBTI is Capricorn and his zodiac sign is INFP—a mix-up that he adorably laughs off when Yoongi points out his mistake. He doesn’t put much stock in these things (and neither does Yoongi) but he says it’s fun to take all the quizzes and read his horoscopes because the results surprise him at times. Had he been asked to guess, Yoongi never would have pegged Taehyung as an introvert; Yoongi has seen him make all manner of friends everywhere—ranging from the exchange student that sat next to him for a semester to the ahjumma that runs a restaurant down the street from Seokjin and Yoongi’s old apartment. Taehyung’s always been open and friendly, a definite contrast to Yoongi’s more quiet and moody personality.
- He’s got a surprising amount of passion for music, and a list of musicians he absolutely swears by: Etta James, Frank Sinatra, Chet Baker, Nina Simone. The unorthodox list surprises Yoongi because for as long as they’ve known each other, Taehyung never struck him as someone who’d sit still and listen to the layers of emotion, to the nuances of song. Most of Yoongi’s university memories of him are in blurred motion—running around the quad with Jungkook, jumping on Namjoon’s back in the park, dancing the night away with Hoseok—and it’s a little surprising to come face-to-face with his hidden depths, the parts of him Yoongi was never privy to.
- And he must be made of some kind of magic, because Yoongi’s selective, moody, and snobbish baby absolutely adores Taehyung. Even more than she adores Yoongi’s mother.
But, Yoongi supposes, that’s just what naturally happens when you end up spending more time with someone.
It becomes something of a pattern: Taehyung doesn’t come by to babysit Ara everyday, but Yoongi definitely calls him up at least twice a week to help out. He’s always free, the only one in their group of friends not tied down by jobs or prior commitments, and he always shows up on Yoongi’s doorstep, even if it’s just short notice.
“I really don’t mind,” Taehyung tells him the fourth time he comes over, waving away Yoongi’s profuse apologies and offers to pay him for his time. “I love coming to watch Ara. It’s like we’re best friends now.”
To punctuate that, he blows a raspberry against Ara’s chubby cheek. Ara gurgles happily as she chews on a finger.
Yoongi can’t help but smile. “Better friends than Ara and Jimin, that’s for sure.”
And it works out well, because with the studio’s recent partnership with a new advertising agency, Yoongi finds himself busy, incredibly busy. He’s got files and files of creative briefs to go through, production guides to study, hours of alignment meetings, and so many songs to clean up. With Taehyung watching Ara, it makes it easier for Yoongi to work—to produce without anything breaking his stride, to focus without having to worry about her, at least for a few hours.
So that’s just how it happens. Taehyung watches Ara—sometimes for a few hours, sometimes for the whole day—and to thank him, Yoongi invites him to stay for dinner.
. . .
It’s silent when Yoongi arrives home, toeing off his shoes and dropping his bag onto the floor. At first he thinks Ara’s taking a nap, but when he listens closely, he hears the sound of quiet singing, followed by delighted cooing. Yoongi shakes his head, follows the sound to the living room, where Taehyung and Ara are sitting on the playmat, seemingly having a conversation.
When Taehyung looks up and spots him, he grins. “Appa’s home,” he tells Ara happily. Amusedly, Ara babbles back, almost as if she’s replying. “Uh-huh, that’s right. He was at work, and now he’s home.”
Yoongi raises an eyebrow. “Kim Taehyung,” he says. “Are you having a conversation with my daughter?”
Taehyung grins. “What can I say, she’s a great conversationalist,” he says.
It never gets old watching Ara light up at the sight of him. “Buh-buh,” she babbles, chubby arms already reaching out for him, and Yoongi can feel his expression soften as he takes her from Taehyung.
“I missed you too, baby,” he coos softly. “Were you good today?”
She babbles something long, like she’s trying to tell Yoongi a story, and Yoongi meets Taehyung’s amused look over the top of her head.
“I told you,” Taehyung says. “A great conversationalist. A compelling storyteller aren’t you, Ara?”
Ara doesn’t reply to that, snuggling closer to Yoongi. She’s always so cuddly, seeking out hugs and kisses from him. It’s something Yoongi wouldn’t trade for the world.
“What did you both do today?” He asks Taehyung as he settles on the playmat.
“Play!” Taehyung promptly replies. “We had a lot of fun playing the Grumpy Game.”
“The…what?” Yoongi asks, baffled. “What’s the Grumpy Game?”
“Oh, it’s so much fun, hyung, let me show you!” In an instant, Taehyung’s grin vanishes, expression now schooled into stoicism.
“The Grumpy Game came about when Ara was being particularly grumpy,” Taehyung tells Yoongi, as if imparting a long, ancient tale. “So I decided to be grumpy right back.”
To demonstrate, he scrunches his nose and frowns, making himself look like an angry cartoon character. Yoongi watches in amazement as Ara immediately adopts the same expression, even huffing a little as she does it.
“Whoever breaks the expression first loses,” Taehyung continues, keeping his gaze trained at Ara. As he says it, he reaches out to tickle Ara in the tummy. Ara squirms, but she manages to hold out for another five seconds before she breaks out into a giggle.
“Aha! You lose!” Taehyung crows, which makes Ara squeal, kicking her feet out in excitement. She starts talking, a mishmash of nonsensical syllables that make her sound like she’s trying to explain herself. Yoongi can only watch her, unable to stop his smile from growing—she isn’t usually this communicative. Never with unfamiliar people, and certainly never with Yijeong, despite all the times he tried to get her to speak. Taehyung truly is magic with her.
“You know the rules, Ara,” Taehyung says solemnly after she finishes babbling. “Loser gets eaten by Pokémon.” And then he picks up her big Eevee plushie, one that Seokjin had gifted her, and mashes it into her face, making growling noises as he does. It makes Ara squeal happily, arms clumsily trying to grab the plushie from Taehyung.
“...And that’s how you play the Grumpy Game,” Taehyung finishes, sitting back on his haunches. He lets Ara have the plushie, and she immediately starts chewing on its ear. “Great game, if I do say so myself.”
Taehyung’s always had a charming sort of innocence to him, the same kind of energy possessed by dinosaur-fixated toddlers, the ones who’d go up to you at the mall and say did you know that oldest dinosaur in the world is an Eoraptor? , their eyes wide as they try to imbue in you that same sense of wonder they still have. It was something that Yoongi—jaded and depressed as he was back then—didn’t exactly avoid, but didn’t exactly seek out either; preferring to stay in the company of his more quiet, less bubbly friends.
Now, in the aftermath of the break up, he welcomes it with open arms. Clings on firmly to Taehyung’s joie de vivre, to every bit of warmth he shares—an anchor in the dark current that threatens to drown his mind.
“Appa’s turn!” Taehyung exclaims, startling Yoongi out of his silent musings. When he turns to look at Taehyung, he finds him already looking back, an eyebrow raised expectantly, a half smile playing on his face.
Yoongi raises an eyebrow right back, shakes his head. Then he turns and makes a grumpy face at Ara.
Ara immediately starts giggling, squealing around the plushie in her mouth. Yoongi just smiles at her fondly, gently pulling the toy away from her mouth and pressing another soft kiss to her cheek.
“You guys keep playing,” he tells Taehyung, passing Ara over. “I’ll get started on dinner.”
Taehyung smiles up at him sunnily. “Thanks, hyung,” he says, then turns his attention back to Ara.
Yoongi pushes himself onto his feet and heads to the kitchen, unable to wipe the fond smile off his face.
. . .
“Shh,” Taehyung says, putting a finger to his lips. He’s curled up on one end of Yoongi’s sofa watching TV silently, and he looks up with wide, guilty eyes when Yoongi walks in. “She just fell asleep.”
Yoongi blinks back at him, dropping his work bag onto the armchair. “Just now?” he asks, surprised.
Taehyung looks a little chagrined. “Yeah,” he says. “She was—it was my fault, hyung. We were playing and she got over excited and then she didn’t want to go down for her nap.” He hands Yoongi the baby monitor, and Yoongi can see Ara’s tiny figure on the screen, breathing deeply. “She just stayed up until she eventually conked out from exhaustion.”
Yoongi lets out a breath. “That’s fine,” he says.
“Sorry.”
“No, don’t apologize,” Yoongi replies, waving a hand. “It happens all the time. If anything, I should be thanking you for agreeing to watch her.”
Taehyung shrugs. “Like I told you, hyung, it’s really not a problem. I don’t really have much else to do.”
“Somehow I find that hard to believe. No one to see, and all that?”
“Aside from you guys and my parents, not really.”
It’s the same thing he’s been telling Yoongi these last few weeks, and still Yoongi doesn’t believe him. From what he remembers, Taehyung has always been a bit of a social butterfly, easily making friends wherever he goes. He’s certain that by the time he graduated from university, Taehyung had a social circle big enough to fill an arena.
“If you say so,” Yoongi says dubiously. “But just—if you have any plans whatsoever, just don’t feel obligated to watch Ara. I can always work something out.”
That makes Taehyung smile, corners of his lips twitching up. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
“Yeah.” Yoongi sets the baby monitor down on the coffee table. “She’ll probably just sleep through the night tonight and wake up earlier tomorrow. I’m gonna go check on her, then I’ll get started on dinner.”
“Okay.”
Ara’s crib is set up right next to Yoongi’s own bed—something he and Yijeong did just so it was easier to get to her in the middle of the night. As on the baby monitor, Ara’s deep asleep, her mouth slightly parted and her breathing even. She’s still dressed in her daily outfit—a onesie with a unicorn print he picked out for her this morning. She really must’ve fallen asleep while playing.
Yoongi’s heart melts at the sight of her. “Sleep well, baby girl,” he murmurs to her, reaching down to stroke her cheek with a finger. Ara doesn’t even stir.
He picks up her baby blanket from where it’s hanging on the side of her crib, folding it into quarters before placing it by her feet. It’s Ara’s favorite—light yellow and downy soft, covered with little prints of a cartoon kitten. Recently, she’s gotten into the habit of sleeping with it, often holding onto it with a tiny fist as she drifts off.
(Yoongi tries not to think about how Yijeong was the one who got it for her. Tries not to think of anything except Ara—asleep and perfectly content.)
When he emerges back into the living room, Taehyung’s still on the couch. Once again he looks up at Yoongi’s entrance, and he must see something on Yoongi’s face because his expression shifts into one of worry.
“Everything okay?” he asks.
Yoongi does his best to smile. “Of course,” he replies, then heads to the kitchen.
. . .
“And I don’t understand,” Taehyung says emphatically a few days later, waving around his chopsticks. “And the worst part is, Jimin doesn’t seem to either.”
That makes Yoongi snort, looking up from his rice. “None of them do,” he says. “That’s just how they’ve been for the past year. It’s mildly infuriating.”
“It’s been so long,” Taehyung laments. “I thought they would’ve figured it out by now.”
One of the perks of having Taehyung over so often, Yoongi finds, is that now he has someone to talk shit with. Specifically, someone to talk shit with about their friends, because at the best of times, the rest of their friends are crazy, dumb and stupid.
At the worst of times, they’re—well. Let’s just say there are incidents sworn to secrecy under the oath of friendship.
The latest drama in their friend group (barring Yoongi’s abrupt break up that he is definitely not thinking about) is the strange, love triangle thing that’s going on between Seokjin, Jimin and Jungkook. For the longest time, Jimin’s always had a bit of a crush on Jungkook, and Jungkook’s always been halfway in love with Seokjin. But then one drunken night led to Seokjin staying over at Jimin’s, and what resulted was this weird, strange limbo where neither of them knew how to proceed.
Yoongi’s not gonna lie, it was a little entertaining in the beginning. Especially when Seokjin would turn tomato-red whenever Jimin would look at him, or when Jungkook would walk in, spot Seokjin and Jimin sitting next to each other, and immediately walk out. They were just being dumb and silly; Yoongi had faith that it would all work out eventually.
But apparently, he thought way too highly of his friends.
“It’s just so stupid,” Taehyung continues, heated. “Like, they’re friends—they’re all supposed to be friends. But instead I have a front row seat of Jimin secretly pining over Jungkook while Jungkook martyrs himself because he thinks Seokjin-hyung and Jimin are meant to be. They’ve even got a synced calendar, hyung. How they managed that without actually talking about the situation is beyond me.”
“A synced calendar? For what?”
Taehyung snorts. “Get this: Jungkook only goes over to Seokjin’s apartment on Mondays and Wednesdays, whereas Jimin only goes over Tuesdays and Thursdays. No idea what happens on Fridays.”
Yoongi blinks. “Seokjin-hyung comes over here for dinner on Fridays,” he says. “Well, for dinner and also to try and befriend Ara.”
“Does he talk to you about what’s going on? How he feels about them, and all that?”
Yoongi snorts. “I ask Seokjin-hyung about it all the time and he always just pretends I never said anything,” he says. “Although he has been asking me to go fishing more often. I think it’s a secret sign that he’s troubled by this mess and wants to take it out on the ocean.”
That makes Taehyung laugh. “He’s still on about the fishing thing?”
“Oh, definitely.” Yoongi replies. “I don’t blame him though—it’s either this mess or the fish, and dealing with the fish is a lot easier. He shrugs. “Honestly, one positive thing about all this is at least they make me feel better for being a single father. I choose Ara over whatever they have going on.”
He doesn’t realize how much it stings making the joke, kind of like he’s pressing down on a particularly tender bruise. For a moment, he feels it again—the waves on the edges of his mind, rolling and crashing in an attempt to pull him under. But Taehyung grins at him, bright and easy, and in the blink of an eye, the waves pull back.
“I choose Ara too,” Taehyung says. “Thanks for always asking me to come over and babysit, hyung. Means I don’t have to listen to Jimin come home from work and talk about them again.”
Yoongi narrows his eyes playfully. “I knew you had an ulterior motive.”
“What can I say—your daughter’s lovely company, but I have to look out for my own peace of mind,” Taehyung replies cheekily. “There’s only so much pining I can take.”
Yoongi rolls his eyes, but he’s unable to stop the rebellious curl of his lip. Taehyung stays grinning at him, eyes sparkling under the fluorescents, and it’s nice—to be able to laugh at their friends’ absurdity, to be able to share a meal at home with someone again.
. . .
Then there are the days that Taehyung comes over even when Yoongi’s working from home. There’s no rhyme or reason to it—he’ll just shoot Yoongi a text asking if he can come over, and when Yoongi agrees, he’ll be at Yoongi’s doorstep an hour later, grinning brightly.
Of course, Yoongi’s thankful for the help—with Ara entertained, he’s able to focus on his work more. But then Taehyung decides to go above and beyond and fold Ara’s laundry while she’s napping, which is just—
Embarrassing. Yoongi does not need his houseguest folding laundry.
“I told you,” Yoongi huffs, more amused than annoyed. “You don’t have to do that.”
“No, it’s fine,” Taehyung insists. He’s sitting on the couch watching TV, and he’s got Ara’s laundry basket by his feet. On his lap are a couple of Ara’s shirts, dresses, and onesies—clothes that Yoongi had grabbed from the washing machine but didn’t have the time to put away this morning. “It’s fine, hyung. You can go back to working.”
“It isn’t fine,” Yoongi insists right back. “Taehyung, you’re a guest, not my maid.”
“I could be a maid,” Taehyung argues right back, because he’s stubborn like that. “I’d be a good maid.”
Yoongi resists the urge to roll his eyes. “I don’t doubt that, but the fact remains that you don’t actually need to be folding my daughter’s laundry. You’ve done enough already.”
Taehyung fixes him a look. “Hyung,” he says. “I want to. Besides, Ara’s napping anyway, and I don’t have much to do while she sleeps.”
“Still. You could do something else.” As he speaks, he grabs the laundry basket by Taehyung’s feet.
Taehyung lets him have it. “Alright,” he says, seemingly agreeable. “It’s fine. I’ll just wait until you’re back to working before I start folding it again.”
Yoongi can’t help the sigh he lets out. “You’re really going to be stubborn about this,” he says. It’s not really a question.
Taehyung gives him a bland smile. “A hundred percent.”
Yoongi eyes him for a few more moments before shaking his head, setting down the laundry basket and joining Taehyung on the couch. “Alright,” he says. “If you’re going to insist on doing it, at least let me help you.”
This time, it’s Taehyung’s turn to protest. “But you’re working.”
Yoongi shrugs, picking up one of Ara’s dresses. “I think they can handle thirty minutes without me.”
They work in relative silence, nothing but the low hum of the TV punctuating their silence. Taehyung’s put on a drama that Yoongi doesn’t know; both the lead actors are unfamiliar to him, but he thinks he recognizes the face of the second lead from a movie somewhere. From what he can tell, it’s a cute drama—filled with longing looks and puppy love and grand gestures of romance. It’s not something he would’ve chosen to watch for himself, but Taehyung seems to be enjoying it, occasionally stopping in his folding to watch a scene play out.
At one point, the main character surprises his love interest with a picnic, artfully-packed and prettily-decorated. He even goes so far as to pull out a guitar, strumming it a few times as if to sound it out. “I wrote you a song,” he tells her, and to her credit, the actress actually manages to blush on cue.
It’s all incredibly cliche, but when Yoongi turns to Taehyung to comment, he finds Taehyung riveted.
“...You’re enjoying that, huh?” Yoongi asks, a little amused.
“It’s okay,” Taehyung replies, but Yoongi can see the happy gleam in his eyes. “It’s just fun to watch. They don’t have much of a Korean drama selection in Paris.”
“Ah. Catching up then?”
“Sort of.” There’s a strange, asymmetrical tilt to his lips, like he isn’t quite sure if he should smile. “It’s just nice to listen to people speaking in Korean.”
The actor, Yoongi is pleased to note, actually has a lovely voice—low and strong. The serenade is over-the-top romantic, but the song is good, with whimsical chords and poetic lyrics. Yoongi makes a mental note to search up the song and add it to his playlist as he folds the last of Ara’s clothes, setting them aside in a neat pile.
It’s only when the song ends and the scene changes that Taehyung speaks again.
“Have you ever written a song about someone?”
The question is so out of the blue that it gives Yoongi pause. “What?”
“Like, if you’ve ever written a song specifically about a person,” Taehyung elaborates. He’s still watching the drama, and his eyes reflect what’s happening on the TV. “I don’t know, I was just…I mean, you’ve written a lot of songs, hyung. I’m just curious if any one of them was about a person.”
Yoongi takes a moment to think. “I have,” he replies. “A lot of my old songs are about me. I’m a person.”
Taehyung gives him a sidelong glance. “I meant if you’ve written a song about someone else,” he says.
Someone else. “Huh,” Yoongi replies as he wracks his brain. “I don’t know, actually.”
“You don’t know?” Taehyung sounds surprised.
“I don’t remember,” Yoongi corrects, feeling himself flush. “I don’t think I have, actually.”
Yoongi’s written about a great many things back in his songwriting days—his depression and anxiety, his childhood and his fear of growing up, and his anger at society, to name a few—but he doesn’t think he’s ever written a song about one specific person. Sure, he’s tried his hand at a few romantic songs, but when he’d written them he’d always viewed love as a concept, as something to aspire to have. Not so much as a tangible thing.
“Oh.” Taehyung sounds floored at the revelation.
“Surprised?”
“A little,” Taehyung admits. “I don’t know, you used to walk around like music was your entire life. I would’ve thought you’d have written a song about someone at least once.”
“Yeah, I get it.” Yoongi shrugs. “I just never felt that spark, you know? Never really fell in love hard enough, I guess.”
“Not even with Yijeong?”
Yoongi pauses. “With Yijeong…I think by the time we got together, I didn’t feel the need to write personal songs anymore.”
It still makes him feel a little strange, the fact that his passion for song-writing had died out. Back in university, he relished in it—worked with samples and beats everyday, wrote page after page of lyrics. It had been a way for him to express himself, to let out his thoughts, to take every emotional turmoil he felt and channel it into making art.
But some time over the last five years, he sold out. What was meant to be a job to get by became a job that paid him good money, and with the stability came responsibilities, came bills, came every single adult thing he didn’t want to face before. Now, he had other things to worry about. Music stopped being about what he liked, or even the artistry of it, when necessity took over.
Either his passion had died out, or he’d killed it—slowly snuffed it out until there was nothing left but ash.
Yoongi shakes his head to dispel his thoughts. “Here,” he says, gesturing for Taehyung to pass him his pile of folded laundry. “I'll put this away and head back to work. Just make yourself at home.” He fixes Taehyung with a stern look. “And please, refrain from doing any more of my household chores.”
Taehyung’s grin is a little mischievous. “I make no such promises,” he says.
. . .
It’s already half past eight when Yoongi gets the chance to shut down his studio computer. He sighs, gives himself exactly one minute to put his head down and close his eyes—any longer and he’d fall asleep where he’s laying, lulled to sleep by exhaustion and fatigue.
It’s rare when he gets called to stay late, and even rarer when he’s given something incredibly urgent to work on. In the past, Yoongi would have relished the challenge; would have stayed up all night to turn in something the CEO would laud him for. Something that would give him the chance to transfer, to join Namjoon in the songwriting department, which used to be his main goal when he first joined the studio.
But now he’s just—
Tired, he thinks, slowly lifting his head. So, so tired.
He heads out of the building as quickly as he can. The drive home is slow despite the late hour—traffic making him crawl by at a glacial pace. When he eventually manages to pull into his building’s parking garage, he breathes out a sigh of relief, kills the engine and speed-walks his way to his apartment.
It’s the familiar hum of the TV that greets him when he opens the door, the volume too low to make out the program. He kicks off his shoes, drops his bag on the floor, then heads to the living room. He finds Taehyung sprawled out on the couch, half-lidded eyes trained at the screen.
“Hey, hyung,” Taehyung greets. His baritone is even lower than usual, raspy from disuse. “Welcome home.”
Yoongi smiles at him. “How was she?”
“Perfect as always.” Taehyung moves slowly, like he’s rousing himself from sleep; blinking blearily as he pushes himself into a sitting position. “She missed you, though.”
“She did?”
“Yeah.” Taehyung yawns, stretching both arms up. “She was great at bath time, but she didn't want to be put down. Even cried a little bit. I think she was waiting for you to come home.”
His words tug at Yoongi’s heartstrings. “How’d you manage?”
Taehyung hums. “Rocked her a little bit,” he says. “And when that didn’t work, I read her A Very Hungry Caterpillar three times.” His grin is tinged with exhaustion. “I think by the third time, she realized knowing how something ends makes the whole thing boring, because she finally conked out halfway through.”
Immediately, the tension in his body seeps out all at once. “Thank you so, so much,” Yoongi says, his relief audible. “You really didn’t have to stay.”
Taehyung waves a hand. “It’s really no problem,” he says, getting to his feet. “I genuinely had nothing to do.”
“But still. It’s a Friday. I know Jimin must’ve wanted to go out or something.”
Taehyung rolls his eyes good-naturedly. “Jimin has two boyfriends who would jump at the chance to take him out. He doesn’t need me.”
Yoongi chuckles. “You’re not wrong there.”
There’s an easy silence between them as they walk to the door. Not for the first time, Yoongi feels warm in Taehyung’s presence, at the easy gregariousness he exudes. Akin to standing in a patch of sunlight during the harsh wintertime—a momentary refuge from the biting cold.
It’s Taehyung who speaks first. “Well hyung, I’m heading out,” he says, slipping his feet into his shoes. He doesn’t wear them properly, stepping on the heel until the leather creases beneath his feet. “It’s getting late and I still have a long way home.”
“Take care,” Yoongi says, stepping aside to let Taehyung pass. “Thank you again for watching her on such short notice.”
“I told you, it’s nothing.”
“Also, I’m sorry I didn’t make it back in time. I owe you dinner.”
That gives Taehyung pause, a ghost of a smile flitting through his face. “Yes, you do,” he replies point-blank, and his bluntness makes Yoongi huff out a laugh. “I was looking forward to the great Chef Min Yoongi’s cooking tonight; ended up having to settle for delivery food.”
Yoongi can feel a smile growing on his face, threatening to break free. “I’ll make it up to you,” he promises. “What do you want to eat? For next time.”
“Kimpitang,” Taehyung answers immediately, like he had the answer prepared.
Yoongi blinks. “...What is that?”
Taehyung shrugs. “Guess you have to figure it out,” he replies, cheeky. He pulls open Yoongi’s front door and crosses the threshold, and Yoongi waits until Taehyung disappears down the hallway before he shuts it behind him.
. . .
Wednesday, June 14, 2023
Min Yoongi:
i’m fucking this up
we were supposed to be in this together
i’m in way over my head
fuck, yijeong
Thursday, June 15, 2023
Min Yoongi:
what is kimpitang
Kim Seokjin:
????????
it’s literally past midnight
go to sleep you maniac
. . .
It’s Jimin’s pouting face that greets him when he opens the door the next day. “You’ve been stealing my soulmate away from me,” he says in lieu of a greeting.
Yoongi blinks back at him, and slams the door shut in his face.
Immediately, there’s a barrage of pounds on his front door. “Open up,” Jimin threatens in his satoori, pitching his voice lower. “Open up hyung, or I’ll knock this door down.”
The racket he’s making is probably loud enough to disturb Yoongi’s neighbors. Still, Yoongi lets him knock for a few more moments before roughly lurching open the door. “Don’t you have anything better to do than terrorize me?” he grouses as Jimin stumbles in, knocked off-balance by the sudden inertia. “Like work, or something?”
Jimin however manages to catch himself before face-planting onto Yoongi’s floor. “Nope,” he says. “I’m off work, bored and you’ve been stealing my soulmate from me. Now I’m bored and lonely.”
“You have Seokjin-hyung and Jungkook,” Yoongi deadpans. “I’m sure you’re less lonely than you think.”
Jimin pointedly ignores him. “Oh, Ara,” he calls out, toeing off his shoes and stepping further into the apartment. “Ara! Where are you? Your favorite uncle Jimin is here!”
Yoongi sighs, shutting the door and following Jimin into the living room.
Ara is exactly where Yoongi expects to see her—lying on the playmat and staring up at the ceiling. Perks of having a selective baby, Yoongi thinks as Jimin immediately gasps in excitement, moving to lie down beside her.
“What are you looking at there?” he asks. Ara makes a small noise in response, kicking both her feet out. “Mold? On the ceiling? Yeah? Is it pretty?”
“...Are you asking her if she thinks mold is pretty?”
Jimin gives him a look. “Don’t interrupt us hyung, we’re having an important conversation.”
“Whatever. Stop feeding her lies, there’s no mold in my house.” Yoongi rolls his eyes, moving to sit down by Ara’s other side. Ara turns to look at him, an adorable smile gracing her features, one that Yoongi can’t help but return.
“Oh, you wanna look at Appa?” Jimin asks Ara, pushing himself into a sitting position. “You’re right, he kinda looks like mold too. Don’t worry, Uncle Jiminie will help you—yah!”
In one swift movement, he picks Ara up and gently sets her in a sitting position before letting go.
There’s a sudden, ominous moment of silence.
And in the next split-second, Ara lets loose with a loud, inhumane wail.
Jimin flinches back, caught off-guard by the sudden reaction. Yoong, used to her dramatics, just sighs again, scooting over until he’s sitting behind Ara, her back pressed against him. She immediately calms when she realizes Yoongi’s supporting her weight, her cries tapering off into quiet hiccups as she stares at Jimin, baleful and betrayed.
“Oof,” Yoongi deadpans, unable to stop himself from smirking at Jimin. “Guess Uncle Jimin is out of the running for Ara’s Favorite Uncle.”
Jimin puffs up indignantly. “Hey!” he says, affronted. “I’m just trying to help.”
“You know she doesn’t like sitting down, Jimin.”
“But she should try! If she spends all her time lying down, her head is going to be as flat as a pancake.”
“Her head is perfectly round, thank you very much.”
“I’m just saying she needs to learn how to sit.”
“She’ll get there, ” Yoongi replies. “You genuinely think that she’ll never learn how to sit down?”
Jimin opens his mouth to respond, takes a moment to think, then promptly shuts his mouth.
“That’s what I thought.”
Jimin shakes his head. “Like father, like daughter,” he mutters, but his words are colored with fondness. He offers Ara a toy—a plastic kiwi fruit from her toy kitchen—and Ara regards him warily before taking it from him.
“Now, are you here for something or did you just come to insult me and my baby?”
Jimin rolls his eyes. “Taehyung.”
He says Taehyung’s name a certain way—decisive but curious, assured but probing. A series of contradictory tones that have Yoongi raise his guard, a strange cautiousness curling around his heart.
“What about him?”
“You’ve been spending quite a lot of time with him.”
“Have I?”
The quirk of Jimin’s lip is impish. “Yes,” he says. “You have.”
There isn’t any reason to deny Jimin’s claim. It’s true after all; he has been spending a lot of time with Taehyung, and he’s sure that everyone knows that he is. There’s no reason to lie, and he’s got nothing to hide. But the idea of actually talking about Taehyung’s visits—of acknowledging how common they’ve become—makes Yoongi feel vulnerable, as if he’s exposing far too much of himself.
Yoongi shakes his head. “He spends more time with her,” he says casually, inclining his head towards Ara. “He helps take care of her on the days I have to head into the studio. And then I usually make dinner to thank him.”
“Just dinner?”
“Yeah. Why?”
Jimin hums. “Nothing,” he says. “It’s just that he came home really late on Friday. When I asked, he said he was at yours.”
“Oh. Yeah, he was here.” For some reason, Yoongi feels awkward, off-kilter. “I had to—I was working late that day, and he offered to stay with her until I could get home. He told me he didn’t have anything else to do.”
Jimin’s eyebrow jumps up at that. “Really?”
“Yeah.”
“He told you he was free?”
“Yeah, what are you—” Something occurs to Yoongi. “Wait, did you guys have plans?”
“Well, sort of,” Jimin replies. He picks up another one of Ara’s plastic fruit toys—a strawberry this time—and tries to get her to trade. Ara practically throws the kiwi away to grab it. “We were supposed to meet up for drinks with Hoseok-hyung, but it didn’t push through. He canceled at the last minute.”
“Oh.” That makes Yoongi frown. He remembers mentioning to Taehyung that Jimin must've had plans to hang out, remembers Taehyung rolling his eyes playfully and dismissing the statement. He realizes now that Taehyung had deliberately avoided the question.
"I knew it," he says. "I told him he didn’t have to come over if he couldn’t. I wouldn’t have asked if I knew he had plans.”
Jimin shakes his head. “It’s not your fault,” he says, tone reassuring. “Besides, it was just,” he waves a hand, scrunching up his face, “chill plans. Nothing serious. I was more worried about the fact that he came home late.”
“I mean, I don’t think it was that late.”
“He got back to mine at around eleven.”
Yoongi’s confused. “But he left my place at around nine.”
Jimin shrugs. “It’s an hour and a half to get here from my place using the subway,” he says. At Yoongi’s confused look, he elaborates. “Oh, Taehyung’s been taking public transit everywhere while he’s here. He doesn’t have a car to use.”
“I thought it only took fifteen minutes to get here,” Yoongi says. “The first time he came over, it took fifteen minutes.”
“Yeah, by car,” Jimin replies. “He probably took a taxi last time since it was so last minute.”
“That’s…” Yoongi doesn’t know what to say. He feels stupid, not knowing how Taehyung got here; after all, he’s been relying on Taehyung’s help on a near-daily basis. He should’ve known, or at the very least asked him—checked if things were convenient for him or if he’d had any other plans.
He shouldn’t have just taken Taehyung’s presence for granted.
“He didn’t tell me.”
“About what?”
“About the commute,” Yoongi says. “About his plans with you guys.”
Jimin must hear something in Yoongi’s voice because he looks up from where he’s playing with Ara to shoot him a glance.“I told you, it’s not your fault,” he reiterates. In one quick movement, he steals Ara’s strawberry back from her, replacing it with the plastic kiwi. “Taehyung probably didn’t want to go out and conveniently used you and the long commute to get out of it. He’s like this sometimes. He can be a bit…cagey.”
“Really?” Taehyung doesn’t strike Yoongi as particularly cagey. For as long as Yoongi’s known him, he’s always been rather happy-go-lucky; with a penchant for impulsiveness and the tendency to wear his heart on his sleeve. Years later and he seems to have matured, no longer as transparent with his thoughts, but Yoongi had thought he still had the same sincerity.
But the longer he thinks about it, the more he thinks that maybe Jimin’s right. Yoongi doesn’t know Taehyung, not to the same degree that Jimin does, and maybe all of Taehyung that he’s been privy to has been superficial—just Taehyung putting his best foot forward. Trying to stay genial with everyone while he’s here for a few weeks. Trying to ensure that he leaves Seoul with happy memories.
Before Yoongi can mull this over some more, Ara starts whining, her face contorted into frustration as she tries to reach for the plastic strawberry Jimin keeps dangling conveniently out of her reach.
Yoongi lets out a breath, scrubs a hand down his face. “If you make her cry again, I’ll kill you,” he threatens, no real heat in his voice.
Jimin gives him an innocent smile, batting his eyelashes a few times before returning Ara’s plastic strawberry.
. . .
"It’s FUN-cle Jin time!” Seokjin declares as he sweeps into Yoongi’s apartment on Friday, toeing off his shoes and setting them to the side.
Ara, who’s currently in Yoongi’s arms, immediately turns away from him.
“Oh, come on,” Seokjin complains. He bends down to peek at her, pouting when she keeps her face turned away. “It’s Uncle Jinnie! You know! Your handsomest uncle! We hang out all the time! Look Ara, I brought you this!”
He rustles a paper bag to get her attention, then pulls out a large Jigglypuff plushie from inside.
Curiosity must get the best of Ara because she turns to look, straightening up when she catches sight of the plushie. She reaches out tentatively, running one hand through its soft exterior, before breaking out into a wide grin and grasping it tightly in her tiny fist.
“That’s it,” Seokjin coos. “Uncle Jinnie brings you the cutest toys, right? Uncle Jinnie is the best, right?”
Yoongi shakes his head, touched and a little fond. “You know hyung, you should really stop spoiling her,” he says, freeing one arm to help Ara support the toy.
Seokjin raises an eyebrow. “That doesn’t sound like a ‘thank you for buying my baby more toys’ to me.”
“Thank you for buying my baby more toys,” Yoongi parrots obediently. “But seriously. She already has so much.”
“Then she’ll have more,” Seokjin says simply. When Yoongi gives him a look, he shakes his head. “C’mon, Yoongi. She’s my goddaughter and my best friend’s baby. Of course I’m going to spoil her rotten.” A pause where they both watch Ara, still entranced by Jigglypuff. “Besides, there’s no way I’ll let anyone else be her favorite uncle.”
Yoongi laughs. “Unfortunately Taehyung has you beat there,” he says, leading Seokjin further into the apartment. “But you’re certainly ahead of Jimin, at least.”
“At least,” Seokjin echoes. There’s a small smile on his face at the mention of Jimin’s name, Yoongi chooses not to call him out on it.
They settle Ara down in her high chair in the kitchen. Seokjin goes through Yoongi’s cupboards while Yoongi hangs back, entertaining Ara with the Jigglypuff plushie. Seokjin’s always been a little more picky with his food, and Yoongi often just lets him decide what he wants to eat.
Eventually, he straightens up, grinning. “Alright,” he says, in a tone that lets Yoongi know that he’s made a decision. “Let’s do this, young Yoongi. I have come to be your teacher in the art of the kimpitang.”
“What even is that?” Yoongi asks, bewildered. “You never told me.”
Kimpitang, Yoongi comes to learn, is some weird combination of kimchi-pizza-tangsuyuk, and it’s one of those trendy dishes that’s been going viral on social media lately. The concept is, quite frankly, incredibly strange, but it actually ends up being quite tasty.
Halfway through dinner, Ara starts getting a little fussy, so Yoongi excuses himself to get her ready for bed. Thankfully enough, she goes down easily, and when Yoongi returns, Seokjin has pulled out two soju bottles from the fridge and set them out on the table. He’s scrolling through his phone; when Yoongi takes his seat, he wordlessly pushes Yoongi a shot glass, already filled.
Seokjin is one of the few people in Yoongi’s life he feels completely at ease with. In the beginning, it had been a bit of a surprise; on a surface level, it looked like they had nothing in common. But Seokjin had been more empathetic than Yoongi thought he would be, and he’d had a strong sense of self and a strong tether to his values that Yoongi found admirable. As such, their friendship had grown—from light jokes and teasing to more meaningful conversations, from easy camaraderie to deep friendship. Seokjin just gets Yoongi—able to decipher Yoongi’s more complex moods, able to pinpoint just exactly what he needs.
“Thanks,” Yoongi replies, throwing back the shot. Seokjin gives him a bemused smile, sets his phone aside, and downs his own drink.
“So I’m curious,” Seokjin begins, filling up their glasses. “Where did the sudden interest in kimpitang come from?”
Yoongi huffs out a quiet laugh. “Taehyung,” he replies. “He mentioned he wanted it for dinner.”
“Ah, yes,” Seokjin says knowingly. He takes a sip of his soju. “Jimin did mention that you’ve been hanging out lately.”
“Yeah. He comes over a lot.”
A pause. “Has that been helping at all?” Seokjin asks. His tone is curious, a little probing.
Yoongi blinks, taken aback. “I mean, yeah. He helps me out with Ara.”
Seokjin shakes his head. “No, like—” he gestures around him, to the state of Yoongi’s apartment. For a moment, Yoongi is confused, as if he’d been stuck listening to a one-sided conversation, but then he follows Seokjin’s gaze to a jacket, hung up on the coat rack by the door.
One of Yijeong’s. Still there, left untouched—as if he’d emerge from the room and grab it any time soon. And in an instant, Yoongi understands what Seokjin’s trying to say.
“Tell me honestly, Yoongi,” Seokjin says. His tone has turned gentle now. “How have you been doing?”
That’s another thing about Seokjin. He doesn’t mince words; always gets straight to the heart of the matter. Candid in ways Yoongi doesn’t want to face, but knows he needs to.
Yoongi’s first instinct is to lie and tell him that he’s doing fine—after all, he wakes up in the morning, feeds himself, and always manages to get all his work done. Ara is clothed, fed, and happy, hitting more and more milestones everyday. From an outside perspective, it would seem that Yoongi is managing to cope.
But Seokjin knows him well, too well, enough to see past whatever facade he tries to put up.
“I’ve been better,” Yoongi says dryly. He downs his next shot of soju. He’s sure that Seokjin hears exactly what he isn’t saying.
Seokjin immediately reaches over to fill his glass. “Yoongi,” he says, chiding. “You can’t keep living like this.”
“But it’s…” It’s difficult to put into words the terror he feels at raising his daughter alone, the depression that rears its head when he remembers he’s been left all alone. That the picture-perfect happiness he’d found was only just temporary, crumbled away like a sandcastle falling apart on the onset of a big wave.
“I don’t know, hyung,” he finishes. “I just—it’s hard. I can’t help but wonder where it all went wrong.”
On paper, he and Yijeong were perfect. They met, they became friends, then they fell in love. They got along well, they never really fought. Throughout most of their relationship, they stayed on the same page, able to discuss things calmly, rationally, and lovingly.
And then Ara came into the picture, and suddenly he and Yijeong were worlds apart.
(Yoongi would never say that Ara messed everything up. Ara, despite being just eight months old, already means the world to him, and he’d do everything in his power to make sure she grew up happy and loved. But Ara had been a catalyst, a trigger that had sent Yijeong into a spiral.)
Seokjin’s already shaking his head. “It’s nothing you can pinpoint,” he says. He takes a sip of his soju. “Nor is it something you can fix.”
“I know, but I just keep wondering if I could’ve—”
“Yoongi,” Seokjin interrupts, tone stern. “You couldn’t have done anything. It was all him.”
Yijeong had never wanted a child. And even worse, Yijeong had thought Ara was so broken that he’d given up on her entirely, driven to the end of his patience just because she hadn’t taken to him as easily as he thought she would.
But still, Yoongi keeps Yijeong’s stuff exactly where he’d left it. Because like this, it’s easy to pretend that the future he’d envisioned for them hasn't been blown to smithereens.
Seokjin must read something in his face because his own expression turns gentle. “Ara’s here now,” he says, as if this is something Yoongi can just forget. “She’s here, and she’s the loveliest little girl in the world. It was Yijeong who chose not to be a part of her life. And it isn’t your fault that he chose to do that.” A pause. “And it certainly isn’t Ara’s fault for having better taste than her appa in choosing the people she likes.”
That makes Yoongi crack a smile. “Really,” he says. “Is that why she doesn’t like anyone else except for me?”
“And me. And your mom. See? Impeccable taste right there.”
“I’d say that she only likes Taehyung and my mom, actually.”
“Taehyung doesn’t count, he’s a baby at heart. He connects with them spiritually.”
Yoongi huffs out a laugh. “I’ll be sure to tell him you said that.”
They fall silent, Seokjin nudging Yoongi’s shot glass closer to him. Yoongi really shouldn’t be drinking so much—not when he’s got an eight-month-old to take care of, but fuck if Yoongi doesn’t need it right now.
“Tell me something, Yoongi,” Seokjin starts again, contemplative. He’s looking past Yoongi’s shoulder, and Yoongi doesn’t have to look to know that he’s staring at Yijeong’s jacket again. “Is there a small part of you that thinks that maybe, just maybe, Yijeong’s still going to come back?”
It’s a good question. Yoongi thinks of the text messages he’d sent, all still unanswered. He’d known it that night he left; Yijeong had always been very decisive, resolute in all his decisions. It’s one of the things that had attracted him to Yoongi in the first place; he conducts himself with certainty, with confidence.
Even still, it’s painful to admit and difficult to come to terms with, when that same resolution has been turned towards him.
Yoongi swallows, takes a deep breath. “No,” he says. The word hurts, stings like salt poured on an open gash. “I don’t think he’s coming back.”
Seokjin gives him a long, searching look. “Then I think maybe we should figure out what to do with all his things, don’t we?”
“I…” Yoongi wets his lips, grabbing the soju bottle to pour himself another shot. “Easier said than done, hyung,” he says, once he’s downed it. “I just—I don’t want to be alone.”
“But isn’t being alone better than living with a ghost?”
Yoongi doesn’t reply to that, worrying at his bottom lip.
After a few moments, Seokjin sighs. “Okay, you know what,” He grabs the two bottles of soju before pushing himself up from the table. “He kicked you out of his life, you should be kicking him out of yours. Grab a box, let’s go.”
“Hyung—”
“Let’s go,” Seokjin reiterates. When he spots Yoongi’s hesitation, his expression softens. “C’mon. We can start with the things of his that you hate the most. And then if you want, we can burn them right after.”
Yoongi tries to fight the rebellious curl of his lip. “I do love a good fire,” he admits.
And that’s how the rest of the night goes: going through Yijeong’s things while drinking too much soju. At one point, Yoongi is convinced that Seokjin’s actually about to commit arson; that conviction is cut short when Seokjin dozes off on the couch five minutes later. Yoongi tucks a blanket around him and heads to his room, falling asleep as soon as his head hits the pillow.
Yoongi wakes up the next morning slightly hungover, but with a smile on his face.
. . .
Yoongi forgets how rowdy his friends can be when they’re altogether until Seokjin manages to wrangle them all into Yoongi’s apartment one weekend to pack up Yijeong’s stuff.
The last time they were all together, the atmosphere had been quiet and subdued, none of them wanting to speak too loud for the fear of setting Yoongi off again. This time, they have no such qualms, laughing and talking over each other as they sort through clothes, shoes and toiletries.
It’s a little painful watching them work. The memory of moving into this apartment with Yijeong is still fresh in Yoongi’s mind, the both of them working together to turn this place into a home. Yoongi remembers laughing, remembers bickering with Yijeong about where to put everything; remembers Yijeong rolling his eyes and kissing him to shut him up.
With both the chaos and efficiency of his friends, everything gets done rather quickly. Yijeong’s things get sorted out and placed in boxes while Seokjin and Namjoon crack jokes; the boxes are taped shut and set aside to the tune of Hoseok’s laughter. The atmosphere is bright and cheerful, and it helps in making everything feel less heavy, in ignoring the undercurrent of finality in the action of carefully setting aside Yijeong’s things.
“Hey, look,” Taehyung calls out gleefully. Somehow he, Jimin and Jungkook agreed to take turns watching Ara, and he has her now, settled comfortably on his hip. He hands Ara one of Yijeong’s shirts—a blue one left on top of the pile—and gleefully cackles when Ara roughly throws it into the box. “She’s helping!”
That makes Hoseok roll his eyes. “Kim Taehyung, I just folded that!”
“Why?” Taehyung shoots back. He hands Ara another shirt and coaxes her to throw it into the box. “Yijeong doesn’t deserve the luxury of wrinkle-free shirts.”
“Hear hear,” Namjoon calls from where he’s ruffling through Yoongi’s closet.
Jungkook’s head pops out from the doorframe, eyes immediately falling on Taehyung. “There you are, hyung,” he says exasperatedly. “I was looking for you. It’s my turn with Ara.”
Taehyung holds Ara closer, pouting. “But they need you for the heavy lifting!”
Jungkook rolls his eyes. “There’s nothing heavy to lift,” he says. “Let me hold her.” And he darts forward and takes Ara from Taehyung before disappearing into the living room.
Taehyung blinks. “Jungkookie—”
His words are cut short by the sound of Ara’s crying.
Taehyung sighs loudly. “You made her cry!” he yells after Jungkook.
“I can handle it!”
“But—”
“I said I can handle it!”
Taehyung sighs even louder, and then strides out of the bedroom after Jungkook.
“Well,” Hoseok says a few moments later, when Ara finally stops crying. “Nice to know Ara’s got someone else in her corner aside from you, hyung. But she cries so much.”
Yoongi shakes his head. “She’s a baby. What did you expect?”
“She’s just like Yoongi when he was younger,” Seokjin muses from where he’s packing Yijeong’s toiletries in the bathroom. “A crybaby.”
Yoongi glares at him, but Seokjin doesn’t look up from what he’s doing to catch it.
Once all of Yijeong’s stuff is packed, they all collapse on the floor of Yoongi’s living room. Jungkook whines for pizza, which isn’t something Yoongi was aware he had agreed to provide. Still, he places the order while the rest of them crowd around Ara, waving around her toys and trying to get her to play with them.
“She’s going to cry,” Taehyung tells them matter-of-factly, hanging back. And sure enough she does, her face twisting as she starts bawling.
Taehyung’s quick to soothe her though, picking her up and rubbing a hand down her back. He murmurs something to her, then starts singing—something low and calming that Yoongi can’t quite make out. Ara’s cries taper off, then stop completely.
At that exact moment, the buzzer for his building rings. “Food’s here,” Yoongi says, getting to his feet to let the delivery person in.
Namjoon grabs beers from the fridge, and everyone forgoes plates and just digs in. The conversation shifts quickly, jumps from topic to topic with such speed that Yoongi finds it a little difficult to keep up.
“And Hyungwon turns to me, right and he’s like, ‘hyung, we’re all headed to Ravi’s after this, you should come!’ and I was—” Hoseok leans back, eyes wide, hands pressed against his chest. “Like, wow? Really? When I agreed to go out with you guys for a few drinks I was not expecting this. It’s literally almost three in the morning. You’re still going?”
“I mean, that’s never stopped you before,” Namjoon points out.
“It’s stopped me plenty of times before,” Hoseok argues. “Ever since I turned twenty-six and realized I enjoyed getting a good night’s sleep.”
“But you still went?” Jungkook asks. He’s playing some sort of game with Ara; Taehyung had propped her up against a bunch of throw pillows, and she and Jungkook are now just taking turns throwing a bouncy ball at each other. Ara doesn’t look amused, but she doesn’t look like she’s about to cry either, which Yoongi takes to mean that she’s having fun.
Hoseok pulls a face. “Yeah,” he says. “I regretted it immediately, though. I felt so old there. They were all dancing and screaming, and I was just standing there wondering how much longer I had to stay until it was appropriate for me to leave.”
“At least you did better than me and Yoongi,” Seokjin volunteers, raising his bottle of beer. “The last time we tried to go out was before Ara was born, and we took one step into the club, looked around at all the kids dancing, and simultaneously turned to each other and went ‘nope’.”
That makes Yoongi laugh. “I remember that,” he says. “We went back to yours and drank soju like sad old men. That was a fun night.”
“Yoongi-hyung’s even worse now,” Jimin volunteers, a mischievous twinkle in his eye. “Nowadays he only drinks in his apartment. Give him a shot of soju anywhere else and he looks at you like you’re the most depraved person on earth.”
“I do not,” Yoongi argues, as Hoseok and Namjoon burst into laughter. “Besides, drinking at home is just smart. I have a daughter now, I can’t go around getting drunk in public.”
Jimin snickers. “I told you,” he says. “Worse.”
There’s a pause, then Namjoon sighs. “It’s so weird,” he says wistfully, leaning back on his hands. “When did we get so old?”
“Speak for yourself, I am the epitome of youth,” Yoongi deadpans.
“Hyung,” Hoseok says. “You have a daughter.”
“I’d argue that makes you much older than the rest of us,” Jimin adds.
“Children can be very aging,” Seokjin agrees.
Yoongi glares at them, but there’s no real heat to it.
“I don’t know, I’m just—” Namjoon shakes his head. “When we all met, we were all so…young. Filled with so much energy. Like Jungkookie literally used to look like Bambi. Now we’re all here, and Yoongi-hyung has a whole daughter, and…I don’t know. It just makes me feel a little nostalgic.”
“I think we’ve all just grown up a little,” Jimin says. “And as we grew up, the things we deemed ‘fun’ also started to change. We just don’t really have the energy to pull all-nighters anymore.” His grin widens. “Well, except for Taehyung, I guess.”
Taehyung, who’s remained relatively silent during this conversation, looks up from where he’s been watching Ara.
“What?” he asks. “What about me?”
Something about his tone makes Jimin giggle. “Nothing, it’s nothing,” he says, amusedly. “We were just talking about how you still enjoy it—going out to clubs and partying and all that.”
“Well, of course he does,” Hoseok chimes in before Taehyung can speak. “He’s a hot, single man living in Paris. I’d probably enjoy partying too if I lived there.”
“Weren’t you just talking about how you felt so old at a party?” Jungkook asks quizzically.
“Yeah, but it’s Paris,” Hoseok replies. “It’s the land of the queer people. Every French person is both hedonistic and a little gay.”
Taehyung actually looks thoughtful at Hoseok’s words. “That’s…strangely not inaccurate,” he says, amused. “But yeah, Paris is fun. There’s always something to do, and the nightlife is great.”
“It’s just so baffling to me that you still have the energy for it,” Namjoon says.
“I mean, I like going out, and I like meeting new people,” Taehyung replies. “I don’t quite feel like I’m ready to settle down just yet.”
“Do you think you will, eventually?” Seokjin asks.
“I mean probably,” Taehyung replies, shrugging. “But right now the idea still feels so far away to me. There’s still so much I don’t want to miss out on.” A pause. “But I feel like if I have to give up on all that, then home should be…I don’t know, some place where I’m okay living the rest of my life out. With people I’m okay living the rest of my life with.”
Taehyung’s words make something ache in Yoongi’s breastbone. A home. Yoongi thought he had that with Yijeong and Ara. He thought he finally found the perfect place to settle, the place to rest his wandering heart.
Instead, here he is again—drifting, lost at sea. Tossed around by the waves, trying to claw his way back to safety.
“But that’s just me,” Taehyung demurs. “Some people prefer to live more calm lives. There’s nothing wrong with that.”
“Just like Seokjin-hyung and Yoongi-hyung,” Hoseok points out. “Drinking soju at home like sad old men.”
“Which is why Yoongi and I are getting married in the fall,” Seokjin says flippantly. It’s a sudden change of topic, but Seokjin’s always been like that—prone to abrupt changes of topic and deflection. Yoongi rolls his eyes, feeling an unwilling smile tug at the corner of his lips. “We’re staying true to our vow of eternal roommates and live together forever. He’s the only man I can tolerate.”
“Bold of you to assume that means I can tolerate you,” Yoongi replies.
“Good,” Seokjin shoots back. “Perfect. That just means we’ll stay out of each other’s way. It’ll be the greatest marriage ever.”
“You think it would be.”
“But you can’t even get married here.” It’s Jungkook who speaks up. When Yoongi looks at him, he finds Jungkook with his arms crossed and a slight pout on his face, eyes fixed on Seokjin. “It’s illegal.”
Seokjin doesn’t return his gaze. He looks unbothered by Jungkook staring intently at him—or appears to be, if not for the way his ears have slowly started to turn red.
Jimin says, “But they should be allowed to get married if they want to.”
This time, Jungkook’s gaze jumps to Jimin. “No, they shouldn’t,” he says. His tone is stern, slightly angry.
Jimin actually looks taken aback at that.
There’s an awkward moment where nobody says anything, not knowing what to make of this awkward situation. Across the circle, Yoongi meets Taehyung’s eye and gives him a pointed eye roll.
The corners of Taehyung’s lips twitch upward, into an amused smile. Yoongi can’t help but grin back at him.
It’s Namjoon who breaks the silence. “Okayyy,” he says, drawing out the last syllable. “So random homophobia was definitely not what I expected when I came over to help Yoongi-hyung pack, but like, sure, I guess.”
Jungkook’s expression hurtles comically from surprise, to realization, to embarrassment. “I didn’t…I didn’t mean—”
Hoseok waves a hand. “It’s fine,” he says, his grin wide. It’s clear he’s finding this all far too amusing. “We know you didn’t mean it in that way, Jungkook.”
The conversation shifts after that: an interested Namjoon asking Taehyung about the art scene in Paris, which then turns into a discussion about digital art, which further evolves into Seokjin and Taehyung badgering Jungkook about a video game project he’s working on that he’s being incredibly tight-lipped about. Before long, the beer’s run out, the pizza’s finished, and the rest of Yoongi’s friends start getting ready to head out.
“Hey,” Yoongi overhears Jimin say right before he leaves, snagging Jungkook’s arm. “Can I talk to you for a second?”
Jungkook shakes his head. “There’s nothing to talk about,” he says, pulling his arm away. He sounds a little surly.
“You damn well know there is,” replies Jimin, latching on again. He looks at Seokjin, who’s a little ways away putting on his shoes, and then shakes his head, impulsively reaching out to grab him by the arm.
Seokjin stumbles, but doesn’t manage to protest as Jimin marches them all out of the apartment, with nothing more than a “Bye Ara, bye Yoongi-hyung!” called over his shoulder.
Hoseok watches them go almost fondly. “They’re so dumb,” he sighs.
Surprisingly, Taehyung doesn’t seem bothered that Jimin’s leaving without him, even though they’d arrived together earlier. He just stands to the side making faces at Ara as Namjoon holds her, effectively distracting her from crying.
Yoongi sidles up to him. “You’re not going with Jimin?” he asks. In Namjoon’s arms, Ara spots him and starts wriggling; Yoongi instinctively reaches out to take her.
Taehyung shakes his head. “I’ve got plans.”
“Namjoon and I are leaving, bye Yoongi-hyung, bye Taehyung!” Hoseok calls, pulling open the front door. Yoongi waits until the door closes behind them before he turns back to Taehyung, eyebrow raised.
“What kind of plans?”
Taehyung shrugs. “Just an art thing,” he says. “One of my art friends is holding an exhibit near here. Something about how color affects our perception of home. I promised her I’d stop by.”
“Oh.” Yoongi doesn’t know much about art, but he thinks that sounds pretty interesting. “That’s cool.”
“Yeah.” Taehyung chews on his lower lip, like he’s mulling something over. His eyes flicker to Yoongi then back to Ara, the movement so quick that Yoongi thinks he might’ve imagined it. “Actually, you should come.”
That catches Yoongi off-guard. “What?”
“Yeah, I think you’d enjoy it. You seemed curious about modern art last time.”
“Yeah, I guess.” And just for a moment Yoongi’s tempted to agree. “But no, I don’t think I can. It’s almost Ara’s bedtime, and there’ll be no one available to watch her on such short notice.”
“Oh, she can come,” Taehyung replies easily. “That is, if you’re okay with letting her stay up a little later for one night.”
Yoongi blinks. “Taehyung, she’s a baby.”
“Yeah, and?”
“A baby in an exhibit?” Yoongi asks skeptically. “Is that…legal?”
Taehyung snorts in reply to that, clearly amused. The sound makes Ara giggle, and she reaches out to try and grab his hair. “Well, it’s certainly not illegal.”
Yoongi huffs. “You know what I mean,” he shoots back, pulling her away from Taehyung. “She might cry, or throw a tantrum or something.”
Taehyung raises an eyebrow. “You think so lowly of her,” he says. The amused sparkle in his eyes is a little riveting, if not wholly addicting. “Frankly, I’m insulted on her behalf.” He bends down to meet her eye “Ara, your appa thinks so lowly of you.”
Ara babbles in reply, the sound indecipherable.
“But really, I think she’ll be fine,” Taehyung tells Yoongi. “She’s the sweetest baby in the whole world.” A pause. “Besides, it’s sort of like a light show. Everyone will probably be making noise, so she’s free to make as much noise as she wants.”
“Well, if you’re sure.” Yoongi takes another moment to think about it, weighing the pros and cons in his head. “Alright, fine. Take Ara to see all the sparkly lights and cement your position as her favorite uncle.”
The curve of Taehyung’s lip is slow. “Of course,” he says.
“And you can even stay over if you like,” Yoongi adds, the thought occurring to him as he speaks. “After the exhibit. I know you’ve been using public transit to get everywhere, and the commute back to Jimin’s is far.”
“It’s not that bad.”
“It takes you an hour and a half one way,” Yoongi says. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I just didn’t want to impose,” Taehyung demurs, shaking his head. “You have, like, a baby to take care of. Besides, it’s not that big of a deal. I can always take a taxi back.”
Yoongi resists the urge to roll his eyes. “Taehyung, as your friend, I refuse to let you take a taxi back,” he says. “Besides, I’m used to you imposing. Remember when you used to barge into me and Seokjin-hyung’s dorm and practically beg us to make you food?”
Taehyung looks a little embarrassed at the memory. “I mean,” he stutters. “I wasn’t—I was a bit—”
Yoongi cuts him off with a look. “Stay the night,” he says, and he’s a little shocked at the authority that bleeds through his voice. “Really. I know if you stay, Ara will be ecstatic to see you in the morning.”
Ara coos at that, clapping her hands. Even if Taehyung can hold out against Yoongi, there’s absolutely no way he can resist her and the bright-eyed way she’s looking at him—filled with admiration.
Taehyung’s shoulders slump in defeat, even as his smile only grows. “Okay,” he tells Ara first, poking her cheek with a finger. “Okay, hyung. I’ll stay.”
“Good.” There’s a moment where neither of them say anything, bereft of words. Then eventually Taehyung shakes his head, his smile still in place.
“We should probably head out soon, though.”
“Alright,” Yoongi says, and takes Ara to get changed.
. . .
Unsurprisingly, Ara loves the light show. Her eyes are wide all throughout, her face lit up in awe at all the bright colors around her. Taehyung takes great fun at holding her up in front of the swirling projections and asking her what she thinks, tone serious like Ara’s the leading expert on all things modern art. He also points out to her the things he finds interesting, the influences he identifies. “It’s just like a Monet,” Yoongi hears him seriously tell Ara at one point, sounding a bit like he’s lecturing. “But in different genres.”
Yoongi, too, enjoys the show—although his attention drifts to Ara and Taehyung more often than not. It’s hard not to be taken in by the graphics, by the way each image smoothly shifts into the next one, the colors dancing around the room, as the music swells. It’s still, but at the same time it isn’t; each photo giving birth to thousands of iterations with every change of color and lighting. The same place rendered in different colors.
Something about how colors affect our perception of home, Taehyung had said earlier when he’d been inviting Yoongi to come, and Yoongi thinks he sort of understands it, a little.
Taehyung’s friend is there to greet them—Soyeon, she introduces herself kindly—and she and Taehyung fall into easy conversation. She’s nice and pretty and she doesn’t keep Taehyung for too long, aware of Yoongi and Ara’s presence, waiting.
She does ask Yoongi (and Ara) what they thought of the exhibit, and that causes Ara to burst into tears, overtired and overstimulated. Yoongi is mortified, but Soyeon just waves a hand, reaching behind the gift shop counter to grab something.
“Here,” she tells Ara, dangling a small, flower keychain from her finger. “This is for you!” She presses a finger to her lips, winking. “But don’t tell anyone, okay?”
Ara immediately stops crying and takes the keychain from Soyeon.
A little later, when they’ve gotten Ara’s stroller and are on their way out of the venue, Yoongi rolls his eyes and presses a kiss on the tuft of Ara’s hair. “Never knew you were so easily bought, baby,” he murmurs, which elicits a quiet coo in response.
Taehyung, however, is animated. “Great job, Ara,” he tells her cheekily, gently grabbing her hand and giving himself a high five. “You just scored us some free stuff! With you around, we’ll never have to pay for anything.”
Yoongi pins Taehyung with a half-hearted glare. “You are not using my daughter to steal,” he says.
Taehyung shrugs unapologetically. ”It’s not my fault she’s criminally adorable.”
On the way back home, they stop at an ice cream shop. It takes a while, but Taehyung manages to convince Yoongi to let him give Ara some, and Yoongi watches in both parts fondness and resignation as Taehyung feed Ara a little bit of the cookies and cream ice cream he’d ordered. Her expression lights up as soon as she tries it, spit dribbling down her chin as she reaches forward in her high chair and tries to grab Taehyung’s cup.
“That’s enough, Ara,” Yoongi tries to say as sternly as he can. Taehyung, however, because he’s always made it a habit not to listen to Yoongi, scoops up a little bit more ice cream and feeds it to her.
And as Yoongi expected, the ice cream gives Ara a sugar rush. That, coupled with her being overtired, means that she tries to stuff everything she sees in her mouth and throws a tantrum when Yoongi and Taehyung stop her. The first two times she cries, Yoongi’s able to quiet her down; by the third time, he and Taehyung end up having to leave the ice shop because of all the dirty looks the patrons shoot at them. They take her on a walk around the area, Yoongi bouncing her on his hip and frantically trying to get her to calm down.
Eventually, she does conk out, the exhaustion catching up to her. Yoongi breathes a sigh of relief when he feels her breathing evens out, making Taehyung check that she’s actually asleep, before carefully tucking her into her stroller.
“I told you not to give her any ice cream,” he says, tone a little accusing.
Taehyung laughs. “It’s fine, it’s not like she has it everyday. Besides, she had fun.”
Yoongi can’t help the snort he lets out. “She cried around five hundred times.”
“Still,” Taehyung replies, tone cheeky. The corners of his mouth are curled upwards. “Fun.”
Despite the late hour, the night is still alive, thrumming with vibrance and energy. Yoongi and Taehyung cut through the park, still brightly lit, to head to the metro stop on the other side. People mill about, lively conversations and distant laughter fill the air. Every so often, a cool breeze passes—making the leaves rustle, blowing away the early summer humidity.
There’s something to be said for the way the sounds intertwine, play off each other like they’re singing in harmony. Yoongi takes a moment to enjoy it, letting the sounds wash over him.
Taehyung clears his throat. “So,” he begins. “What did you think of the exhibit?”
Yoongi casts his mind back to the light show: the play of colors, the swell of the music, the emotion it had evoked from him. If pressed, it’s not something he thinks he can put into words—the way he’d stood in the middle of all the swirling lights and felt a strange sense of longing pulled from deep inside him.
“It was nice,” he replies. “I enjoyed it a lot. Your friend Soyeon’s really talented.”
“She is, isn’t she?” There’s a fond look in Taehyung’s eye. “Even back in school, she’s always had this way with colors. I’m glad she’s able to showcase her talent now.”
“So you met her in school?”
“In Paris, yeah. I was taking a few art history classes for fun. She was doing a semester abroad for her graduate program.”
“Oh.”
“She’s also just really good at…playing with perception,” Taehyung continues. “At least, I think so.” He shrugs, taking a deep breath. “She definitely gave me a different perspective on things.”
The pensive tone in Taehyung’s voice tells Yoongi that this is something a touch deeper than anything he’s ever shared with Yoongi before. Something that renders him a little more vulnerable too—pleasantries down, emotions sincere.
“Like what?” Yoongi asks, delicate.
For a moment, Taehyung doesn’t say anything. Yoongi chances a look at him, finds him already looking back, eyes warm and a little thoughtful. When their eyes meet, the corner of Taehyung’s mouth ticks up, just a little.
“In Seoul, I think of Paris.”
It’s not what Yoongi expected him to say. “What?”
“In Seoul, I think of Paris,” Taehyung repeats. “In Paris, I think of Seoul.”
“Why?”
A pause, and then a half-shrug. “I realized that they’re the same to me, I guess.”
It’s difficult for Yoongi to fathom what Taehyung’s trying to tell him. Paris is—well, Yoongi’s never been, but Paris is Paris, in its grit and its cobblestone roads and its dazzling spectacle. Seoul is more modern, more understated; sleek buildings and asphalt roads and a conservatism that bleeds through its walls.
“Why do you say so?” he asks.
“They have the same vibrance,” Taehyung replies immediately, tongue darting out to wet his lips. “The same energy. The same streetlights, too.”
He comes to a stop beneath one of the lamps, staring up at its light. The dusty-yellow color it emanates leaves half of him in shadow, half of him tinged in gold.
“The streetlights?” Yoongi echoes, curious.
Taehyung’s eyes twinkle beneath them. “Seoul needs something to light up the night, just as Paris does.”
The unexpected reply makes Yoongi laugh. “That’s a terrible answer,” he says, voice far too fond. If you base it off that, then that argument can be made for literally every city in the world.”
Taehyung shrugs. “Maybe,” he says unapologetically, his grin turning cheeky. “But I can’t speak for every city in the world now, can I?”
The expression on his face makes him look younger; less like the polished artist that had shown up on Yoongi’s doorstep weeks ago, and more like the boy Yoongi had known back in university—the one he’d observed from afar but never really engaged with.
“They’re the same to me,” Taehyung repeats, skin still glowing beneath the streetlight. “Paris and Seoul, I mean. What I realized tonight is that they’re just…they’re just the same place in different colors.”
For as long as Yoongi’s known him, Taehyung’s always been filled with unique perspectives and thoughts of whimsy, ones that Yoongi had a hard time following. His statement now is no different, not unlike his previous Taehyung-isms that often left Yoongi scratching his head in confusion. But Yoongi has the overwhelming urge to try and understand him now, to pick apart his brain; unscroll his thoughts and follow them through their leaps of logic and their flights of fancy.
“I thought—” Taehyung breaks off, wetting his lips. “I always thought I had to choose, you know? Paris or Seoul. One type of lifestyle or the other. But I realized, I guess, that at their core, they’re the exact same thing. The same city in different colors. In the end, they make me feel the exact same way.”
“How do they make you feel?” Yoongi asks, unable to help himself.
A pause. “Alive,” Taehyung answers. There’s something electric in the way he meets Yoongi’s gaze.
Compared to Paris, Seoul is boring. It has none of its splendor, none of its dazzle; none of its hedonism running rampant on the streets. Yoongi doesn’t know Taehyung as well as Jimin does, but he knows enough—knows that Taehyung’s always been the type to enjoy movement, to enjoy exuberance and the nightlife.
But he also knows that Taehyung’s always been made of both contradictions and juxtapositions, unpredictable to the point of logic. Somehow, Yoongi isn’t surprised to find out that he thinks Seoul and Paris are the same, the same way he’d think black and white are two sides of the same coin.
Somehow, he isn’t surprised to learn that Taehyung, with his head in the clouds, still keeps his feet firmly planted on the ground.
A strong breeze blows through the park, rustling the leaves above them. Yoongi shuts his eyes, listens to them sway; thinks he can hear the beginnings of a song, hidden in the echoes of the wind.
Taehyung keeps looking at him, rendered in light and shadow. The electricity in his eyes is gone, replaced by a weight Yoongi isn’t quite sure to describe.
“What are you thinking about, hyung?” he asks.
Half-golden, the sight of him takes Yoongi’s breath away. Half-golden, he looks rounder, softer, younger.
A little bit like home.
The song in his ears grows louder, the rise and fall of its notes, the drumbeat echoing the marching of his heart. “I’m thinking,” Yoongi says, half-moon smile coming to play on his lips, “I’m thinking about writing a song.”
. . .
The next day, Yoongi wakes up early like he always does, gets Ara ready for the day. Taehyung had stayed over, and the door to the guest room remains shut until the late morning, when he blearily stumbles out and follows the smell of breakfast food into the kitchen. Ara is clearly excited to see him, making a sound of delight from where she’s sitting on her high chair.
“Good morning, hyung,” Taehyung mumbles around a yawn.
“Good morning,” Yoongi replies. He inclines his head towards the dining table. “Breakfast?”
They eat together at Yoongi’s kitchen table—Yoongi and Taehyung with some rice and eggs, Ara with her sweet potato purée. Ara ends up ignoring most of her food in favor of staring at Taehyung, eyes alight and ready to play. Taehyung doesn’t appear to mind though, and once he’s woken up enough, he starts making faces at her, causing her to giggle happily.
“Don’t play with her, she’ll never finish her food,” Yoongi scolds Taehyung lightly, holding Ara’s tiny spoon in mid-air as he waits for her to take a bite. He moves it to her mouth and Ara dodges it expertly, smearing bits of sweet potato on her cheek.
“Sorry hyung,” Taehyung says, and his grin is anything but remorseful.
Once the food is all eaten and Ara’s decided Taehyung’s more interesting than sweet potato, Yoongi goes to clear the table. Taehyung stands up to help, bringing plates and glasses to the sink.
“Thanks for breakfast, hyung,” he says, tone muted. He’s wearing one of Yoongi’s shirts—Yoongi had loaned it to him right before they’d gone to bed—and it’s a little too small on him, the hem riding up when he stretches. “And thanks for letting me stay over last night.”
“Of course,” Yoongi replies. “It’s the least I could do after all your help.”
Taehyung’s small grin is at odds with how soft and sleepy he still looks. “It’s really nothing,” he says, then looks over his shoulder and gasps.
Ara, as it turns out, is now covered in more purée than she was five minutes prior—her face smeared orange as she grabs handfuls of it from the bowl that Yoongi left on her high chair. Yoongi’s eyes widen in surprise, but before he can say anything, Taehyung is striding back, laughing as he grabs a napkin.
“You got a little something there, baby,” he coos, crouching as he dabs at her face gently with the napkin. She smiles sunnily up at him, and proceeds to babble with her mouth full.
“I know,” Taehyung replies, as if they’re having a conversation. “Yeah, I like it too. But that’s enough sweet potato for now, okay?” He takes the bowl from the high chair and puts it out of her reach.
“Oh,” Yoongi says, when Taehyung goes back to trying to wipe her clean. “You don’t have to—I can do that.”
Taehyung waves a hand. “It’s fine,” he says. “It’s just a little mess, isn’t it Ara?”
“Muh-muh,” Ara replies, and then blows a spit bubble at him. Yoongi winces, but Taehyung just laughs again, wiping her efficiently.
“You’re so gross,” he tells her fondly. “But you’re cute, so it’s okay.”
It takes a little bit of time, but Taehyung eventually gets Ara marginally cleaned up. He’s determined to do it too, waving away Yoongi’s offers to take over. So Yoongi turns back to cleaning the kitchen and washing the dishes, pretends he isn’t listening when he hears Taehyung singing to Ara under his breath.
He has a lovely voice, Taehyung. Low and resonant, with a warmth that bleeds through and a soul that comes alive.
Eventually, Taehyung decides to head out. Yoongi and Ara stand by the door to watch him go, the latter occasionally cooing at him and calling for his attention.
“I’ll see you next time, Ara,” Taehyung says, crouching down to meet Ara’s eye. He smiles when Ara reaches out and slaps him on the face, then gently pulls her hand away and straightens up.
“And I’ll see you next time too, hyung,” he says. The smile on his face morphs into a smirk. “I’ll tell you all about what happened between Jimin, Jungkookie, and Seokjin-hyung.”
Yoongi feels his eyebrows raise. “You think something happened?” he asks.
“I hope so,” Taehyung replies, playfully rolling his eyes. “Because I’m not sure how much more pining I can take.” He lets out an overly-dramatic sigh. “In retrospect, I shouldn’t have agreed to stay with Jimin. I should’ve booked a hotel or something.”
It’s obvious it’s a joke, lighthearted exasperation between friends. But for some reason Yoongi’s brain takes it seriously, whirring to life, and the words tumble from his lips before he can even think twice about them.
“You could stay here.”
Taehyung pauses. “Pardon?”
“With me,” Yoongi clarifies. “You know, if the pining gets to be a bit much.”
Taehyung doesn’t say anything to that, his gaze questioning.
“Like, it was just…it was just a thought,” Yoongi continues, the words spilling out from him before he even thinks about them, before he truly understands their implication. “You’ve been spending a lot of your time here, and the commute from Jimin’s is terrible. If you wanted, you could stay here until you have to leave—I have a guest bedroom and a lot of extra space. You could spend much more time doing what you wanted rather than just in transit, and you would get a break from Seokjin-hyung, Jiminie, and Jungkookie, too.”
His face feels hot, as if he’s flushed all red, the back of his neck prickling. Still, he pushes forward. “I mean, you can say no if you don’t want to, but you’re very much welcome here. You wouldn’t have to spend money on a hotel, and I’ll cook for you. My place is also closer to the airport, so it’ll be easier to get there on the day of your flight.” A pause. “Besides, I—Ara would really enjoy having you around.”
I would too, is what he doesn’t say, swallowing the words down. It’s too much, too vulnerable for their tentative friendship. For what they’re supposed to be.
Ara coos all of a sudden, and her timing makes it seem like she’s backing him up. The corner of Taehyung’s mouth twitches fondly.
After a moment, Taehyung speaks again. “Well,” he says, his tone light. “It would be a lot easier for me to watch Ara if I stayed here.”
“It would.”
“And Jimin could have a break from me.” The corner of his lips tick upwards further. “Maybe he’ll even manage to sort out whatever’s going on between him, Jungkook, and Seokjin-hyung without me.”
Yoongi feels himself smiling. “Maybe,” he says. “But it’s also possible that you have a little too much faith in them.”
Taehyung shrugs. “What can I say?” he replies. “I like to think the best of people.”
Neither of them say anything immediately after that, watching each other intently. For some reason Yoongi feels nervous, feels on edge; feels like he’s standing on the edge of a cliff and waiting to freefall.
“So?” he presses, unable to himself.
Taehyung lets the word ring out for a few, long moments. “So, sure, hyung,” he eventually says, words curving around his smile. “I’d love to stay here.”
. . .
Sunday, June 25, 2023
Min Yoongi:
your stuff’s in boxes
idk, maybe i’ll burn them
[three]
The day Taehyung moves his suitcases into Yoongi’s apartment, Jimin throws a fit.
“I can’t believe it,” he pretends to sob, throwing his arms around Taehyung. “I can’t believe you’re leaving me for…for—” he pulls away, just enough to playfully narrow his eyes at Yoongi, “—for that soulmate thief.”
Yoongi childishly sticks his tongue out at Jimin.
Taehyung doesn’t even sound fazed. “Aw, Jiminie,” he says, patting Jimin on the back. “I’ll miss you too. But it makes more sense to move in with Yoongi-hyung. I promise we’ll still talk everyday.”
“Yeah, but it won’t be the same,” Jimin sulks dramatically. He crouches down, peeking at Ara’s face from where she’s resting her head on Yoongi’s shoulders, thumb in her mouth as she idly watches them talk. “Here’s another piece of advice for you, Ara. Never fall in love with an artist, love means nothing to them.”
“I don’t think Yoongi’s going to let Ara fall in love anyway,” Seokjin interrupts, sweeping out of the kitchen with Jungkook in tow. They’d shown up on Yoongi’s doorstep without warning, and Yoongi could only exchange a knowing glance with Taheyung before letting them in. “He’ll be one of those overprotective dads for sure.”
Yoongi nods sagely. “No dating until she’s twenty-one, at the very least.” He deliberately pauses. “But I’m sure she’ll have better taste than her Uncle Seokjin.”
Seokjin pointedly ignores him and heads back into the kitchen.
Seokjin, Jimin, and Jungkook stay until Taehyung is settled in, and even a little while after that. When they finally agree to leave, the goodbyes take forever—Jimin somehow being unwilling to leave Taehyung.
“Now who’s going to cuddle me after I’ve had a hard day at work,” Jimin sulks again, throwing his arms around Taehyung for what seems to be their tenth goodbye hug. It’s a little ridiculous. Yoongi had no idea they were that co-dependent.
Taehyung returns the hug, his eyes drifting to where Seokjin and Jungkook are standing by Yoongi’s front door, playfully pinching each other as they slip on their shoes.
“Trust me,” Taehyung says, his voice colored with amusement. He meets Yoongi’s gaze from over Jimin’s shoulder. “I’m sure you’ll be fine.”
Taehyung’s first course of action after they leave is to pick Ara up, gently extricating her from Yoongi’s arms. She curls into him easily, blinking as she tries to reorient herself. There are lines on her chubby cheek from where Yoongi’s shirt had creased, Yoongi resists the urge to coo at her.
“We’re roommates now, Ara,” Taehyung tells her. “Now we can have even more fun together.”
Ara coos in reply, reaching out to press a hand against his cheek. Taehyung makes a happy face at her, adjusting his grip and running his hand down her back.
Taehyung handles her expertly, like it’s second nature to him—like he was born with this inherent knowledge tucked right in the lifelines of his hand. Something about it mesmerizes Yoongi, his heart doing a funny little turn in his chest.
It takes a moment for him to realize that he’s being spoken to. “...Sorry?” Yoongi asks politely, vaguely wondering why his heart seems to have kicked up a notch.
Taehyung huffs, clearly amused. “I said—” and then he holds Ara at arms length, letting her feet dangle. “Ara stinks.”
“But she just took a bath,” Yoongi replies, confused. “I know you just moved in, but don’t think I won’t kick you out if—” the smell of a dirty diaper suddenly hits him as soon as he moves closer. “Oh.”
Taehyung, for some godforsaken reason, holds her diaper up to his face and takes a deep inhale. He comes away retching. “Oh, God. Yeah, that’s nasty.”
Yoongi’s alarmed. “Why on earth did you smell it?”
“I didn’t want to be making false accusations,” Taehyung defends. “Could’ve been you letting out a secret fart.” To Ara, he says, “Wow, that’s explosive. Didn’t know you could make something that stinky.”
Ara just stares at him for a few moments, before breaking into a tiny smile.
“Please take her back, hyung,” Taehyung complains, pouting. Yoongi snorts and rolls his eyes, fighting back a smile as he takes Ara back from Taehyung.
“I thought you were excited to have more fun with her.”
“Poop isn’t fun,” Taehyung replies. “But since I’m the best uncle, I’ll help you change her.”
“It’s fine,” Yoongi says on instinct, but he allows Taehyung to follow him back into the bedroom.
And when a simple diaper change turns into having to give Ara another bath—seriously, babies can be so gross—Yoongi thinks that it’s nice Taehyung’s sitting by his side, playing with her and singing to her.
It’s just nice to have him here, too.
. . .
And for some reason, it’s easy.
Yoongi’s lived with roommates so many times that he knows adjusting to a new person can take a while, but Taehyung just fits seamlessly into his and Ara’s life. They fall into their new dynamic quickly, and it’s so incredibly easy for Yoongi to get used to Taehyung’s presence, so incredibly easy to set an extra place on the table during mealtimes. He joins in on mealtimes and on errands, helps out with Ara, and even makes it a point to see Yoongi off on the days he needs to head into the studio—holding Ara in his arms as he sleepily coaxes her into waving goodbye.
(She never does, just blinks at him as he leaves, but the image of them stays with him through the rest of his day, making him feel warm all over.)
Then there are days Taehyung heads out—he doesn’t really tell Yoongi where he goes or who he meets, and Yoongi doesn’t really ask either, but he always texts to let Yoongi know if he’ll be back for dinner. He always gets something for Ara, too; on the third time he comes back with a toy for Ara, Yoongi can’t help but huff.
“Taehyung,” he says. He affects an exasperation he doesn’t really feel, rolling his eyes to try and stop the curl of his lip. “You don’t have to keep buying her things.”
Taehyung doesn’t even look at him. “Shh, hyung,” he replies, his eyes soft as he hands her the toy—a small stuffed bear that fits right in the palm of his hand. “Just let me spoil her.”
So it’s easy. It’s nice. It’s domestic, even, in a way that makes Yoongi feel less alone, less terrified to be alone. It isn’t the life he wanted—the picture-perfect nuclear family he’d envisioned with Yijeong—but Yoongi finds that maybe this isn’t so bad.
It isn’t so bad at all.
. . .
A few days later, Yoongi comes home from work to find Taehyung on the phone.
“Yeah, yeah,” he hears Taehyung saying while he’s slipping off his shoes by the door. At first, Yoongi thinks he’s talking to Ara, but his voice is a little too urgent for that—tone pitched low in a semblance of gravity. He looks up just as Yoongi walks in; Yoongi raises an eyebrow in question. “No, that's fine, Yujun. We can have it next month, then.” A pause. “Yeah, I understand. Alright. Thanks again, bye.”
He hangs up immediately after that, running a hand through his hair. The action leaves Taehyung’s hair a mess, his dark curls sticking out every which way.
“You’re back early today, hyung,” Taehyung greets, his expression pleasant.
Yoongi shrugs. “Yeah. Finished everything urgent in the morning, figured I could do everything else at home.” He spots the baby monitor on the coffee table in front of Taehyung. “She’s asleep?”
“Yeah, but she should be up in a bit.” Taehyung stretches, uncurling himself from the sofa like a cat waking up from a nap. “Should we wake her?”
“It’s fine,” Yoongi replies, taking a seat beside Taehyung. “Let her sleep.” He nods to the phone on Taehyung’s lap. “Who was that?”
“Just my agent.”
“In Paris?”
“Yeah.”
“Checking to see if you’re all ready to fly back?”
“Yeah, sort of,” Taehyung replies vaguely. He chews on his lower lip. “But hyung, actually—I was actually thinking of extending my stay.”
“Oh.” Yoongi blinks, surprised. “Really?”
“Yeah,” Taehyung replies. “I mean, I’m just not ready to head back yet, you know? Once I’m there, they’re going to ask me about new ideas and new themes for my next exhibit.” He pouts right after, as if there’s nothing less he wants to deal with. “Besides, I’m still having fun here. Things to do, places to go, people to see. You know.”
“Yeah.” A sudden flash of embarrassment courses through Yoongi when he realizes just how much of Taehyung’s time he’s monopolized, what with him caring for Ara whenever Yoongi’s unable to. “Is it because of Ara? I’m so sorry, Taehyung, I—”
“Hyung,” Taehyung cuts him off, amused. “I told you, it’s fine. I don’t mind taking care of her.”
“But you know that you don’t have to, right?” Yoongi insists. “If you want to go out more often, or whatever, just—just let me know and I’ll work something out.”
Taehyung grins at him. “I know, hyung,” he says. “And thank you. But it hasn’t been a problem, and I promise it hasn’t interfered with anything I want to do.” He shrugs. “I’m staying because I want to stay a little longer, that’s all.”
There’s something in his tone; Yoongi can’t quite identify it but he can hear it, a strange sort of wistfulness laced through his words. But before he can press further, Taehyung’s speaking again.
“I hope that’s okay with you…?” It takes Yoongi a moment to realize he’s referring to their living situation. “If not, I can always get a hotel—”
Yoongi’s shaking his head before Taehyung can even finish his sentence. “It’s fine,” he says firmly. “Seriously. Stay as long as you want. You’re always welcome.”
Taehyung’s face breaks into a smile, his eyes crinkling in the corners. “Thanks, hyung,” he says, his voice warm and sincere.
A noise from the baby monitor startles them, and they both turn to see Ara on the small screen, blinking at the ceiling “She’s awake!” Taehyung says, ecstatic and fond, and Yoongi can’t help his own smile from forming as he goes to get her.
The instant he steps foot in the bedroom, however, he freezes.
“Oh,” he gasps quietly, feeling his smile only grow. Ara blinks back at him blearily; her hair is matted to the side of her head, pillow creases on her cheek.
“`Pa,” she babbles, reaching out towards him. “`Pa, buh.”
But Yoongi lets her stay where she is for a few moments, because Ara’s—
Ara’s sitting.
“Taehyung…?” Yoongi calls, because he wants—no, needs to share this moment with someone. “Come here for a second?”
It only takes a few moments for Taehyung to arrive. “What’s wrong hyu—oh,” he says, freezing right next to Yoongi. “ Oh.”
A pause. Ara stares at them, expression nonplussed. Upright in her crib, unsupported; her back straight and her head held high.
“Look at you,” Taehyung gasps, cooing at her. He crouches down so he’s peeking at her from in between the bars of her crib. “You’re sitting down all by yourself! Yes, you are!”
“Buh-pfffft,” Ara babbles.
“You’re sitting down and you aren’t crying, oh my!”
Yoongi is aware that this is kind of a dumb thing to be proud about—after all, most babies should have already learned how to do this. But Taehyung looks just as proud as he does, and he looks at Ara like she’s the singular, most brilliant thing in the universe, like she’s worth the whole entire world.
Another moment where they just stare at her, amazed. Yoongi feels pride well up his chest. Ara looks at Taehyung, then at Yoongi, then her face contorts and she immediately starts crying.
“Oh—shh,” Yoongi soothes, rushing to pick her up. She flops forward dramatically once she’s in Yoongi’s arms, sobbing and tucking her face into Yoongi’s neck like sitting unsupported was the hardest thing she’s ever had to do in her life. Yoongi laughs, presses a kiss on the top of her head, sharing a smile with Taehyung once her tears quiet down.
“You did it.” Taehyung’s eyes turn into tiny crescent moons as he smiles. Something in Yoongi’s chest flutters at the sight—a baby bird testing its wings, a drumbeat to the melody in his brain. “Ara, we’re so proud of you.”
“See,” Yoongi murmurs to Ara, even as he’s unable to take his eyes off of Taehyung. “It’s not so scary, is it?”
. . .
It really isn’t so scary. Ara starts sitting by herself more often after that, pushing herself upright whenever she wants to play. Yoongi can’t stop grinning every time he arrives home and finds Ara and Taehyung playing, with Ara grumpy and sitting unsupported on the play mat while surrounded by all her toys.
. . .
Friday, July 7, 2023
Min Yoongi:
ara can sit up unsupported now
not that you’d care
. . .
When Yoongi tells his mother about Ara’s milestone, she’s just as proud as he is. She also—because she’s his mother and has already gone through all this—ends up laughing in his face.
“Don’t get me wrong, Yoongi,” she tells him, laughing as she holds Ara in her lap. Barring Yoongi and Taehyung, his mother is the only other person Ara actively adores, lighting up whenever she sees her grandmother. “I’m very proud that she can sit without crying. But at nine months?” She laughs again, smoothing Ara’s hair back as she does. “She’s exactly like you were at that age.”
“So Yoongi-hyung was a lazy baby too?” Taehyung asks, clearly delighted by that tidbit.
“Selective, ” Yoongi interjects, feeling himself pout. “I told you so many times Taehyung, the term is selective.”
Lunch at his parents had been an impromptu thing, spurred on by his mother’s complaints about never getting to see my granddaughter interspersed with her declarations of we’re not getting any younger, you know. Yoongi loves his parents, he really does, but he still thinks they can be a bit too overbearing.
Still, he’d gone because one, he’s a dutiful son, and two, because Ara adores her grandmother just as much as her grandmother adores her. And Taehyung had tagged along because, well—because his mother had said he could.
“Kim Taehyung?” She’d asked when Yoongi mentioned him over the phone. “Your friend from university? He can come too, if he wants.”
And Taehyung did, shameless in the face of home-cooked Korean food, bashful when Yoongi’s parents warmly welcomed him into their home.
“Yes, he was just as…selective,” Yoongi’s mother finishes, after giving Yoongi a quick glance. “All he liked to do was lie down and eat soup.” As she says this, she feeds Ara some soup; Ara’s eyes are round as she drinks it happily.
“I remember one time, when Yoongi was little, we went to a hotpot restaurant,” Yoongi’s father says, smiling at the memory. “He drank so much soup that he seemed to have gotten soup drunk, then passed out in the car on the ride home.”
“Appa,” Yoongi says warningly, just as his mother says, “That’s why we call him ‘soup dumpling’.”
Taehyung’s grin widens. “Soup dumpling,” he repeats, amused. “I can’t say I don’t see it.”
Yoongi already knows what he’s thinking. “No.”
“But Soup Dumpling-hyung—”
Taehyung’s whine is interrupted by the sudden sound of something toppling over and soup splashing onto the table. Everyone’s attention turns to Ara, the source of the noise; she’s got one hand in the bowl, soup all over her dress, and she’s blinking at all of them expectantly.
“Dabaga,” she says, which Yoongi interprets as a demand for more soup.
“Ara,” Yoongi scolds, reaching over to pull her arm away.
Yoongi’s mother scoots her chair back from the mess. “Aigo,” she says. She holds Ara out; Yoongi takes her and winces at how messy she is. “You’re a little impatient, aren’t you?”
“Exactly like Yoongi when he was younger,” Yoongi’s father says, laughing.
Taehyung’s eyes gleam with interest.
By the time they get Ara changed and the table cleaned, his parents have told Taehyung no less than five stories about Yoongi as a child, and have already discussed bringing out the old photo albums. Despite Yoongi’s protests, they all pay him no mind; his parents are happy to regale stories, and Taehyung is happy to listen to them all. They even find out they might have lived in the same apartment complex for at least two years when Yoongi was in middle school, until Taehyung’s family had moved away.
“Neighbors,” Taehyung muses, a thoughtful curve to his lips. He directs his next question to Yoongi. “Hyung, if we met back then, do you think we would’ve gotten along?”
Yoongi doesn’t look up from where he’s helping Ara fit some blocks into holes. “No,” he deadpans, even though he can hear the fondness in his own voice.
When Ara falls asleep with her head pillowed against Taehyung’s shoulder, Yoongi decides that it’s about time they head back. Taehyung says his goodbyes, profusely thanks Yoongi’s parents for the warm welcome, and then goes to the car with Yoongi’s dad to strap Ara into the carrier.
“Well,” his mother says, the instant the front door shuts. She’s not looking at him, her eyes trained on where Taehyung had disappeared. “Kim Taehyung.”
Yoongi busies himself with checking the contents of Ara’s bag. “What about him?”
There’s a moment. “Nothing,” she answers, even though her tone tells Yoongi otherwise. “I just remember him from your university days, that’s all. I didn’t know you were close—I thought he was more Seokjin’s friend than yours.”
“He was,” Yoongi replies, zipping up Ara’s bag. “Is. I don’t know.” He winces. “We get along well now.”
“I can see that,” his mother answers. “He’s really good with Ara.”
“I think he’s just good with kids in general.”
“Hm.” His mother turns to him, an eyebrow raised. “He lives with you?”
“Sort of,” Yoongi replies, unsure of where her line of questioning is leading to. “He lives in Paris; he’s only back here on vacation. I offered to let him stay with me since he’s been helping me out with Ara after the whole Yijeong thing.”
Her eyes turn soft. “Oh, Yoongi.”
“I’m fine,” Yoongi says quickly, before his mother can start pitying him. “It’s fine, I’m fine. I’m trying not to think about it too much.”
Despite his assurances, his mother still pulls him into a hug. “You don’t want a partner like that, anyway,” she tells him firmly. She runs a gentle hand down his back—the way she always did whenever he cried as a child. “You don’t want someone who’s unable to speak up and runs away when he gets too overwhelmed. You don’t want someone who thinks there’s something wrong with her."
She pulls away, gripping Yoongi’s hands in hers. Her eyes are soft and filled with love.
“You deserve someone who’ll stay no matter what,” she says.
Her words make Yoongi feel raw. “I know, eomma,” he says, clearing his throat. “But it’s—it’s fine. It’s not a priority.” He takes a deep breath, doing his best to temper the waver in his voice.“My focus is on Ara now. I just want to make sure she’ll be okay.”
“She will be,” His mother replies soothingly. “That baby is going to grow up so loved, I promise. By you, by her grandparents, and by your friends. We’re all here for you.”
Yoongi lets out a breath. “I hope so,” he says. “I really hope so.”
There’s a moment where neither of them say anything; his mother studying him like she’s trying to parse something out.
“You know,” she eventually says, “Taehyung’s quite handsome, don’t you think?”
Yoongi can’t help the visceral reaction that runs through him. “Eomma!”
“What?” She throws back. “Don’t tell me you don’t see it?”
Yoongi winces. “I don’t—I have literally never once thought of him in that way,” he tells her, even as his heart does a funny little turn in his chest. “I haven’t—we’re friends. He’s just helping out while he’s here.”
A pause. “I see,” his mother answers in a tone that tells Yoongi she decidedly doesn’t believe him. And something in Yoongi wants to protest, wants to insist that it really isn’t what she’s thinking, but logically he knows it makes no sense to—it would only serve to make him look guilty.
Instead, he sucks it up, smiles; collects the last of Ara’s things and gives his parents his goodbyes.
When he heads out a few minutes later, he finds Taehyung leaning against the car, head down as he scrolls through his phone. He looks up when he hears Yoongi approach, his hair tousled from the light breeze.
“So,” he says. “Ready to go?”
He’s quite handsome, Yoongi’s mother had said. Yoongi wasn’t lying when he said he’d never once thought of Taehyung in that way but in this light, he finds it’s an aspect of him that’s a bit too striking, a bit too difficult to ignore.
“Hyung?” Taehyung asks softly, his brow furrowing. Yoongi seems to have taken a bit too long to respond.
Yoongi takes a moment to collect himself. “Yeah,” he says. He lets out a breath, offers Taehyung a smile; tries to ignore the strange, fluttering of his stomach, the sudden, loud thump-thump-thump of his heart. “Yeah, let’s go home.”
. . .
“It’s not—I mean, I don’t think it’s that impressive,” Yoongi says, bashful. He adjusts Ara on his lap, making sure she’s far enough away from the keyboard so she doesn’t accidentally press anything. “Honestly, making music is just a little bit of tinkering and a whole lot of agony.”
Taehyung doesn’t appear to be listening to Yoongi, his curious eyes fixed on the software on Yoongi’s screen. “Hyung,” he says. “What does this do?”
Yoongi cranes his head to look. “Oh, that’s just for sound distortion,” he says over the top of Ara’s head. “Like—” He scrubs the playhead back, presses the button Taehyung was referring to, selects a random vocal effect and lets the distorted sound play out.
“Baaaaah!” Ara exclaims, amazed, leaning forward to try and bang her fists against the soundboard.
Occasionally there are slow work days, when all of Yoongi’s projects have been submitted for approval and there’s nothing pending for him to work on. Yoongi usually enjoys those days the most, because it means he gets to retire his headphones and shut off his equipment, spending the whole day doing chores and playing with Ara. But today, despite it being slow, Yoongi finds himself unable to turn everything off, gravitating towards his soundboard to tinker with a few notes and mess with a few loops he has.
(There’s something niggling in the back of his brain, causing him to feel this strange urge—an itch to write a song, to sit down for hours and sound out beats and melodies. It’s a feeling he hasn’t felt in a long time.)
On slow work days like this, Yoongi always tells Taehyung he doesn’t need to do anything when it comes to Ara—Yoongi is perfectly capable of taking care of her himself. But Taehyung doesn’t listen; he still takes it upon himself to feed her and change her, and he still finds ways to entertain her, whether that’s playing with her, or bringing her over to where Yoongi’s equipment is set up to peek at what he’s working on.
Taehyung’s always been a little stubborn that way.
“How about this one?” Taehyung asks, pointing to a different tool.
“That’s just for splicing the audio,” Yoongi replies. “You split the file at the playhead and arrange it how you want.” He demonstrates it with a few keystrokes, letting the melody on screen play out.
Taehyung’s eyes are wide and sort of awed. “Wow,” he breathes out as if Yoongi had done some sort of magic. “That’s amazing.”
“It’s nothing,” Yoongi replies, because it genuinely is nothing. “Like I said, it’s just a lot of tinkering. You have a vague idea, and you just figure out ways to execute it. I think art is similar that way.”
“I guess,” Taehyung says, still looking at the screen. “But I don’t think I could ever do what you do, hyung.”
“I’m sure you could.”
Taehyung just shakes his head, flopping back down on the couch beside Yoongi. When he speaks, he addresses Ara.
“Your appa’s a genius isn’t he, Ara?”
Ara giggles, letting out a delighted squeal as she kicks her feet out. Yoongi feels his face heat up, ducking his head shyly.
“Taehyung.”
“What?” Taehyung asks. “It’s true.” He leans forward to take Ara from Yoongi’s lap, situating her on his own. She makes another noise of delight when Taehyung looks down and makes a face at her, excitedly stuffing her fist in her mouth.
“Eh,” she says around her hand.
“You know,” Taehyung begins conversationally, his attention still on Ara, “I was always a little afraid of you, hyung.”
Yoongi rolls his eyes playfully. “No, you weren’t.”
Taehyung laughs. “I swear,” he says, looking up to meet Yoongi’s gaze. There’s a slant to his eyes that make him look softer, more youthful. “You were always so quiet, and so...so…” he schools his face into a bored, slightly angry expression to demonstrate.
Yoongi bursts out laughing. “I do not look like that!”
“You do!” Taehyung crows. “You really do! Kind of like the world is too much for you and you have to disconnect for a bit.”
Ara pulls her hand out of her mouth and reaches for her foot. She then tries to put it into her mouth.
“If I looked like that,” Yoongi says, instinctively reaching over to pull Ara’s foot away, “then why were you afraid of me?”
Taehyung shrugs. “You were just…” he trails off, deep in thought. “I don’t know—to me, you were just larger than life, you know? So quiet, but so passionate whenever you spoke, and you just seemed…so certain of yourself.”
“Really?” Yoongi had never once thought that he was certain of himself. Not now, and certainly not back when he was in university, trying to figure out what his future looked like. He supposes, after a moment’s thought, that he did put up airs—talked a lot of shit, made bold promises, made it seem like he knew where he was going when deep down inside, he was scared shitless.
“Yeah,” Taehyung replies, oblivious to Yoongi’s thoughts. “I was always so nervous to talk to you.”
“Taehyung, you used to barge into mine and Seokjin’s dorm to demand for food.”
“That doesn’t mean I wasn’t nervous doing it,” Taehyung huffs. The smile on his face has turned a touch fond. “I mostly just went whenever Jimin or Jungkook went, or when I knew Seokjin-hyung would be home.”
“Right.”
“Eh,” Ara adds to the conversation.
“You were so cool,” Taehyung continues, “and I was just…” he scrunches up his nose. “I don’t know. I had big ears back then. I was weird.”
Yoongi lets out a startled laugh. “And you don’t think you’re weird now?”
“Nowadays, I’m considered more whimsical.” Taehyung’s grin is wide, taking up half his face. “No, but seriously hyung! You were so cool, and you wrote the best raps ever. How was I supposed to talk to you normally?”
The memory of his raps from university makes Yoongi wince. “They weren’t that good,” he says. He averts his gaze, finds one of Ara’s teething toys on the couch; offers it to her in an attempt to distance himself from the conversation. “They could’ve been better.”
“They were amazing,” Taehyung insists. “You have this way with words, of describing loneliness, I—” he sits up straighter and looks at Yoongi with borderline-manic eyes. “When I first moved to Paris, I listened to all the songs you had on SoundCloud at least a hundred times each.”
“No, you didn’t.”
“Really,” Taehyung stresses, pressing his right hand against his left chest. “Seriously. I really did. It really—you know, being in a foreign country, not understanding the language—it really made me feel less alone.”
It flusters Yoongi how fervent he sounds, his sincerity bleeding through every word. Taehyung’s eyes are so round that it makes him look like a child, but there’s an underlying intensity in his soft gaze, one that makes Yoongi feel like he’s been seen through, transparent and held up to the light.
Before he can figure out something to reply, Ara interrupts them. “Eh,” she stresses, pulling the toy out of her mouth to show Taehyung, and Yoongi can’t help but laugh when the saliva-covered part of the toy hits Taehyung’s cheek.
“You’re so gross, Ara,” Taehyung complains, wincing. Yoongi takes her from Taehyung’s lap and sets her down on the play mat as Taehyung goes off to wash his cheek.
. . .
Two days after that, Yoongi returns home to find Ara covered in flour.
“What’s going on…?” Yoongi hedges, looking around with wide eyes. The kitchen, quite frankly, is a mess—bowls littering the countertops, flour and sugar spilled on almost every conceivable surface. Ara’s onesie is sticky with bits of honey and flour; still she babbles happily when she sees him, banging an empty sippy cup against the table of her high chair.
“Oh, hyung, you’re back!” Taehyung’s expression is equal parts surprised, bashful, and a little guilty. He’s just as messy as Ara, flour and honey and all over his clothes. “I didn’t notice the time. I was just baking.”
Yoongi picks Ara up from her high chair and creeps further into the kitchen. Among the chaos, he sees a ball of dough wrapped in cling wrap, a bowl filled with honey-colored syrup.
“...I can see that,” he says, a little befuddled. On instinct, he reaches out to wipe a smear of flour off Taehyung’s cheek. “What are you making?”
“Yakgwa,” Taehyung answers. His eyes land on the kitchen counter, and he suddenly seems to realize just how messy everything is. “…I’ll clean everything up, I promise.”
“Sure,” Yoongi says, because he wants absolutely no business in cleaning all that. “But why are you making it? You can always just buy some at the supermarket.”
At this, Taehyung gets a far away look in his eye. “I just,” he begins and then stops, shaking his head. “Never mind. It’s kind of ridiculous.”
“I’m sure it isn’t.”
“It is,” Taehyung insists. “You’ll laugh at me.”
“I’ll laugh at you if you’re trying to be funny,” Yoongi replies. Ara babbles something and pressed a sticky hand against Yoongi’s cheek, laughing delightedly when he pulls her hand away from his face. “But I doubt you are, anyway.”
For a moment, Taehyung doesn’t say anything in reply.
“It reminds me of home.”
“Which?” Yoongi asks. Ara decides at that moment to press both her hands against his cheeks, and she nearly brains him with her bottle. “Yakgwa?”
A pause. “Yeah, sort of,” Taehyung says. “When I was younger, my grandmother used to make it for us all the time, no matter the occasion. She has this special recipe, and it always reminds me of home. And I just thought, since I’m—” a huff, one that sounds a little rueful, “—well, since I’m here, I just…I don’t know.” His eyes get a distant quality to them. “I just wanted to make it, I suppose. But I can’t seem to get it right.”
Yoongi takes a look at the dough Taehyung’s got resting on the counter. “Your dough looks good.”
“Eh,” Ara says, turning to reach for Taehyung.
“But it doesn’t look like hers,” Taehyung replies, a bit distressed. “Hers always had this certain coloring, and the consistency—ugh.” He throws his hands up in frustration. “I just can’t get it right.”
“Do your parents know how to do it?”
A pause, then a shake of a head. “No, my mom can’t get it right either.”
Yoongi doesn’t know much about Taehyung’s family life beyond the fact that he’s got both his parents and a brother and sister each—things he’d learned from Seokjin back in university—so he makes sure to word his question as tactfully as he can. “Your grandmother, is she…?”
Fortunately, a small smile breaks out in Taehyung’s face. “She’s not dead, if that’s what you’re asking,” he answers. He shakes his head, presses his palms against the counter. “She’s just down in Daegu and I miss her.”
Something about the way he looks when he speaks about his grandmother makes him look childlike, the normally-sharp lines of his face softening, the corners of his eyes rounding out from his pout. There’s something he’s chasing, Yoongi realizes, an ache inside him he’s trying to soothe—borne from alienation, from loneliness; from the specific type of disassociation only found beneath rapid-fire conversations in a foreign language.
Yoongi looks at the mess of his kitchen; at Ara covered in honey and flour; at Taehyung, still staring at the dough like it holds an epiphany.
“You should go.”
Taehyung looks up at him, surprised. “To Daegu?”
“Yeah.” Yoongi shrugs, trying to sound nonchalant. “To be honest, I’m not sure why you haven’t gone yet. You’ve had some time.”
The look Taehyung gives him is indecipherable. “You’re right,” he says after a moment. There’s another pause. “You know what, hyung? Come with me. We can leave tomorrow.”
It’s an impulsive offer. Impulsive enough that it makes Yoongi stop, a knee-jerk reaction already forming at the tip of his tongue. He hasn’t been to Daegu in years, and he’s had no reason to go—not since his grandparents had packed up and moved to Seoul. He’s also got a job and a daughter, two things that demand his attention and need to be taken care of, and he can’t—he can’t just leave.
But Taehyung’s always been like that: impulsive and spontaneous and maybe just the slightest bit reckless, always determined to chase after what he wants. And he has this way of looking at people—at Yoongi— that makes Yoongi feel like he’s the only thing that exists right here, right now.
So he can’t really help it when all he has to say in return is yes.
. . .
They do leave the next day. Yoongi calls in sick and they decide to take Ara with them; she blows a spit bubble in Yoongi’s face while he straps her in the car, alert and excited for their adventure. Taehyung sits shotgun and plugs his phone into the radio, deciding ten minutes into the drive that they should listen to the entirety of Yoongi’s Soundcloud profile, much to Yoongi’s embarrassment.
“C’mon, hyung,” he wheedles when Yoongi complains. “Ara needs to learn how cool her appa is.”
“‘Pffft.” Ara’s been blowing raspberries, and she blows a loud one upon hearing her name. “Pfffffffffffffffffffffffffffffft.”
Yoongi sighs. “At least pick the one without swear words,” he acquiesces. Taehyung, however, ignores his instruction; Yoongi winces when he recognizes the drum beats from his song Agust D playing out from the car’s sound system. “And do me a favor—can you reach over and wipe her chin?”
Taehyung looks to the back and gasps in surprise. Yoongi has no idea what Taehyung’s seeing, but he thinks he has an inkling. “What on earth—your baby’s super gross, hyung,” he half-heartedly complains, but he dutifully leans over and wipes her face.
It’s a three-hour drive to Daegu. Yoongi doesn’t realize how long it’s been since he moved to Seoul until the scenery changes—trees giving way to the same city skyline he’s watched growing up. A strange sense of freedom fills his chest like a helium balloon, mixed in with the same forgotten idealism that made him want to eat the world raw. In Daegu he is eleven years old again, listening to Epik High for the first time; in Daegu he is sixteen, lyrics spilling out from his fingertips.
(He feels that niggling in his brain again, a long, dormant fire inside him sparking to life.)
Taehyung directs him further into the city, driving past familiar roads and buildings. According to Taehyung, the hotel they booked last minute is close to where his grandparents live, and Yoongi’s surprised to realize he knows the area, recognizing a noodle bar he used to frequent before he moved away.
Taehyung seems to recognize it as well. “Oh, Kyusan’s is still open,” he says, sounding surprised. “I used to eat there a lot after school—they had the best jajangmyeon.”
“I know,” Yoongi replies. “The ahjumma there even used to give me extra pork belly when she thought I was getting too skinny.”
There’s a pause, and then Taehyung turns to him, his eyes bright on the side of Yoongi’s face. “I wonder if we were ever there at the same time,” he muses, and Yoongi can hear the smile in his voice. “Look at us hyung, living parallel lives.”
Yoongi shrugs. “Maybe not so parallel,” he replies, and the thump of his heart is strange but exhilarating.
They’re off again as soon as they’ve checked in, driving an extra ten minutes to get to Taehyung’s grandparents’ house. It’s Taehyung’s grandmother who opens the door for them—a small, elderly woman with a shock of white hair—and her eyes blow wide as soon as she spots him.
“Taehyung!” she exclaims, pressing two hands against her chest. Taehyung laughs, stepping into her space and wrapping her into a big hug. “My goodness, boy—you scared me! You didn’t think to call first?”
“I wanted to surprise you, halmeonie!” Taehyung’s tone is earnest and sweet, his eyes crinkling up in glee. “Surprise!”
Taehyung’s grandmother huffs. “You’re the same as ever,” she says, pinching his cheek affectionately. “Come in, come in! Harabeoji’s in the garden, so just call him in. He’ll be ecstatic to see you. Have you eaten? I didn’t cook, but I can—oh! Who’s this?”
It’s only then that she seems to sense Yoongi’s presence, standing a little ways away with Ara asleep in his arms. “Hello,” Yoongi says, suddenly feeling shy. He bows the best he can.
He’s about to introduce himself but Taehyung beats him to it. “Halmeonie, this is Min Yoongi. Yoongi-hyung. And the little darling asleep is his daughter, Min Ara.”
“Oh!” Taehyung’s grandmother exclaims again, beckoning him closer. Her eyes are youthful as she takes him in, and once she’s done, she smiles brightly. “Welcome to our home.”
“Thank you for having me,” Yoongi replies.
Taehyung’s grandparents’ house is small but well-lived in; evident from the crayon marks on the walls to the picture frames proudly displayed on side tables and mantle tops. Yoongi gravitates towards them as Taehyung goes to surprise his grandfather in the garden, taking in old, faded photographs of children he assumes to be Taehyung and his siblings.
“Did you—Taehyung?! Is that you?!” Yoongi hears, and he can’t help but smile as he listens to their ecstatic laughter.
He lingers on a photograph of baby Taehyung. In it, he looks to be a little older than Ara, dressed in only a towel as he cheeses at the camera. Yoongi marvels at the resemblance to present-day Taehyung, identifying the similarities he can spot—the sparkle in his eyes, the familiar rectangle of his mouth.
It’s at this moment that Taehyung chooses to return to the living room, his grandfather in tow. “Looking at my raunchy pics?” he jokes. He’s got a pitcher of water and a few glasses on a tray, which he sets down on the coffee table. He then cocks his head towards Ara, quietly asking if Yoongi needs him to take her.
Yoongi shakes his head. “Just wondering if this was taken yesterday,” he replies. He squints at the photo, then at Taehyung. “You still look exactly the same.”
That makes Taehyung pout, puffing his cheeks out as he gives Yoongi a betrayed look. Yoongi grins at him, then properly introduces himself to Taehyung’s grandfather, Ara still dead asleep in his arms.
It’s surprisingly easy to speak with Taehyung’s grandparents. Despite clearly wanting to catch up with their grandson, Yoongi’s grandmother makes it a point to include Yoongi in the conversation, asking him questions about his life and his work. Taehyung’s grandfather is more stoic and quiet, content for the most part to listen to them talk, but his eyes are alert, every so often drifting towards Yoongi and Ara.
Yoongi just hopes he’s making a good impression.
Ara wakes up a bit later, lifting her head from Yoongi’s shoulder as she blinks into wakefulness. Taehyung’s grandmother gasps delightedly when Yoongi situates her on his lap, smoothing down a tuft of her hair that had stuck up while she slept.
“Oh, she’s such a doll,” she gushes. Ara just stares at Taehyung’s grandmother, sleepy and a little disoriented. “What did you say her name was? Ara?”
“Min Ara, yeah.”
“She’s the sweetest little baby,” Taehyung boasts. He looks so proud, almost as if he’s Ara’s other parent. “I’ve been helping Yoongi-hyung take care of her since I arrived here.”
He holds out his arms to her, and Ara wastes no time in reaching out for him, settling contentedly on his lap.
Taehyung’s grandmother watches the interaction with a raised eyebrow. “And exactly how long have you been here?”
A pause. “Almost three months.”
Her eyebrow climbs even higher on her forehead. “And why did you only visit now?”
“I’ve been...busy. But halmeoni, I’m here now!” he wheedles. “Yoongi-hyung and I will be staying for the weekend too, so we’ll have plenty of time! We can eat together, and catch up, and—” he presses his palms together like he’s praying, “—you can teach me how to make your yakgwa.”
“I knew it,” Taehyung’s grandmother says, shaking her head fondly. “It’s always the yakgwa you’re after. Not spending time with your poor grandparents.”
“I can be after both,” Taehyung protests, laughing. “We can spend time together while you teach me how to make them. I tried making them at Yoongi-hyung’s place yesterday, and they just weren’t as good as yours.”
Taehyung’s grandmother sighs, then meets Yoongi’s eye. “See what I have to deal with,” she tells him—exasperated but so, so fond. She cocks her head towards the side table, where the photo of baby Taehyung in a towel sits proudly. “I haven’t been able to say no to him since he was this cute and he knows it.”
Yoongi laughs. “He is a little difficult to say no to.”
“Sadly, I think his parents have it worse.”
“It’s because I’m their favorite child,” Taehyung interjects, tone smug. “And I know I’m your favorite too, halmeonie.”
“Oh, and are you Yoongi’s favorite, too?”
Taehyung’s eyes flicker to Yoongi. “I’m his favorite dongsaeng,” he declares. There’s a smug glimmer in his eye—like he’s only just daring Yoongi to protest.
“I don’t know,” Yoongi says, doing his best to fight a smile. “I think it’s a toss up between Jimin and Jungkook, actually.”
“Oh, of course,” Taehyung replies. “Let me just hand them Ara and see how quickly it takes for them to make her cry.”
Taehyung’s grandfather watches them interact with a smile. “Oh, you boys,” he says, and there’s something in his tone—an implication that Yoongi pretends not to hear.
. . .
They stay at Taehyung’s grandparents for dinner and even a little while after that, up until Ara starts getting fussy and overtired. Taehyung’s grandmother sends them off with a hug each, rolling her eyes fondly as she exasperatedly agrees to teach Taehyung how to make yakgwa—apparently for the eighth time, Yoongi learns.
Ara’s asleep by the time they get back to the hotel, and Taehyung’s careful not to wake her, gently picking her up from the car seat and holding her until they get to the hotel room. Yoongi watches him and wonders when it became so normal to see Taehyung take care of her; wonders when it became so natural for him to let Taehyung care for her even when he’s around.
“She’s out,” Taehyung murmurs to him after he’s set her down on the hotel bed, pillows bordering her so she doesn’t accidentally roll off. His eyes are soft as he regards Ara, brushing a finger down her chubby cheek.
Yoongi’s heart catches in his throat. “Thanks,” he manages to get out.
“Of course.”
It’s nothing but silence for a few moments, the both of them watching Ara sleeping deeply.
“It was nice,” Yoongi offers quietly. “Meeting your grandparents, I mean. They’re lovely.”
When Taehyung speaks, his voice is quiet. “I’m glad you liked them,” he says. He worries on his bottom lip. “To tell you the truth, I was a little worried.”
“That I wouldn’t like them?”
“That they wouldn’t like you,” Taehyung corrects. At Yoongi’s half-hearted glare, his smile grows. “No, no, I’m kidding. I’ve—honestly, I’ve never actually taken anybody home to meet them.”
Taehyung says the words casually, but they settle heavily on Yoongi’s shoulders, the hidden depth of their meaning ringing stark in his ears.
Taehyung doesn’t seem to notice though, turning his gaze back to Ara.
“My family didn’t actually have a lot of money growing up,” Taehyung continues, his voice getting a distant quality to it. “For the first few years of my life, my parents had to work long hours in far away places. They’d drop me off with my grandparents, and I’d spend the whole week at their place. They practically raised me back then, and they’re…they’re probably the most important people in my life.”
He doesn’t elaborate any further, but Yoongi can hear everything he isn’t saying, the words tucked into the profound respect in his tone. I don’t take just anybody to meet them.
Yoongi clears his throat. “Thank you,” he says, stepping up to stand next to Taehyung. He nudges their shoulders playfully, in an attempt to lighten the mood. “I’m honored.”
Taehyung’s smile is small and sincere, with something knowing playing at its edges—biding its time, waiting to be acknowledged. “Of course,” he says. He turns away to get ready for bed and Yoongi watches him go, wonders why the thump of his heart feels different than normal.
. . .
The next day turns into a bit of an event. Taehyung’s grandmother, in her excitement, had mentioned to Taehyung’s extended family that he’d had paid her a surprise visit, which means that all of their relatives turn up to see him the next day. Yoongi spends the first hour being introduced to all of Taehyung’s uncles, aunts and cousins, while Ara sits on a playmat in the living room with Taehyung’s grandmother, grumpily stoic as Taehyung’s younger cousins fawn over her.
“She’s so cute!” one of them squeals. “Please halmeonie, can I brush her hair?”
“I don’t think she has much hair to brush,” another one replies, bewildered.
Ara huffs, clearly annoyed at the attention.
Lunch then becomes a grand affair, numerous homemade Korean dishes piled high on the table. Taehyung talks a mile-a-minute, cheeks stuffed up with food as he laughs and catches up with everyone. He’s the center of attention, and he clearly thrives in it—remembering miniscule details about old stories mentioned in passing and giving appropriate attention to the things he’s told.
“No way!” Yoongi hears him exclaim when one of his younger cousins shows him something on the iPad. “You drew that? Wow, that’s so cool. You did such a great job.”
And it’s easy for Yoongi to see why Taehyung is so loved.
Taehyung’s extended family filter out after lunch, sated and happy after a good meal. Taehyung makes promises to visit more, to talk to them more often, to send more photos in the family group chat so that everyone knows what he’s up to. He’s happier here than Yoongi’s ever seen him, eyes crinkled and smiling so wide that it makes him look boyish, childlike in his glee.
As soon as the door falls shut behind the last guest, Taehyung follows his grandmother to the kitchen, pulling down the ingredients from the shelf. Yoongi trails after them, Ara on his hip as he listens amusedly at their bickering.
Taehyung’s grandmother spots him lingering, and she gives him an exaggerated eye-roll. “You might as well come and learn the recipe,” she tells him, beckoning him closer. “I‘ve taught Taehyung so many times but he never remembers. Everything I tell him goes in one ear and out the other.”
Taehyung shrugs, scooping out a cup of flour. “What can I say, my talent lies in eating it.”
“Well, you won’t get to eat it if you don’t make it this time,” she scolds. “Get started on—no, Taehyung, measure the flour properly.” She hurries towards him to level the cup.
It’s incredibly obvious how close Taehyung and his grandmother are, how their loving squabbles are a regular occurrence. For the briefest moment, Yoongi can see it in his mind’s eye—a young Taehyung round-cheeked and gleeful, making yakgwa with his grandmother and messing up all the ingredients in the process. A snapshot of Taehyung’s life before they properly met, and Yoongi feels a strange, visceral desire to unspool the years like old film, to pore over the negatives and learn everything about Taehyung that he doesn’t know yet.
“`Pa,” Ara says, getting his attention. She points at Taehyung—this time, he’s loudly singing a nursery rhyme to the clear amusement of his grandmother. “Eh, ba-bee?”
“Uh,” Yoongi replies, unable to stop his growing smile. “Yeah, Taehyung’s—Taehyung’s singing.”
“You can come sing with me too, Ara!” Taehyung calls. “Here hyung, give her to me—“
“Aish, wash your hands first before you hold the baby!”
In the end, it’s Yoongi who makes the yakgwa, rolling out the dough and cutting it into shapes while Taehyung stands with Ara and cheers them on. Taehyung’s grandmother occasionally meets his eye to give him exasperated looks, but Yoongi can easily spot the adoration behind it.
He does everything until there’s nothing left for him to do, the cookies now just needing to be soaked in syrup for three hours. Taehyung takes advantage of that to pull Yoongi out of the kitchen, grabbing Ara’s bag and shepherding him towards the door.
“Come on,” he says, a youthful twinkle in his eye. “We’re going out.”
It’s different going around with Taehyung. Yoongi knows Daegu well, has lived in it long enough that its quirks have lost their charm on him, but with Taehyung, he feels like he’s seeing everything in a new light. They don’t venture far, but despite that, Taehyung still has a lot to show him; he points out a bubble tea shop he used to frequent after school, launches into an amusing story about accidentally blowing his weekly allowance money at a PC bang down the street.
They end up stopping at a park Taehyung used to hang out in, one that Yoongi actually recognizes from when he used to walk home from the old studio he interned at in high school. He thinks of Taehyung’s words in the car yesterday—look at us hyung, living parallel lives— and he’s struck by a sense of sonder; a profound, almost-whimsical realization that he must’ve walked past Taehyung so many times growing up and never really noticed.
Never really cared, either.
If he had, though, would things be different?
The park is empty save for one person—a woman with a baby boy that looks to be around Ara’s age. Taehyung is clearly delighted by the sight, and immediately walks over to ask if maybe Ara can play with her baby.
“Yeah, Ara can be a bit moody,” Yoongi hears him saying when he’s close enough to overhear. “She doesn’t like most people, so we’re trying to socialize her more.”
“Oh, Jihoo loves everyone,” the woman replies. “I’m sure they’ll be friends in no time.”
“I hope so,” Taehyung replies. He sets Ara down in the sandbox. “Go make friends, Ara. You don’t have any friends.”
Ara stares at him betrayed, and then starts crying. Which makes Jihoo start crying as well.
“Oh—I got it, hyung,” Taehyung calls to Yoongi, picking Ara back up and immediately soothing her. Yoongi hangs back, offers the woman a polite smile when she glances over.
Taehyung takes charge of Ara the whole time, responds to her when she turns to him and takes care of her as if she was his own. Yoongi just watches him from afar, sitting with the sudden whirlpool of feelings in his chest—so large and overwhelming that their intensity almost bowls him over.
If he and Taehyung had met earlier—if Yoongi had paid him more attention in university—would they be here right now, taking care of Ara together? Would Yoongi have seen this all coming, and would he have been more prepared, more expectant; would he have been able to temper their potency and nip everything in the bud? Or was it always going to end up like this—Taehyung, in all his daring and hesitance, breaking through Yoongi’s barriers, a sudden crest in the otherwise-linear path of Yoongi’s life?
The way the universe works is that everything adheres to a coherent and rational framework. But Yoongi thinks that even if he retraced his steps, followed everything the way logic dictates, he still wouldn’t have found the catalyst. His brain is all one giant blur of events: Taehyung volunteers to soothe Ara that first night he arrived just as Taehyung talks to Ara about the light show; Taehyung holds Ara and bids him goodbye for work just as Yoongi comes home and watches Taehyung listen to Ara’s babbling with he same consideration one would have learning all the secrets of the universe.
He just—doesn’t know. When it all spiraled out of control; when this supposedly-temporary situation grew a life of its own. And just when, exactly, he started seeing Taehyung differently, their tentative friendship blossoming into something else.
Something more.
He’s saved from further spiraling by a loud giggle. Ara seems to have warmed up to Jihoo while he was musing, and he catches sight of them playing next to each other, every so often reaching for each other’s toys. Taehyung’s still chatting with the woman, but he’s definitely keeping an eye on Ara—he responds immediately when Ara tries to show him something, lavishing her with enough praise that it makes her grin, dimples digging into her cheeks.
And maybe the details don’t matter—the hows and the whens, the turning point and the ensuing path after. Maybe the only thing that matters is Ara and her giggles, her chubby little face lit up like the sun; maybe the only thing that matters is the way Taehyung handles her, with a gentleness that Yoongi’s heart aches to feel. Maybe the universe is wrong in its demand for logic and reasoning; after all, the universe is often dissected through physics, and all of physics—with its laws and its exceptions, its predictability and inexplicability—makes its point in one word: entropy.
Maybe Yoongi shouldn’t keep wondering how it started and focus on what he has right now—a person who makes his daughter happy, a person who makes him happy. A temporary family unit that may not last forever, but one that Yoongi’s perfectly okay with keeping for now.
It’s a thought that stays with him all the way until they head back to Taehyung’s grandparents’ house, Ara babbling happily in Yoongi’s arms. Next to him, Taehyung is quiet, a small, contented smile playing on his face as he hums a tune Yoongi can’t quite make out.
“You’re happy,” Yoongi says, and it’s more a quiet revelation than anything else.
Taehyung pauses, regards him for a few heartbeats. “I am,” he replies slowly. His smile grows, his eyes soften; he regards Yoongi with a gaze that makes sparks travel down Yoongi’s spine.
“I am so, so happy, hyung,” Taehyung continues. Yoongi smiles back, unable to help himself, and they walk the rest of the way in comfortable silence.
. . .
Later, when Ara’s deep asleep on the hotel bed, Yoongi shuts his eyes, takes a moment to breathe. Gives himself some time to sit with this feeling, to identify its edges and fall headfirst into its chaos.
There are still so many things he’s unsure about. But Taehyung’s right here, right now, and the simple fact of the matter is Yoongi wants him—with this ache, with this quiet burning.
“Taehyung,” he begins slowly, his voice hoarse.
Taehyung turns to him like a flower to the sun. He’s so lovely and so special; so different from anyone Yoongi’s ever known. From anyone Yoongi will ever know.
It’s that last thought that fills him with bone-crushing courage, and he takes one sure step forward, then another. Slips his hand into Taehyung’s and tugs him closer, and closer, until he can lean forward and fit their mouths together.
Taehyung stays absolutely still. For a few excruciating moments Yoongi wonders if maybe he’s misread this whole thing—until Taehyung sighs, all his breath leaving his body. He presses forward, kisses Yoongi back more firmly, his free hand coming up to cradle the hinge of Yoongi’s jaw.
It doesn’t last all that long either—Yoongi feels like it’s barely just begun when Taehyung pulls away. He stays close though, keeping his forehead pressed against Yoongi’s, his every breath catching against the corner of Yoongi’s mouth.
It’s a moment until Taehyung speaks. “We should head to bed too.” There’s a rasping edge to his voice.
Yoongi feels a flash of disappointment. “Yeah, okay,” he manages. He tries to step back but Taehyung grips his hand tighter, keeping him close.
There’s a pause. “Good night, hyung,” Taehyung murmurs, and he presses a soft, gentle kiss on the corner of Yoongi’s mouth. A whisper of a promise, a certainty to be kept; a moment to be revisited later.
. . .
“Thank you again for having us,” Yoongi says when they’re about to leave the next day, bowing to Taehyung’s grandparents. “It was truly lovely to meet you both.”
“Likewise,” Taehyung’s grandfather says, reaching out to clasp his hand. “You and your daughter are always welcome here.”
Taehyung’s grandmother is next, waving away his formalities and giving him a hug. “Any friend of Taehyung is a friend of ours,” she tells him. She’s a tiny woman, but her grip is strong and sure.
Yoongi swallows, remembering the events of last night—the ghost of Taehyung’s lips against his. “Thank you,” he says again. “I truly appreciate it.”
She pulls back and smiles, and something in her gaze makes Yoongi feel perceived, like she’d seen what had just flashed through his mind. “Take care of him,” she says a little knowingly, squeezing his hands lightly.
Yoongi gives her a smile, squeezes her hands back, and steps back to let Taehyung bid his grandparents goodbye.
The drive back to Seoul is quiet. Taehyung picks out the Spotify playlist—something soft and jazzy that fills the car with a quiet calm. Ara entertains herself by babbling, which Yoongi thinks is her attempt at making conversation, but eventually she grows bored and drifts off.
As soon as they arrive back home, Yoongi unbuckles Ara from her car seat while Taehyung collects their weekend bags from the trunk. Ara curls into him immediately, eyes shut and breathing deep, and Yoongi presses a soft, lingering kiss to the crown of her head before going to place her in her crib. He spends a few moments watching her, making sure she doesn’t wake up, before venturing back out into the living room.
Their weekend bags have been placed at the corner of the room, completely out of the way. Taehyung, he finds, is busy unpacking Ara’s bag, but he looks up when Yoongi emerges.
There’s a charged moment. Yoongi watches the play of expression on Taehyung’s face—the uncertainty, the hesitance, and finally, the resolve.
Taehyung straightens up and crosses the distance between them in four, long strides. He doesn’t stop until they’re chest-to-chest, and Yoongi has to avert his gaze.
“Hyung,” Taehyung says. Yoongi feels—rather than hears—the quiet rumble of his voice. Feels the way everything seems to contradict itself; the hyperspeed of his heart versus the slow viscosity of the moment, the assurance in his gaze versus the tentativeness of his hand, now placed on Yoongi’s waist. The way everything Yoongi thought he knew about Taehyung gradually falls to ruin: entropy at its finest, at its most disorderly.
Yoongi breathes in, breathes out. Lets his eyes slip shut when Taehyung surges forward, catching Yoongi’s lips with his own. Everything freezes then slows down, and Taehyung kisses him from one long heartbeat to the next; kisses him until Yoongi’s mind falls quiet.
Taehyung’s kisses are gentle and deep, yet fleeting enough that Yoongi craves for more. He pulls away slightly and comes back over and over—hummingbird kisses, one after the other, until Yoongi’s head spins, dizzy from emotion and lack of oxygen.
It’s a yawn that breaks them apart. Yoongi blinks, startled by his own action, while Taehyung holds him close and giggles.
“You’re such an old man,” Taehyung teases, nudging Yoongi’s nose with his. “Can’t even stay up past your bedtime.”
“I’m not,” Yoongi protests, then promptly gets cut off by another yawn.
Taehyung laughs again, pulling away. “Go take a shower,” he tells Yoongi. “You need to rest after all that driving.”
Yoongi opens his mouth to protest, but then thinks about it. “Actually, you know what,” he says. “A shower does sound nice.”
“Go,” Taehyung says, taking a step back from Yoongi. He turns away, goes back to unpacking Ara’s bag. “Don’t take too long though—I want one after you.”
And it’s all so strangely normal, like they haven’t just crossed this unspoken threshold. Yoongi marvels at this ease, at this lightness of being; at how everything’s changed between them but simultaneously, nothing has.
It’s never been this easy, not even with Yijeong.
“Okay,” he replies after a moment’s pause.
Taehyung looks up at him again, shoots him a soft, fond smile and Yoongi’s chest feels like he’s been filled with fireworks.
[four]
“Sorry,” Taehyung drawls, a lazy grin on his face. He settles further on top of Yoongi—hands folded on Yoongi’s sternum, eyes glinting with mischief. “Am I boring you, hyung?”
Yoongi’s old enough to have lost that naïveté, has seen enough shit in his lifetime to know that good things don’t usually last. So for the first few days after their return to Daegu, he braces himself and waits for the other shoe to drop.
But it hasn’t. Not yet, at least.
After their return, Yoongi had expected it to be different. He expected maybe a little bit of awkwardness, a little bit of an adjustment; strange silences and shy smiles as they both try to find their footing in this new development. But it’s all so mind-blowingly normal: the way they fall back into their routines, the way they fall into each other.
Yoongi still goes to work in the morning and Taehyung still sees him off; Taehyung still watches Ara during the day and Yoongi still cooks him dinner as thanks. In the evenings, they still go through Ara’s nighttime routine together—giving her a bath and changing her and putting her to bed. Yoongi goes to sleep in his room, while Taehyung stays in the guest room.
Nothing’s changed, except that in the moments they’re alone—in the moments when Ara has to be put down for a nap—Yoongi often finds himself with a lapful of beautiful boy.
“A little,” Yoongi teases, determinedly fighting the upturn of his lips. He presses his palm against the back of Taehyung’s neck, letting his fingers slip into his hair. “I don’t know. It’s not like you’re being particularly interesting right now.”
Taehyung’s arches an eyebrow. “I’m not, huh?” he replies, a challenge in his tone. He leans down, lips against Yoongi’s pulse point. “Are you sure about that?”
Yoongi can’t resist the shudder that runs through his body. “Pretty sure,” he rasps, pulling Taehyung closer. He hums, tilting his head to give Taehyung better access. “Think you need to put in a bit more effort.”
Taehyung pulls back abruptly, eyes glittering. “Sure,” he replies easily, then ducks down to press a long, bruising kiss against Yoongi’s lips.
Nothing’s changed, except that in the moments they’re alone, Yoongi often finds himself with a lapful of beautiful boy. And most of the time, he’s content to let that boy kiss him silly.
. . .
“Welcome back, hyung!” Yoongi hears as soon as he pulls the door open. “And yes, Ara, that goes in the square hole.”
Yoongi snorts, toeing off his shoes. “What on earth are you teaching her?” he asks.
“Who, me?” Taehyung replies cheekily. He’s clearly prepared—when Yoongi emerges into the living room, he finds Taehyung already blinking innocently at him, eyes wide in the way they get when he’s trying to sell a lie. “Just things that can’t be learned in the classroom. The square hole,” he says again, nudging Ara so that she drops her cylinder-shaped block into the square hole.
To her credit, Ara looks pissed at this game, brow furrowed as she pouts at her blocks. She’s such a little genius; Yoongi is so proud of her.
“Get away from my daughter,” Yoongi jokes, leaning down to grab her. She squeals happily when Yoongi hoists her up, grinning so wide her two tiny teeth show, dimples digging into her cheeks. Yoongi blows a raspberry against her cheek before settling her on his hip. “How was your day, baby girl?”
“Pa!” she exclaims, brandishing a triangle block towards him. “Buh-pfft, eh!”
Yoongi is unable to stop himself from grinning. “Eh,” he parrots back at her.
“Eh,” she says again, moving to chew on the block. “Muh.”
Taehyung appears behind them, his hand lightly hovering on Yoongi’s waist. “She’s telling you that she had so much fun playing with uncle Taetae, and that she learned so much from him,” he tells Yoongi cheekily.
“Is that so?” Yoongi replies, an eyebrow raised. He turns back to Ara. “Uncle Taetae taught you a lot?”
“Pffft,” Ara blows a raspberry. She pulls the block out of her mouth and gives it to Yoongi. “Buh!”
“Now she’s telling you that that goes in the square hole,” Taehyung not-so-helpfully supplies.
Yoongi gives him a flat look. “Fired,” he says. “You’re fired from teaching my daughter. Teaching license revoked.”
“Aw,” Taehyung pouts, but his eyes are gleaming with mirth. “I’ll pack my things, then.” He takes a step forward, and Yoongi’s eyes flutter shut as Taehyung brushes a soft kiss on his lips. “How was work, hyung?”
“Fine. Long,” Yoongi murmurs into Taehyung’s lips. “Wanted to be home with you guys.”
The look Taehyung gives him when he pulls away is so open and fond that it makes Yoongi’s heart thump louder in his chest, makes him want to kiss Taehyung again. And so he does, leaning forward to capture Taehyung’s lips again, sighing when Taehyung gently bites down on his lower lip.
A squeal startles them apart. Ara’s looking at them, a deep furrow between her brows.
Taehyung laughs. “Sorry,” he says, leaning down to nuzzle the top of Ara’s head. Immediately Ara’s expression lights up, her frown replaced by a wide grin. “Guess Appa and Uncle Taetae weren't paying enough attention to you, huh?”
Ara babbles something in response, Taehyung nodding seriously like he understands exactly what she’s telling him.
Yoongi watches them interact fondly. “Alright then,” he says, once Ara’s finished talking. He step back, settling next to her on the play mat. He uses a hand to smooth her hair back from her face, before pulling the shape-sorter toy closer to Ara. “Go on. Show me how terribly you’ve learned your shapes.”
Taehyung giggles. Yoongi gives him a look. “I was talking to you, actually.”
“Ah, see hyung,” Taehyung says, his smile impossible to resist. He settles down on the play mat beside Yoongi, and gently coaxes Ara into dropping her block into the square hole.“You just don’t understand my genius.”
. . .
Yoongi has strict rules about who gets to enter his office studio, which is why he startles in his seat when he’s interrupted in the middle of reviewing a production guide by a happily-cooed “Pa!”
He whirls around, unable to fight the smile on his face when sees Ara by the door to his studio, strapped to Taehyung’s chest. She makes a sound of delight when she sees Yoongi’s face, kicking her feet out excitedly.
“What are you doing here, baby girl?” Yoongi asks her, and he can hear the saccharine stickiness in his voice, dripping like honey. In his defense, it’s been a bit of a long day, and the production guide isn’t exactly the easiest thing to decipher.
“Field trip!” Taehyung is the one who replies, he and Ara venturing further into the studio. He looks just excited as Ara does, happiness radiating from his eyes. “As part of Ara’s highly-educational curriculum, she gets to leave the house and see where her esteemed Appa works whenever he isn’t home.”
“Bfft,” Ara blows a spit bubble in agreement. She’s wearing a sparkly red tutu dress with a matching bow on her hair, Yoongi amusedly wonders why Taehyung decided to dress her up like that.
“Oh, does she?” Yoongi asks, raising an eyebrow at him. “And what, pray tell, will she learn by being here?”
“Music stuff,” Taehyung replies promptly. “I don’t know. Maybe she can become a singer. You can sing can’t you, baby girl?” He looks down at Ara and starts singing something random, and as if on cue, she looks up at him and grins happily.
They really do make quite the picture together. Yoongi shakes his head in amusement as he stands up to help Taehyung unstrap her from her carrier. She smiles sunnily at him once she’s free, and then settles calmly with him on the couch, grabbing the rough edge of her dress and pulling it into her mouth.
“We ran into Namjoon-hyung in the lobby,” Taehyung answers Yoongi’s unspoken question, sitting down next to Yoongi in the lobby. “It was fortunate, actually. He was heading out to meet Hobi-hyung for lunch, then he saw us and got us past the receptionist. Told us to head to the ninth floor, and that we wouldn’t miss your studio.” The corner of his mouth quirks upward. “Nice cat doormat, by the way.”
“In my defense, I’ve never had to bring my baby daughter to my office studio.”
“Well, you should now,” Taehyung replies easily. “Ara wants to see more of the world, don’t you Ara?”
Ara pays him no mind, determinedly chewing on her dress.
Yoongi clears his throat. “And the code?” he asks. “How’d you get the code to the studio?”
Taehyung shrugs. “Let’s just say there’s nothing Jungkook wouldn’t give in exchange for a few adorable photos of Ara.” There’s a moment where he just reaches out, tickles her lightly in the stomach; Ara smiles around a mouthful of dress. “It’s her birthday, isn’t it?”
Yoongi blinks. “Pardon?”
“Your door code. It’s Ara’s birthday, right?”
“I—how’d you know?”
The corner of Taehyung’s mouth curls up in a small smile. “I did the math when Jungkookie told me. She’s a Libra, just like Jiminie.”
Yoongi doesn’t get to ask what both Ara and Jimin being Libra means because all of a sudden, the doorbell to his studio rings out. Taehyung reaches up and pulls the door open, revealing Hoseok and Namjoon standing on the other side.
“Hi,” Hoseok greets, shuffling inside. “I was told there was a baby, where’s the—oh!”
He gasps dramatically when he spots her on Yoongi’s lap, crouching down so he’s eye level with Ara. Ara looks at him confusedly, then seems to make the executive decision to avoid eye contact.
“Ara,” Hoseok coos, undeterred despite the cold welcome. “It’s me! It’s Uncle Hobi! I love your outfit!”
“She picked it herself,” boasts Taehyung. “Grabbed it from the drawer.”
“Oh, she’s so big now, hyung,” Namjoon says, crouching down beside Hoseok. He gives her a smile that makes his dimples come out, waving both hands at her. “She’s growing so fast.”
Ara looks troubled by the sudden attention.
Thankfully she doesn’t cry, and it takes a while, but she does eventually warm up. She still doesn’t let herself be held by Namjoon or Hoseok, but she does bust out a shy grin when they duet a nursery rhyme out of tune for her. It helps, Yoongi thinks, that Taehyung is there; he catches sight of the way Ara looks to Taehyung for guidance, like she’s gauging if it’s okay for her to smile, if it’s safe for her to react.
And Taehyung, as always, is lovely with her. “They’re friends,” Taehyung tells her, voice gentle and comforting whenever she looks the slightest bit worried. “They’re Uncle Joon and Uncle Hobi.”
With Ara in the studio, nothing else gets done. Taehyung and Ara follow where Namjoon leads, both of them wide-eyed when Namjoon goes around explaining Yoongi’s equipment and what each thing does. At one point, he instructs Ara to press a few buttons on Yoongi’s midi board—“Like this!” Namjoon exclaims, pressing the square button a few times to sound out a few percussions. Ara watches, fascinated at the lights and the sounds, and then mashes the buttons with one spit-covered hand.
Yoongi winces, but Hoseok whoops. “Get low, get low,” he starts chanting out, before busting out a few dance moves.
“She’s so good,” Namjoon declares, reaching out to gently pet her hair. Ara’s face contorts, but other than that she doesn’t react. “That’s such a good beat! You’re a genius, Ara, just like your appa.”
“Pa,” Ara says, craning her head to look at him. She lights up when she realizes Yoongi is watching her, and bangs down on more buttons.
Hoseok presses a hand to his chest. “Oh, my heart,” he says. “She even speaks now! She’s growing up so fast. He crouches down next to her. “Ara, can you say Hobi? Uncle Hobi?”
Ara ignores him in favor of pressing more buttons.
Taehyung, who’s still holding Ara, turns around to give Yoongi a look, grinning so wide his cheeks bunch up. He’s so full of infectious joy that Yoongi once again wonders how he’d managed to disregard this back in university, how he’d managed to interact with Taehyung all these years and never truly see him in all that he is.
(In all his quirks and all his childlike charm. In all the tenderness and warmth he holds in the curve of his palm; a lifeline, one that Yoongi clings onto greedily.
He’s seeing clearly now. He’s seeing Taehyung and he finds that he never, ever wants to look away.)
“Taehyung, make her sing into the mic,” Namjoon yells excitedly, his voice interrupting Yoongi’s thoughts. “We can make a song! Ara, can you sing for us?”
“No,” Ara promptly babbles back, the sound clearly unintentional but so cutely fitting that it makes Namjoon and Hoseok melt, squealing over her. Yoongi shakes his head, and goes to rescue his daughter from the clutches of his friends.
. . .
Having Taehyung in this capacity, Yoongi starts to notice that home…changes.
Home stops being four walls full of heartbreak. Stops being sadness found in the hidden corners of rooms, or furniture haunted with memories of an ex.
Instead, home becomes the sound of baby babbling and a deep voice responding to it; home becomes shared dinners after the baby has been put to bed. Home becomes the quiet moments they have to themselves whenever Ara’s napping—a Netflix film playing in the background while Yoongi has Taehyung beneath him, languid and incandescent.
It’s nice kissing Taehyung. They don’t do more than that, but it’s not for a lack of wanting—Yoongi just doesn’t know how to cross that line, how to venture into territory they haven’t yet talked about. This thing between them still feels a little too fragile, and Yoongi has a slight irrational fear that it’s all going to disappear the moment they talk about it more.
So what he and Taehyung have are kisses left unspoken, feelings unacknowledged, and wandering hands that stop short of their true destination.
Taehyung’s eyes flutter shut when Yoongi leans down to kiss him, all soft and lovely and very much the antithesis of the embers burning low in his stomach. With his hair splayed out against the couch cushions and his lips all red and kiss-swollen, he looks like he was plucked right out of Yoongi’s wildest dreams—or maybe, his filthiest fantasies.
“We’re missing the movie,” Taehyung mumbles into Yoongi’s lips, quiet and soft.
“I’m pretty sure I’ve already seen it,” Yoongi murmurs back, stealing another kiss. “Seokjin-hyung and I used to watch a lot of movies back in the dorms.”
“But still.” Taehyung huffs, but his pout is belied by the growing smile on his face. “What’s the point of putting it on if we’re not going to watch it?”
Yoongi doesn’t answer, just loses himself in the sensation of Taehyung’s lips. Everything is dripping honey, gilded gold—sunlight-warm, dream-slow. Time unfurls in front of them like a promenade, like a leisurely Sunday afternoon drive with no real end point. Yoongi wants to keep going, doesn’t ever want it to end.
A strange buzzing against his thigh has him pulling back, confused. It takes him a moment to place it.
“I think your phone is ringing,” he tells Taehyung, who blinks up at him dazed; Yoongi counts four slow sweeps of long eyelashes.
“Oh, shit,” Taehyung eloquently says when Yoongi’s words finally register. Yoongi laughs and gets up, then helps Taehyung into a sitting position.
The slight dip in Taehyung’s brow only deepens when he catches sight of the caller ID. “It’s my agent,” he tells Yoongi, nibbling on his bottom lip. He looks conflicted. “I have to take this—excuse me.”
He gets up to take the call in the kitchen, leaving Yoongi alone in the living room. It takes all of five seconds for Yoongi to identify the film playing on the TV, and ten seconds for him to remember how it ends. I’ve already seen this, he thinks distantly as Taehyung’s muted voice wafts over. The ending had been depressing, but a little predictable. Still, Yoongi remembers the strange melancholy that washed over him when he and Seokjin finally turned the TV off and went to bed. He’d wondered how it would’ve been if it ended differently, but really, there was no other way for it to go.
Still, he watches it for a lack of anything better to do. Taehyung’s on the phone for a while, and although he never raises his voice, Yoongi thinks he can hear a hint of frustration bleeding into his voice. He wonders what they’re talking about.
Eventually, Taehyung returns, his shoulders slumped and his face downtrodden. He flops down on the couch and curls into Yoongi immediately, slipping one hand into Yoongi’s. “Just my agent,” he says to Yoongi’s unspoken question. “He was asking if I knew when I’d be back yet.”
“Oh. Do you?”
Taehyung shrugs. “Not really.”
“Still have things to do?”
“Things to do, places to see…” Taehyung hums noncommittally. “I haven’t even perfected my yakgwa recipe yet.”
It’s a clear attempt at levity. Yoongi lets it be, pulling him closer in comfort. “Well, maybe if you paid attention to your grandma instead of playing with Ara, you’d have figured it out by now.”
“If I did that, your daughter would be bored and cranky every single day.”
The conversation tapers out after that, neither of them saying anything. Taehyung still looks to be troubled, eyes distant and a little worried.
“Hey,” Yoongi says after a while. He nudges Taehyung lightly, keeping his eyes fixed on the TV. “You wanna talk about it?”
There’s a pause, then Taehyung shakes his head. “Not really,” he says. “I just—” he stops short, drawing in a deep breath.
When he speaks again, his voice is small. “I like it here, hyung. I enjoy being here.”
“I know,” Yoongi replies, even though he thinks he doesn’t, really. Taehyung’s words are easy to understand at a surface level, but there’s something about them that feels a little out of reach—a meaning Yoongi can’t quite grasp.
Taehyung’s smile is a little brittle at the edges, and curled up against Yoongi’s side, he looks so, so young. “Can we just sit here like this?” he asks. He shifts, pulls himself closer to Yoongi. “I want to finish the movie.”
“Of course,” Yoongi replies, and squeezes him tighter; presses a light kiss against his furrowed brow.
They stay like that until Ara wakes up from her nap.
. . .
One thing that Yoongi’s always prided himself on is his ability to avoid distractions while he’s working. Barely anything gets through his laser-sharp focus unless it’s about Ara, and he’s often able to tune everything out as he gets started on his beats.
But somehow, it’s not as easy to do today.
The reason is quite silly too—this morning, Taehyung had been the one to get Ara up for the day. Yoongi had woken up and she hadn’t been in her crib, and he’d stumbled out to find Taehyung in the kitchen, Ara on his hip. She’d still been a little sleepy, her chubby cheek smushed against Taehyung’s shoulder, and her little hands were fists from where she’d grabbed the neck of Taehyung’s shirt.
Taehyung had been singing to her, his baritone gentle and the slightest bit raspy as he did his absolute best to coax Yoongi’s espresso machine to life. He looked like he’d just rolled out of bed too, his hair in disarray, but Yoongi couldn’t stop looking at him, couldn’t stop watching the scene unfold—warm, domestic, golden.
It had been such a small thing—a small moment in the grand scheme of things—but Yoongi finds he’s unable to stop thinking about it, his mind stuck on a traitorous loop. He tries to work and his mind wanders to Ara’s little fists gripping him tightly; tries to lay down a few beats and Taehyung’s voice is all he can hear. He’s got a lovely voice, decadent soothing, just as unique as the rest of him is.
And it’s a little bit insane how Taehyung’s voice seems to have made something inside Yoongi come back to life, a part of him that he’d thought had been long gone and buried. He thinks once again about the drumbeat patterns of his heart, about the notes floating somewhere in the recesses of his brain. The way how, if he’d maybe fit it together, it would bloom—turn notes into melodies and melodies into songs.
And if he penned a few lyrics, maybe he could—
Yoongi’s pressing a button on his keyboard before he can stop himself, flashes of inspiration turning tangible beneath his fingers. He sounds out drum patterns, loops, kicks; arranges and rearranges notes, chords and instruments. Writes, too—lyrics spilling out from him in waves, words fitting together like puzzle pieces.
For the first time in a long time, Yoongi feels it again—that spark, that flame, that passion.
For the first time in a long time, Yoongi writes a song.
. . .
It’s always nerve-wracking to wait for Namjoon’s opinion on a song, simply because Namjoon doesn’t let anything transpire until the very last note rings out. Yoongi does his best to stay silent, chewing on the piece of skin beside his thumb—an old habit that resurfaces whenever he’s nervous.
But even after the song ends, Namjoon still doesn’t say anything. He just sits there, focused and maybe a touch thoughtful, brow furrowing occasionally as he clearly tries to phrase his words.
“I’m still not sure about it,” Yoongi says, mainly to fill the silence. “Like, it might sound a bit—I could change the percussion. Or the bass rhythm.”
“No, no, I think…” Namjoon’s eyes flicker from the screen, to Yoongi’s face. “I think you should leave it as is. It sounds good, hyung.” His smile is asymmetrical, like he hasn’t fully committed to it yet. “Different, but good.”
Yoongi’s caught off-guard. “Different how?”
“Like…” Namjoon wets his lips, deep in thought. “Well, minus what you do for work, I’ve always known you to be very emotional when you write music. Sad, or scared, or angry—I’ve noticed that whatever you’re feeling, you’re always able to put it in your music.”
“And this isn’t emotional?”
“No, no, it is.” Namjoon’s eyes crinkle, one of his dimples deepening. “It’s just as emotional as your old music. But hyung, it sounds…it sounds happier. You sound happier.”
Yoongi’s a little floored. “Happier,” he echoes. “Huh.”
The more he sits with the statement, the more he starts to realize that it isn’t entirely inaccurate. Yoongi’s always known sadness to be an ever-present part of him, a shadow he barely even acknowledges most days. But it occurs to him all of a sudden, that he hasn’t really felt its presence in quite a while.
In fact, he doesn’t feel quite as overwhelmed anymore. No longer feeling like he’s fighting to stay afloat, the waves having receded far enough that he can now plant his feet firmly on the ground. Now, he feels like he can breathe.
Happier. Yoongi lets loose the small, rebellious upturn of his mouth.
“Maybe I am,” he admits to Namjoon. “Happier, I mean.”
“I’m glad,” Namjoon replies kindly. He reaches out to pat Yoongi on his shoulder. “We were all worried for a second there, hyung. But if anyone deserves to be happy, it’s you.”
And there’s a part of Yoongi that wants to protest, wants to lay out his faults and enumerate them one by one. There’s so many things he shouldn’t have done, so many wrong decisions he’s made, so many wrong people that he trusted. But a bigger, greater part of him says: what would be the point of this self-flagellation?
He’s happy. Maybe even happier than he’s ever been, with Taehyung and Ara waiting for him at home. And maybe, he doesn’t deserve it—or maybe he does. But he can damn well enjoy it while it lasts.
“Thanks,” he replies, tone gruff. He decides to keep his face averted, dragging the play head on the screen back and forth for something to do with his hands. Fortunately, Namjoon’s eyes flicker back to the screen.
“What are you going to do with it?” he asks Yoongi. “It needs a voice.”
Yoongi raises an eyebrow at him. “You mean to say my singing voice isn’t considered a voice? Ouch, Namjoon.”
Namjoon rolls his eyes. “Hyung, I love you, but you can’t sing,” he says. “It needs a proper voice. A good one.”
“You’re always so blunt.”
“You could show it to the company,” Namjoon suggests, ignoing. “Turn it into a full-fledged song. It’s really good, hyung. I’m sure the company would be happy to get you a feature artist if you asked.”
“Yeah, maybe.” Truth is, Yoongi was never really going to keep his voice on the record. Nor does he think that any name the company would give him would be able to do it justice. It just would never feel right, after all, giving someone a song he’d envisioned for someone else. A song he’d made for someone else.
He thinks of a baritone, gentle, and dulcet, singing to Ara. Maybe a little shy, but never unsure.
“I’ll figure it out,” he tells Namjoon, saving the project.
. . .
“So Namjoon mentioned you wrote a song again,” Seokjin begins casually, after they’ve placed their orders at the restaurant they frequent. It’s just him, Seokjin, and Ara for brunch, Taehyung having gone off to spend a day with his parents. “Is it the song you’ve been promising me for years?”
Yoongi looks up from where he’s wiping dribble off Ara’s chin to give Seokjin a flat look. “No,” he replies. “You don’t even sing.”
“I’ll start if you write me one,” Seokjin argues.
Yoongi rolls his eyes. “Why don’t you ask Jungkook to write you one?” he throws back. “Or is it Jimin? I’m sure one of them would love to do it for you.”
That makes Seokjin flush, red creeping up his neck and his ears. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says primly, then picks up a menu and pretends to start reading.
Yoongi grins. “Look, Ara,” he says, getting her attention. “Uncle Jinnie’s face is all red.”
“`Ji,” Ara parrots, giggling like she understands what Yoongi’s telling her.
Seokjin gasps dramatically, pressing both hands against his chest. “Not you laughing at me too,” he tells Ara, pouting. “I thought we were friends. Buddies. Besties.”
“No, you’re not,” Yoongi puts in. Ara blinks at Seokjin unamused.
Seokjin sighs. “No, we’re not,” he agrees.
It’s silent for a few moments while Yoongi deals with Ara, bringing out a few baby crackers from her bag that she can munch on. She grabs one happily, munching on it as it begins to melt and crumble in her tiny fist. In a surprising show of friendliness, she babbles and holds it out to Seokjin—not to eat, but just to look. It makes Seokjin smile.
“It’s weird, isn’t it?” Seokjin asks. He’s still watching Ara, delighted by whatever random thing she’s doing. “How much things have changed since university. Like, you’re a parent now. You have an actual daughter.”
“And you have two potential boyfriends you refuse to talk to me about,” Yoongi replies. “I don’t know, is it all that different from university?”
“You know, Yoongichi,” Seokjin says mildly, “you only grow more disrespectful as you age.”
“Of course, Seokjinnie.”
Seokjin sighs again. He looks away, tapping his fingers on the table contemplatively, his neck and his ears a striking shade of red. Yoongi waits patiently; it may take a little bit of time (and usually a little bit of teasing), but Seokjin always opens up whenever he’s got something on his mind.
Eventually, he does. “The thing with Jungkook—and with Jimin too—is that—” Seokjin stops short. “You’re going to think it’s funny.”
“Probably. But tell me anyway.”
Seokjin’s shoulders slump inward. “It’s like…it’s Jungkook and Jimin, you know?” At Yoongi’s blank look, he continues. “Like it’s just—it’s them. Our friends. People I’ve known for years. People who used to crash our dorm room and beg me to cook them food and roll around my bed in their outside clothes because they’re ungrateful little brats. I don’t know why—I don’t know what changed.”
Surprisingly, his words hit Yoongi hard. “Oh,” he says.
“Yeah.” Seokjin takes a moment to think. “And it’s not that I was never aware of them, or that I never really paid them any attention, it’s just…like they’re rice, right—good, solid, dependable rice. A staple food. You never really think much about it beyond the fact that it’s rice and you’re glad that it exists. Except one day you wake up, or maybe you try a certain dish, and suddenly it occurs to you how special rice is. How good it tastes. And you think, this is ridiculous. It’s literally just rice. But there’s just some part of you that can never go back.”
He pauses, taking a deep breath. “I don’t know, Yoongi. Maybe if it was just Jimin, or just Jungkook, it’d be easier for me to process. But it’s both of them, and it’s a lot.” He worries on his bottom lip. “And it’s all up in the air, and I don’t even know what they want from me, or even from each other. But the problem is that if one day they wake up and decide to pretend this all never happened, I don’t think I’d be able to see them as just my dongsaengs anymore.”
It’s rare for Seokjin to worry, even rarer for him to dwell. But Yoongi gets it; it’s hard to go back when you’ve passed the point of no return. Your perspective changes, your relationships splinter, and whatever semblance of normalcy you try to cling on would be only a facade.
“First of all,” Yoongi begins, “I want you to know that I don’t think you’re morally-depraved for sleeping with two of our friends who are younger than you.”
“Thanks,” Seokjin replies, straightfaced.
“And second of all….” Yoongi trails off, thinking. “Jimin and Jungkook may be younger than us, but that doesn’t mean they’re incapable of thinking. Neither are you by the way, even though sometimes you act like you are.”
“Thanks again,” Seokjin replies. “Wow, I didn’t know I came here to get roasted today.”
“My point is, I think Jimin and Jungkook are old enough to know what they want. To know who they want. And they’re definitely old enough to make their own decisions,” Yoongi says. “You don’t want to truly commit because you think it’s something they’d regret in the future. I think that you’re worrying too much about a hypothetical scenario.”
“I suppose, but everything wasn’t exactly straightforward between us,” Seokjin argues. “It’s not like we all got together and mutually agreed to date. Jimin and I started as an accident and Jungkook was…” he lets out a breath, shoulders slumping inward. “Well, he was definitely hurt in the beginning.”
“But is he still hurt now?”
“No,” Seokjin replies. “Maybe. I don’t know. We haven’t really talked about it.”
“You haven’t? Then what have you been doing with them all this time?”
Seokjin’s decided silence and red ears tells Yoongi everything he needs to know.
“Ah,” Yoongi says after a beat. “Of course.” He takes a deep breath. “But you know, I don’t think Jungkook—or Jimin, for that matter—would keep doing it if they weren’t the slightest bit happy.”
Seokjin worries on his lower lip. “You think so?” he asks. “I just…don’t want things to end badly between us. They both mean a lot to me.”
“I just think you shouldn’t be overthinking this,” Yoongi says. When Seokjin’s expression doesn’t change, he lets out a loud sigh. “You’re happy, aren’t you, hyung?”
Seokjin nods.
“And Jimin and Jungkook keep coming back, don’t they?” At Seokjin’s next nod, Yoongi shrugs. “Then I think you shouldn’t be afraid to take that leap. To tell them that you want to date them both, officially. Live mindlessly. That’s what one of my hyungs told me to do.”
That last statement makes a smile bloom on Seokjin’s face. “Hey, Min Yoongi,” he says. “You have to pay to use that, you know.”
“You didn’t copyright it.”
“I will after we get out of brunch. You’ll have to pay me royalties.”
“Not if I just don’t use it after today.”
“`Pa,” Ara interrupts loudly, banging her cup of water against the table. When Yoongi looks at her, he finds that she’s eaten all her crackers, nothing but crumbs left in front of her. “`Pa, muh-muh.”
“Okay, okay,” Yoongi relents, reaching into Ara’s bag to grab the jar of purée he’d prepared for her. Ara squeals when she sees it, reaching for it immediately. Yoongi sighs, then cracks open the jar and starts to feed her.
She beams up at him happily, the purée all over her face and mouth. Yoongi wipes it off with a bib, unable to help the fond smile on his face.
Seokjin watches them interact. “You really have changed,” he observes, a small smile curling up the corner of his lip. At Yoongi’s questioning glance, he elaborates: “In a good way, Yoongi. I promise.”
. . .
The way he and Taehyung end up alone is nothing short of a scene from a Hollywood comedy, featuring a very persuasive child kidnapper (also known as Yoongi’s mom) and a best friend (also known as Jimin) who’s easily swayed by the prospect of two boyfriends and their dicks.
Not that Yoongi minds, really; he can’t remember the last time he’s had the apartment this quiet and peaceful. He loves his daughter, but being a parent means that he’s always experiencing some low-latent level of tension, having to keep an eye on Ara and making sure she isn’t touching or eating things she shouldn’t. He hadn’t even realized how much stress he felt on a daily basis until he felt it slowly melting away, watching his mother place Ara’s overnight bag in the backseat with Ara strapped into the car seat.
“She’ll be fine, Yoongi,” his mother said, mistaking his silence for worry. “It’s just a sleepover with grandma.”
“Yeah,” Yoongi replied, even though he wasn’t actually worried. Even Ara didn’t seem worried, quietly clapping and talking to herself in the car seat. If there’s anyone else outside of him and Taehyung that she adores, it’s her grandmother.
With Jimin, it was a little more last minute. Taehyung had already put on his shoes and called out a “Bye, hyung!” as he was leaving to meet Jimin for dinner and some drinks. He walked back in five minutes later, looking adorably puzzled and exasperated. “He just canceled,” he told Yoongi, holding up his phone. And sure enough, there was a text from Jimin on the screen: waittttttttt taetae i need to take a raincheck, seokjin-hyung and jungkookie just came over lol.
And so there they are. Alone together on a Friday night, an open bottle of wine in front of them, boxes of chicken on the coffee table, and a random Netflix show playing at low volume on the TV. Taehyung has his head resting on Yoongi’s shoulder, fingers playing with Yoongi’s own. There’s a bit of theme music; Taehyung sings along quietly.
Yoongi’s lips curl up in a smile.“You have a nice voice,” he murmurs.
Taehyung pauses. “Oh,” he replies, and Yoongi can hear the shyness in his tone. “It’s not—I mean, I don’t sing a lot. Not like Jungkookie.”
“You should,” Yoongi says. “I know Ara likes it when you sing to her.”
I like it too, he thinks, but never really does say.
Taehyung doesn’t say anything for a few moments. “Thanks,” he says quietly, then falls silent to watch the show.
It’s a good few minutes before he starts humming along again, his voice warm like summer, slow like molasses. Yoongi lets himself get lulled by Taehyung’s voice—deep, low and soulful; listens to its cadence and its resonance; thinks of a song, tucked in a folder inside his cloud drive, waiting for its voice.
“Um, actually,” Yoongi blurts out before he can think twice about it. “I wanted to tell you. I wrote a song recently.”
Taehyung stops humming. “You wrote a song?”
“Yeah,” Yoongi says. “I showed it to Namjoon and it was…” he trails off, shrugging. “Well, he said it sounded different. But it’s the first song I’ve written in years, and I remember you said you liked my music so…”
Taehyung’s eyes are clear as they regard Yoongi. “Show me?” he says, a plea rather than a request.
Yoongi nods, and pushes himself off the couch to grab his iPad.
It’s strange, the way he’s suddenly so aware of his heart, thumping in his chest cavity. Taehyung watches quietly as Yoongi pulls up the audio file, his body one long, comforting line against Yoongi’s.
It’s just a song, Yoongi tells himself as he presses play. It’s just a song, and you’ve written hundreds of songs before.
(Never mind that this song is for a boy, about a boy. The boy sitting next to him right now, in all his warmth and his gentleness; the boy that made every single ounce of emotion flow through his heartlines and past his fingertips, embedding itself into notes, chords and melodies.)
Taehyung is silent as he listens, taking it all in. The song feels too long, feels slower than it actually is. Yoongi wants to look at him, to ask him what he thinks; Yoongi wants to run and hide and leave things unspoken.
When it ends, there’s a moment of silence. “Hyung,” Taehyung says.
“I mean, it’s not finished yet,” Yoongi preempts. “It needs—Namjoon was telling me the other day it needs a voice. And I don’t know, I thought—” a deep breath to steady his heart. “I thought you would be able to help.”
“Help how?”
“Sing for me,” Yoongi blurts before he can lose his nerve. “Do the, uh, the vocals. I think your voice would really suit it.”
“But it’s your song,” Taehyung says. “And I don’t sing, hyung. Well, not properly at least.”
“You don’t have to sing it properly,” Yoongi replies. “It’s not—it doesn’t have to be polished or anything. “I just—I just want—”
You, he almost says, the word balanced precariously on the tip of his tongue. He wants Taehyung’s voice on the song, rising and falling with the drumbeat, his raspy voice backed up with incandescent chord progressions. He wants the song (for a boy, about a boy) to feature Taehyung, to immortalize his essence and his splendor—a snapshot of right now, something to remember when the feeling’s long gone.
You.
“—your voice,” Yoongi finishes. “I think your voice would really suit it.”
Taehyung looks a little floored. His mouth opens and closes, but no words come out. Yoongi watches the play of thought on his face, waiting.
Finally, he seems to have decided something. “You sure you want me to do this, hyung??” he asks Yoongi. He sounds hesitant. “I just don’t want to ruin it, or something.”
“You would never,” Yoongi replies fervently. “You could never.”
Taehyung studies him for a few, long heartbeats. “Okay,” he eventually answers, reaching out to squeeze Yoongi’s hand. “Okay.”
. . .
Taehyung looks a little intimidated when Yoongi sets up his equipment on the coffee table, pressing a few keys and adjusting the levels to ensure everything’s working. There’s nothing to be nervous about; Yoongi reaches out to squeeze Taehyung’s hand.
“You’ll be fine,” Yoongi tells him. “It doesn’t have to be perfect, you know?”
Taehyung takes a deep breath. “I know,” he says. His tone tells Yoongi he doesn’t quite believe his words.
Yoongi lets Taehyung listen to the guide again, this time occasionally sneaking glances at him. Taehyung, despite his initial stoicism, is an open book—emotions flickering through his face as it plays out.
When it’s done, he clears his throat. “How…how do you want me to sing it?” he asks. He keeps his hand in Yoongi’s.
The song Yoongi’s written starts as a quiet, understated thing—a repeated simple, piano melody that slowly builds and grows. It’s as close as Yoongi could get to audible sunlight; to the feeling of wind whipping through your hair as you drive towards the sunset. Summer-warm, memories tinged sepia, then gold; flicking through faded photographs tucked into old photo albums.
“Gently,” Yoongi replies. He laces their fingers together properly. “Like you’ve fallen in love.”
So Taehyung does. He sings Yoongi’s lyrics like they’re his own—cradling them close to his chest, handling each word with care. Gently, like they’re made of glass, liable to break at any given moment; tenderly, like the words are a caress to a dear lover. He sings it like it’s the end of a long farewell and the beginning of a new hello; like it’s a kiss, lingering until the next one. His voice is gentle and dulcet, and with it, Yoongi’s song comes alive.
When Taehyung finishes, there’s a prolonged silence. Their eyes meet; Yoongi feels alive, breathless, overwhelmed. Like he’s only got twenty seconds to live and he’s standing under an open sky and watching the stars fall.
“Was that okay?” Taehyung asks quietly. One part shy, two parts lovely.
Yoongi leans forward and closes the distance between them.
The kiss is different this time—it sears. Throws kindle into a flame; embers skittering across his skin, scorching every single part of them in contact. Taehyung grips him tightly, takes control; Yoongi burns so brightly that he feels like he’s trembling out of his skin.
Taehyung licks into his mouth with a practiced dominance, with an easy restraint. He keeps Yoongi close though, an arm around him like he’s doing his best to keep Yoongi together. But Yoongi can feel it, a red-hot flare in his stomach; knows there’s nothing else he wants than to fall apart in Taehyung’s hands. He wants to feel Taehyung everywhere, wants them to turn into a tangle of limbs so intertwined that he can’t pinpoint where he ends and where Taehyung begins.
Somehow, this moment feels like an inevitability, like there was nowhere else for this path to turn.
“Hyung,” Taehyung says, his voice low, lower than Yoongi’s ever heard it. “Yoongi-hyung.”
“Kiss me again,” Yoongi says, breathless. “Taehyung, please.”
Everything turns a little frantic after that. They trip over each other as they get to their feet—unable to stand, yet unwilling to part. Yoongi frames Taehyung’s face with his hands and kisses him; again and again, over and over. His feet lead them soundly to the bedroom.
Taehyung is a vision sprawled out on Yoongi’s bed—hair mussed up and lips kiss-swollen. His eyes are dark and hooded as he looks at Yoongi, and the press of his cock is a welcome weight against Yoongi’s hipbone.
Yoongi is in the same state, arousal running through his veins, his own cock hardening in his pants. They’ve never ventured past the slow, easy kisses on the couch, and this is a threshold they haven’t yet crossed. Yoongi is on edge; on fire; on the precipice, ready to free-fall.
“Hyung,” Taehyung murmurs. The depth of his voice is obscene, yet the look in his eyes is almost tender. He looks nothing like the boy who holds Ara every morning, nothing like the boy Yoongi went to university with. He looks different, unrecognizable. He looks like he could swallow Yoongi whole.
Yoongi’s want blazes like a signal flare, immense and blinding.
“Are you sure about this?” Taehyung asks. There’s a quiet intensity in the way he regards Yoongi—like a jaguar watching, just waiting to pounce on its prey. His hands rest on Yoongi’s waist. One small movement and they’d be cupping the swell of his ass.
Everything in Yoongi screams with certainty. “I am,” he says, doing his best to keep his voice level. “I want…”
“Hm?”
A pause. “You,” Yoongi says, voice quiet. “I want to feel you.”
His face burns either with embarrassment or arousal, Yoongi isn’t quite sure. But Taehyung doesn’t say anything about it, his eyes glued to Yoongi’s face, searching.
“Okay,” Taehyung eventually says, and leans forward to press a kiss on Yoongi’s lips.
Everything gets a bit blurry after that. Yoongi processes it in snapshots, in disjointed little moments: Taehyung pushing his shirt up and off his body; Yoongi’s fingers in Taehyung’s belt loops as he tugs his jeans downwards. A wet, open-mouthed trail of kisses that Taehyung leaves down Yoongi’s navel, right above his cock. A hitch of breath, hips arching upward; a soft moan when his cock springs free from its constraints.
Every part of him Taehyung touches bursts into an abundance of stars.
Taehyung’s hands find Yoongi’s thighs, spreading them open. Yoongi shivers, feeling a little too exposed, his cock fully hard against his thigh. His heart jackrabbits in his throat, anticipation coiled in his belly.
They stay like that for a moment, letting the tension roll over them. Yoongi breathes in, breathes out. Grips Taehyung’s wrist like an anchor and feels Taehyung’s pulse fluttering against his wrist.
In the half-darkness of the room, he looks severe—his jaw tense, his eyes lust-black. He’s made up of long lines and right angles, half-illuminated and half in shadow. He looks beautiful, ice cold. Like he’d have the propensity to hurt.
Yoongi knows better though, knows that Taehyung was born from the warmest of summers, from the brightest of flowers.
“There’s lube in the bedside table,” he says quietly. Taehyung nods, then reaches over to grab it.
It takes him no time to find it, and Taehyung comes back to settle fully on top of Yoongi, the bottle of lube and a condom in his hand. He trails his mouth down the column of his neck, to his chest, to his nipples. He presses the flat of his tongue against the bud of Yoongi’s nipple while his other hand grabs at Yoongi’s ass, fingers inches away from where Yoongi needs them most.
There’s an ease to his movements, like he knows exactly what to do and how to make it feel good. A kind of confidence that Yoongi never thought Taehyung even had.
One of Taehyung’s fingers breach his hole. It’s dry, and it stings a little, but Yoongi can’t help but moan at the implication.
“Hyung,” Taehyung breathes. The hand disappears, and Yoongi hears the crack of the lube bottle being opened.
Taehyung goes slow, circling his hole with a finger before slipping it in. It feels good, but it isn’t nearly enough, isn’t filling him up the way he wants it to.
“Fuck,” Yoongi gasps out. He grasps Taehyung’s shoulder. “It’s okay. You can go faster.”
He feels, more than hears, Taehyung’s low rumble of laughter. “I’m just being careful, hyung,” he says. “When’s the last time you did this?”
It’s a good question. It’s been a while since Yoongi’s been here, in this position. The last time he’d been sprawled out and naked like this—the last time he’d actually taken his time for sex—was before Ara was even born. After she’d arrived, she’d eaten up so much of his attention that he only had the time (and energy) for lackluster handjobs under the blanket. He hadn’t realized how much he really needed it, how much he ached for it—long, drawn out sex, followed by the sweet, sweet relief of its release.
He wants the gentleness, the teasing. Drawn out, wound up, high-strung. He wants to be so far gone he can barely even think.
Mostly, he just wants to feel Taehyung everywhere.
Yoongi shakes his head, rolls his hips up to get Taehyung’s finger deeper. Taehyung does as he’s told, pushing his finger in deeper, crooking it a little to caress at Yoongi’s inner walls.
“If it helps,” Taehyung says, “it’s been a while since I’ve done this, too.”
“Thought you said you were living it up in Paris?”
“I was,” Taehyung says, a small, rueful smile on his face. “But after a while you kind of realize—there’s nobody worth it.”
He leans down to capture Yoongi’s mouth in a bruising kiss, and when Yoongi’s sufficiently distracted, he tucks a second finger in.
There’s more of a stretch this time, a bit of a burn. Yoongi lets out an unconscious hiss, willing himself to relax. Taehyung does his best to help—he nips beneath Yoongi’s jawline, lets his ears catch at Yoongi’s earlobe, tugging gently.
“You’re so tight,” Taehyung murmurs, as he drives his fingers in and out, stretching out. “God, hyung. You’re so fucking tight.”
Yoongi is hyper-aware of every movement, of every curl of Taehyung’s finger, of his cock, so full and heavy that it’s starting to ache.He reaches down to wrap a hand around himself, lazily stroking to chase some relief. Taehyung scissors him open, fucks him open. It’s so gentle and so excruciatingly slow that it drives Yoongi crazy.
“More,” Yoongi demands, making slow circles with his hips to get Taehyung’s fingers in deeper. Taehyung crooks his fingers and his fingertips brush at Yoongi’s prostate, making a white-hot flash of pleasure wrack through his body.
“Oh my God,” Yoongi breathes out, squeezing the base of his cock to stop himself from coming. “Oh my God, fuck, Taehyung.”
“I know,” Taehyung soothes, the gentle tone of his voice a stark contrast to the way he drives fingers in deeper, searching again for that little bud. He brushes against it again, before pressing down on it, almost making Yoongi scream.
“Taehyung,” Yoongi says, voice ragged.
Taehyung hums, pulls his fingers out. Drizzles more lube to his hand and presses three fingers inside Yoongi, excruciatingly slow. There’s a hint of pain; Taehyung takes his sweet time working Yoongi open.
“Fuck,” Yoongi says again. His stomach is clenched, and he can fear his orgasm coiling tighter and tighter in his belly. “Taehyung, please I can’t—just do it.”
In an instant, Taehyung pulls his fingers out. Yoongi clenches around nothing, feeling empty. The sensation doesn’t last though, because Taehyung rips the condom wrapper open, slides it on himself with ease. Slicks himself up and leans down to kiss him, hot and breathless and wanting, as the head of his cock breaches Yoongi’s hole.
“Let me know if you need me to stop,” Taehyung says.
The feeling of cock is always different. Always a little more painful, no matter how thoroughly you’ve been stretched out. Yoongi braces himself on the bed, tries to relax. Lets himself get lost in the sensation of Taehyung’s lips on his own.
He nudges Taehyung’s lower back with a heel and Taehyung pushes in even further. He pauses about halfway, pulling back to check if he’s okay. He’s breathing heavily, his jaw tense like he’s holding himself back.
“Don’t stop,” Yoongi says, nudging Taehyung with a heel again.
One final push and Taehyung bottoms out, the both of them moaning at the sensation. Yoongi clings onto Taehyung, his grip tight; if it hurts, Taehyung doesn’t let it show.
“Okay?” Taehyung asks, breathless.
“Never better,” Yoongi promises.
Taehyung, like everything he does, fucks like a contradiction—sets an unforgiving pace that he tempers with a cataclysmic tenderness. He pushes in hard yet touches Yoongi softly; fucks him like he means it but kisses him like he’s still testing out the waters. Yoongi arches up, trying to force Taehyung to go deeper, deeper, deeper, his entire body quivering for Taehyung’s touch.
“Hyung,” Taehyung gasps. He nips at the junction between Yoongi’s neck and shoulder, soothes the sting with the flat of his tongue. His pace doesn’t falter, each thrust steady and smooth.
And it’s crazy, the way Taehyung handles Yoongi like he truly knows him—like he’s privy to everything Yoongi doesn’t say aloud. Like he understand just what Yoongi needs, and fucks him in the way that makes Yoongi’s toes curl, little high pitched oh-oh-oh’s escaping from his mouth. Yoongi wonders how this could be, how he’s missed out on him for so long, but then all his thoughts fly away when the blunt head of Taehyung’s cock brushes against his prostate.
“Fuck,” he moans, the sound spilling out of him, uncaring for how loud and high-pitched his voice is getting. He wraps a hand around himself, stroking quickly, chasing his relief. “Fuck, oh fuck, Taehyung—“
“Shit, hyung,” Taehyung breathes, voice reverent. His hips falter, then thrust in with a new vigor, hard and unforgiving against the part of him that’s most sensitive. “You’re so—fuck, hyung. Fuck.”
Yoongi drags him down into an open-mouthed kiss, wet and messy. Taehyung’s eyelashes flutter, and his thrusts get more erratic, losing his rhythm. He wraps a hand around Yoongi’s cock, jerks him off in time to his thrusts.
“You’re so fucking beautiful,” Taehyung says, his eyes blown wide. There’s sweat beading at his temple, trickling down his neck. “Fuck, hyung. Like every time I look at you I just feel so—”
He breaks off in a gasp when Yoongi clenches around him, stomach quivering. Yoongi’s close, so close now, orgasm coiling in his belly, rising like a tidal wave. Taehyung fucks him hard, thrusting impossibly deep, and it’s too much, it’s too fucking much.
“`m close,” Yoongi gasps out, stroking himself faster. “God—there, oh fuck— `m so close.”
“C’mon,” Taehyung murmurs. Sex-flushed and messy he looks resplendent, looks as if Yoongi’s just conjured him out of thin air with the mechanism that let him dream Taehyung alive. Yoongi’s body burns, aches; oversensitive, overstimulated. Taehyung fucks him harder.
When Yoongi comes, it feels like a solid punch to the gut—whiting out his vision, buzzing in his ears. His body curls up with the force of it and his come splatters all over his stomach, all over his and Taehyung’s hand. Taehyung fucks him through it, keeps fucking into him, his breath a hot against his neck. His eyes are blazing, boring into Yoongi’s own. Yoongi feels like he’s been cut open.
It’s another few thrusts until Taehyung’s coming, burying himself to the hilt. Yoongi kisses him through it, swallows the sound of Taehyung’s moan. Kisses him as Taehyung catches his breath, his heartbeat fluttering against Yoongi’s chest. Kisses him for a long time after that.
After a while, Taehyung pulls back. He pulls out gently, peeling the condom off and tying it up. He disappears for a moment, coming back with a towel, which he uses to gently wipe them both up. His expression is neutral, but not stoic. Yoongi thinks he can spot the hint of a smile in the corner of his lips.
He flops into the empty space beside Yoongi, curling into him. He intertwines their hands, presses a kiss on Yoongi’s knuckles, eyes glimmering.
“So,” Taehyung begins. “Is that your way of telling me that you really liked my singing?”
Yoongi flushes, but he finds himself laughing. “I told you,” he says. “Your voice is perfect.”
“Hm,” Taehyung replies—not a denial, but not an acknowledgement either. He tilts his face up to Yoongi like a flower to the sun; Yoongi leans down and captures his lips in a soft kiss.
They stay like that, trading lazy kisses like well-kept secrets. Taehyung’s close, so close that Yoongi feels every breath he takes, hears every sound he makes. He’s everywhere, exactly how Yoongi wants him to be.
Somehow, they end up dozing off. They wake up again a few hours later, groggy and disoriented; Taehyung goes out to use the bathroom and comes back with Yoongi’s laptop and the boxes of leftover fried chicken. Yoongi lays a towel down and they sit, stark naked, on the bed eating chicken. It’s messy and carefree. Yoongi feels like a child again.
When they’re done, Yoongi pulls the laptop closer to them and opens his song again. This time, Taehyung sings Yoongi’s words softly, like he’s loathe to part with them, like they’re a secret he gets to keep to himself. Yoongi sits behind him, his arms around Taehyung’s waist, presses his cheek against Taehyung’s shoulder blade and listens to him sing.
. . .
“Aaaaaaaa!” Ara squeals at the top of her lungs as soon as the apartment door swings open. She visibly stops when she catches sight of Taehyung, standing next to Yoongi. A delighted smile crosses her features. “`Eh-eh.”
“Hello,” Yoongi’s mom greets happily, setting Ara’s bag down and toeing off her shoes. She passes Ara over to Yoongi, who throws her arms around his neck while grinning happily at Taehyung. “She’s home!”
“Wo,” Ara says. Yoongi gives her a kiss on the head, waits until she gives him a smile in return, before passing her to Taehyung.
“How was she?” he asks as Taehyung greets her happily and brings her to the living room.
“Oh, she was perfect,'' his mother enthuses. “We had the best time. She loves having sleepovers with halmeonie.” A pause where she takes Yoongi in. “How about you? Did you have a fun night?” Her smile turns a little knowing. “Are you well-rested?”
There’s an implication in her voice, one that Yoongi doesn’t want to acknowledge. “Yeah, it was great,” he says. “Got an amazing night’s sleep.”
His mother raises an eyebrow. “I can see that,” she says. She’s looking at something on Yoongi’s neck; Yoongi steadfastly refuses to blush. Blushing would only make him look more guilty. “Well, I’m glad. Getting a great night’s sleep is important.”
“It really is.”
“`Paaa,” Ara calls, her voice echoing. Yoongi gives his mother a bland smile before ambling back towards the living room, where Taehyung and Ara are seated at the play mat, already playing with some toys.
“Ara, say bye to halmeonie now,” he tells Ara. “Eomma, thanks again for watching Ara last night. I hope she wasn’t too much trouble. I know how moody she can get.”
Yoongi’s mother gives him a long look. “She was perfect,” she reiterates. “Cried a little bit, sure, but that’s normal because she’s a baby. Anyone who takes offense at a baby crying is an idiot.”
“Right,” Yoongi says, all too aware of the double entendre of her words. In front of him, Taehyung looks up, his brow slightly furrowed in an unspoken question. Yoongi doesn’t look at him.
Yoongi’s mother takes a few steps forward and crouches down in front of Ara. “Bye Ara,” she says, reaching over to lightly pinch Ara’s cheek. “Halmeonie loves you, and she'll see you soon.“
Ara blinks up at her with wide, unassuming eyes. “A-muh,” she says seriously, handing her a small block.
Yoongi’s mother laughs, setting the block down and giving her a kiss. “Bye Taehyung,” she says. “It was good to see you again.”
“You too, auntie,” Taehyung replies with a smile.
Yoongi waits until he hears the door to the apartment close before he lets out a sigh, settling on the floor beside Taehyung. Taehyung just laughs, wrapping an arm around Yoongi and letting him rest his head against his shoulder.
“Your mom is so nice,” he tells Yoongi.
Yoongi groans. “I’m pretty sure my mom knows I had sex last night,” he replies forlornly.
“Did she tell you that?”
“She heavily implied it.”
Taehyung’s chuckle is a deep, comforting rumble in his chest. “That’s terrible,” he teases. “I’m glad my parents know nothing.”
“For now.”
“Will you be the one to tell them then?”
Ara watches them from across the play mat. “`Pa,” she screeches, reaching out a small hand towards him. Yoongi pushes himself upright, scoots over to pick her up and settle her on his lap.
She leans back against him contentedly even as she grabs one of her fruit toys. “You missed Appa, didn’t you?” Yoongi asks, resting his cheek against the top of her head.
“Ooo,” Ara says in reply, showing him the plastic tangerine, and Yoongi exchanges a fond look with Taehyung as he leans down and pretends to bite into it.
. . .
Yoongi knows Taehyung is a lot more observant than people give him credit for, so he knows it’s only a matter of time before Taehyung speaks up and asks what he’s curious about. And he doesn’t disappoint; he’s sitting on the couch waiting after Yoongi puts Ara to bed later that night, idly watching TV.
Yoongi wastes no time dropping into the seat beside him, letting out a quiet sigh. Taehyung is warm and solid, and he wastes no time slinging an arm around Yoongi and pulling him closer.
It’s a few minutes until Taehyung speaks. “So.”
“So,” Yoongi parrots back, unable to help himself.
“I was just wondering.” Taehyung’s voice is light, conversational. “The thing your mom said earlier…that sounded oddly specific.”
“Which thing?”
Taehyung gives him a look. “You know,” he says, “the thing about taking offense to a baby crying.”
“Oh.” It should be something Yoongi’s desensitized to by now, having played and replayed that scenario in his head countless of times. But the memory still makes something pang in Yoongi’s chest, like he’s peeling a scab off and watching it bleed.
“It’s nothing,” he replies, avoiding Taehyung’s gaze. “Honestly, it was just something Yijeong said that night.”
“He took offense to Ara crying?”
“Sort of,” Yoongi replies. The memory of that night plays again in his mind—every excruciating detail Yoongi can’t make himself forget. “Remember when I told you she’d freak out whenever he held her?”
“Yeah?”
“When we fought that night, he was so angry that he was…” Yoongi takes a deep breath, steeling himself. “Basically, he said that it wasn’t normal for babies to cry as much as she does. And that meant that there was something wrong with her, and that she was—”
He breaks off, and for a moment, the silence rings out. Taehyung is still, so still beside him.
“Broken,” Yoongi finishes, in a voice barely louder than a whisper. “He said she was broken.”
It’s not something he talked about to anyone except his mother, not wanting to give the words any more weight than he already has. But something about telling Taehyung feels right, feels freeing; feels like he’s sharing a heavy load to someone else willing to help him carry it.
Taehyung’s expression turns mutinous. “Broken,” he repeats, like he’s weighing the word on his tongue. His eyes have turned dark. “Huh.”
Yoongi shakes his head. “And I know that she’s not, and I know that there’s nothing wrong with her, but—”
“He’s more of an asshole than I thought.” Taehyung’s voice is laced with an anger that Yoongi’s never heard before, scathing enough to burn. “Jang Yijeong. What a fucking dick.”
“I know.”
“Pretty sure if you told Jimin and Jungkook what he said about Ara, they’d track him down in an hour and make sure nobody ever finds the body. I’d join them too.”
And it’s a bit morbid, but the prospect of Yijeong’s hypothetical mysterious murder makes Yoongi smile. “I know,” he says. “But just—I just want to put that all behind me. No matter how fucked up the whole thing with Yijeong was, my number one priority is Ara.” A pause. “I just want her to grow up and know that she is so loved.”
“She does,” Taehyung replies immediately. “I spend a lot of time with her and I promise you, hyung, she knows. Aside from the absolute mountain of toys she gets to choose from to play with everyday—” here, he gestures to the aforementioned mountain (or a small hill) of toys in the toy bin at the corner of the room, “—I’ve never seen her happier than when she finally gets to see you whenever you come home from work. Her face just lights up and she has this specific smile for you—it’s super cute, hyung.”
Taehyung’s words warm Yoongi’s heart. He thinks of Ara in the hospital, the very first time he laid eyes on her. The nurse had handed her to him—so small and so fragile that she looked like she could shatter at any moment—and Yoongi took one look at her red, wrinkly face, and swore to himself he’d do anything for her.
“You’re doing a really great job at raising her, hyung,” Taehyung tells him. “At loving her. And I believe you’re going to continue to do a really great job as she continues to grow up. I know it’s scary to do this all alone, but think about it this way—you wouldn’t want someone who called her broken to be around her, anyway.”
“I—yeah,” Yoongi replies. He rests his head on Taehyung’s chest, distantly listening to the strong, thudding of his heart. “Yeah, that’s true.”
Taehyung pulls him closer. “In conclusion, fuck Jang Yijeong.”
“Already did that,” Yoongi murmurs in reply, the corners of his lips twitching up in a smile. “As we just established, it was a bad decision.”
Taehyung ignores him.”If I run into him on the street, I swear it’ll be on sight.”
“Make sure you don’t get hurt,” Yoongi advises. “I don’t want to be worried about you. I kind of like you, Kim Taehyung.”
Yoongi doesn’t see it, but he thinks he can hear Taehyung smile. “I kind of like you too, hyung,” Taehyung replies, and Yoongi feels a soft kiss dropped to the top of his forehead.
. . .
And things just sort of go from there.
They move Ara’s crib to the guest room and Taehyung fully moves into Yoongi’s bedroom, claiming the right side of the bed as his own and falling asleep with his arm around Yoongi’s waist. He runs warm, snores softly, and for the first time in months, Yoongi falls asleep so quickly, so soundly with Taehyung by his side.
In the morning they both get up with Ara, brushing her teeth and changing her diaper. They have breakfast together—quiet and peaceful—then Yoongi gets ready to leave for work while Taehyung cleans up. By the doorway, Yoongi kisses Ara, kisses Taehyung, and then he’s off, heart warm and happy despite how hectic his work can be.
It’s such a natural progression of their relationship that Yoongi doesn’t realize how different they’ve become around each other until they go out for lunch with Seokjin, Jimin, and Jungkook.
“Please eat,” Yoongi cajoles, spoon hovering by Ara’s mouth as he attempts to feed her purée. Ara ignores him in favor of glaring at Jimin, who’s playfully glaring back at her, occasionally having to hold back a giggle. “Jimin, please. Ara, eat.”
It takes a few moments but Ara eventually opens her mouth, enough that Yoongi is able to slip the spoon in her mouth. She dribbles a little bit, but Yoongi figures he’ll just wipe her face later.
“Here hyung, for you.” Taehyung reaches over to drop an egg yolk into Yoongi’s noodle bowl. Yoongi smiles at him in thanks, and nudges his plate of fried chicken in Taehyung’s direction.
“Try this,” he tells Taehyung. “It’s really good.”
Taehyung obliges, picking up a piece of fried chicken and popping it into his mouth. Yoongi picks up another piece and drops it on Taehyung’s plate, and gets rewarded by a bright grin.
When he looks up, he finds Seokjin watching them with a raised eyebrow, an amused smile playing on his face.
“Didn’t realize you guys were close,” he comments.
“Who? Taehyung and I?” Yoongi replies, puzzled.
“Yeah.”
“I mean, we’re friends.”
“I also live with him,” Taehyung adds. One of his hands finds Yoongi’s underneath the table. “Of course we’re close.”
Seokjin shrugs. “I know, but I didn’t realize you were this close. Like, close enough to be sharing food, I mean.”
“You’re one to talk,” Yoongi shoots back. “Jungkook is literally eating off your plate.”
Jungkook, upon hearing his name, looks up from where he’s stealing pork belly from Seokjin’s plate, his eyes wide.
Seokjin doesn’t even bat an eyelash. “Jungkook and I have been close,” he says. “Haven’t we, babe?”
“Babe?” Yoongi echoes, but Jungkook preens at the pet name, straightening in his seat.
“I’ve always loved Seokjin-hyung,” he begins in earnest.
“I’m sure you have,” Yoongi replies, amusedly flabbergasted, while Jimin and Taehyung burst out laughing and Seokjin turns a frankly worrying shade of red.
Still, the look Seokjin gives him is a little suspicious—a crease in his brow, a certain gleam in his eye. It’s the expression he gets when he thinks something is strange and he’s doing his best to figure out what’s going on. Yoongi averts his expression before Seokjin can parse it out, ducking his head under the guise of taking a bite of his noodles.
“Maaaaaaaaa,” Ara interrupts, demanding Yoongi’s attention. Yoongi feeds her another spoonful, taking the time to wipe her mouth with her bib.
There’s no way Seokjin knows about this new development between him and Taehyung, Yoongi tells himself. But the comment leaves him a little self-conscious, hyper aware of how he and Taehyung are interacting. Luckily, Ara is here with them, which means that Yoongi is sufficiently distracted making sure she eats her food and drinks enough water.
Honestly, she’s equal parts stubborn and demanding. Yoongi has no idea where she gets it from.
Eventually she gets a little fussy, tired of being stuck in her high chair. Taehyung and Jungkook offer to bring her outside and entertain her, so Yoongi cleans her up as best as he can and hands her off to Taehyung. Taehyung coaxes Ara into slapping Yoongi’s face in farewell, and she giggles when he scrunches his nose up in response.
“Say goodbye, hyung, because you will never see your daughter again,” Taehyung says solemnly. “Jungkookie and I will take her to the mountains and raise her with the bears and the bunnies.”
“If you do that, I will find you and I will kill you,” Yoongi deadpans. Taehyung laughs again, patting him on the shoulder, before heading off with Jungkook.
When they’re gone, Yoongi lets out a breath and tucks into what’s left of his food. It takes a moment for him to register the silence, and when he looks up, he finds Seokjin and Jimin watching Taehyung and Jungkook take photos with Ara through the restaurant’s glass windows, matching fond smiles on their faces.
Jimin must sense Yoongi staring, because he speaks. “He’s really great with her.”
It takes a moment for Yoongi to understand what he’s talking about. “Taehyung? Yeah, he’s amazing. At this point, I don’t know what I’d do without him.”
“He helps you out that much, huh?”
“Honestly, yeah.”
“Aw, that’s cool,” Jimin replies. He turns back to Yoongi, a smile on his face. “I’m really glad it all worked out, hyung. To be honest, I’m a little surprised.”
“Why?”
“I mean, you and Taehyung have never been the closest,” Jimin replies, tapping a finger against his chin in thought. “You guys were always so different.”
“That’s what I was saying earlier,” Seokjin pipes up. “You’re clearly close now and it’s cute. But I just hadn’t expected it. You guys barely spoke in university.”
“I guess.” Yoongi shrugs. “But, you know. We found out we had a lot more in common than we thought we did. And he’s really been helping me out with Ara and with everything at home.”
“So he’s home a lot, then?” Jimin’s voice is tinged with curiosity. At Yoongi’s nod, he shakes his head in amusement. “Guess our Taehyungie’s matured now. Prefers to stay home and care for a baby than go out clubbing.”
“I think that’s just Yoongi’s influence,” Seokjin jokes. “He’s low energy here because he spends so much time with Yoongi, and Yoongi is naturally lethargic. I’m sure once he gets back to Paris, he’ll be living it up again.”
Once he gets back to Paris. It hits Yoongi, like a sudden, freezing gust of wind, that this is all temporary; that Taehyung is slated to go back to Paris. That he’s got friends there waiting for him and clubs that he frequents—a life, a whole life that’s so different from what Yoongi has with him right now.
Jimin is giggling as he speaks. “Remember—remember hyung, when he sent us a voice message where he was so wasted at a house party?”
“Oh, yeah!” Seokjin exclaims. “He was mixing French and Korean together like we would be able to understand what he was trying to say. And then he video called us the next day hungover in some tiny French town two hours away from Paris with absolutely no recollection of how he got there.”
Jimin laughs. “He was alone right? There was no one with him?”
“Yeah, but he made friends with some of the locals. He said he met an elderly couple and they sent him a Christmas card last year.”
The reality of it is that whatever iteration of him Yoongi has right now is simply that—an iteration, one that only exists because he’s in Seoul right now, temporarily living with Yoongi. In Paris, he’s clearly a different person, one that dances the night away in clubs and goes on spontaneous adventures and is free, able to do whatever he wants whenever he wants to.
Yoongi swallows, suddenly feeling uncomfortable. The rest of his noodles don’t look as appetizing anymore.
“Taehyung’s a riot,” Jimin says fondly, oblivious to Yoongi’s inner turmoil. “Truly. He just does what he wants to.”
Yoongi can’t help it—he turns around in his seat, eyes searching until he spots Taehyung and Jungkook on the other side of the restaurant, entertaining Ara with some flowers. Taehyung looks radiant, expression soft and fond as he speaks to Ara, but despite that, Yoongi feels something sharp lodges itself into his chest.
“Yeah,” Yoongi says, for a lack of anything else to say. He turns back, avoids Seokjin and Jimin’s gaze; takes one last bite of his food before calling a waiter to ask for a box.
. . .
And later, when Ara’s deep asleep and they’re both in bed, Yoongi can’t resist the urge to curl closer to Taehyung and bury his face against his shoulder. Taehyung shifts onto his side, the hand around Yoongi’s waist tightening its grip. He pulls him closer; Yoongi feels Taehyung press his nose against his hair.
“You alright?” Taehyung murmurs, and Yoongi feels the words through the rumble of his chest.
“Fine,” Yoongi mumbles, even though he isn’t, really; not quite certain as to how he feels.
Taehyung must hear something in his tone because he pulls back enough to see Yoongi’s face. His eyes are wide and searching.
“You sure?” he asks. “Whatever it is, you can tell me.”
And that’s the thing—Yoongi isn’t sure that he can. Isn’t sure that he’s allowed to, his mind a mess of emotions that can only be encapsulated in words that are far too big, far too serious for what they are. He wants to ask if Taehyung knows that he feels like home, that he’s the brightest thing in all of Yoongi’s dreary days; wants to ask if Taehyung knows he’s all the warmth of the year condensed into winter. He wants to ask if maybe, just maybe, Yoongi feels like home to him too—if he can see himself staying in this little makeshift family they’ve built, loved and happy. He wants to ask Taehyung what’s there, what’s in Paris anyway? and and is it really that much better than what we have here?
He wants to ask, what of your world, and what of me in it?
But those questions are far too much, far too forward. So Yoongi shakes his head, doesn’t say anything; waits until Taehyung pulls him close again.
“It’s okay, hyung,” Taehyung whispers into his hair, his hand rubbing soothing circles into his back. “Take your time. Whatever it is, I’m always here.”
I’m always here. That sharp thing pushes deeper into Yoongi’s chest. He closes his eyes and tries to breathe in as much of Taehyung as he can.
“Yeah,” he whispers. “Okay.”
. . .
Yoongi’s deep in the middle of going through a song briefing with Namjoon when his phone dings five times in quick succession. He almost ignores it, if not for the way Namjoon—a notorious phone addict—looks up at him from his briefing, eyebrow raised and a slightly judgmental look in his eyes.
“Are you going to get that?” he asks.
“No,” Yoongi replies.
“You should,” Namjoon says. “It could be important.”
“Just because you’re incapable of not replying to texts,” Yoongi grumbles, but obligingly picks up his phone.
It takes him a moment to focus his eyes on the text messages, and another moment to comprehend what they’re saying. When he finally does though, he feels his heart drop all the way to the floor.
Wednesday, 23 August 2023
Jang Yijeong:
yoongi
hey
it’s yijeong
can we talk?
it’s about ara
. . .
They agree to meet at a coffee shop a few minutes away from where Yoongi works. When Yoongi gets there, he finds Yijeong already waiting, staring out the window with two iced americanos in front of him. He hasn’t changed much since the last time Yoongi saw him. He doesn’t know why he expected him to have.
Yijeong looks up when Yoongi approaches—a warm, familiar smile spreading on his face. He looks like he’s about to say something kind or friendly, but he stops himself at the last minute. Yoongi keeps quiet as he slips into the seat in front of him.
It’s silent for the first few moments as they stare at each other. Yijeong hasn’t changed much, sure, but something about this whole fucked up situation seems to render him differently. The same face Yoongi’s known for years, but now he can’t stop remembering that night months ago—the defeated expression on Yijeong’s face that mirrored the devastation Yoongi felt in his heart.
“So,” Yijeong eventually offers. He’s always had a lovely voice, crisp, and clear. It’s what drew Yoongi to him in the first place, having heard him playfully sing a few songs at the noraebang. “It’s nice to see you again, Yoongi.” He nudges one of the iced americanos towards Yoongi like it’s a peace offering.
Yoongi carefully keeps his face stoic even as he pulls it closer to him. “What do you want, Yijeong?”
It makes him feel strange, the fact that it was just so recently when Yoongi could confidently say that he loved this man and was loved in return. A few months ago, he had everything with Yijeong—a home and a family and a love that had been so carefully built, so carefully worked on. He’d had it all, and he was happy.
Then it only took one night for it to come crashing down, like a sandcastle washed away by the waves.
“I just wanted to see if you were well,” Yijeong says. It’s so jarring just looking at him like this—a face he’d once loved, someone he thought he’d grow old with. “And Ara. How is she?”
“Bullshit,” Yoongi replies immediately. There’s something so liberating about being able to let all his pent-up feelings out to the exact person he wants to hear them. “If you really cared about her—if you really cared about me—you wouldn’t have left us like that.”
Yijeong looks startled by Yoongi’s bluntness. “That’s…fair,” he allows. He lets out a breath. “I really messed up, didn’t I?”
Yoongi snorts. “That’s one way to put it.”
“If it helps,” Yijeong says, “I didn’t mean to.”
“Oh, that’s rich.”
“No, really,” Yijeong insists. He runs a hand through his hair. “I didn’t want to hurt you.”
And now, Yoongi’s pissed. “Really?” he scoffs, his tone scathing. “Really? Because if you really didn’t want to hurt me, you would’ve stayed. You would’ve tried to work something out with me. Or you would’ve at least replied to my fucking texts. God, Yijeong. I was heartbroken and struggling and you didn’t even have the decency to reply.”
“I couldn’t,” Yijeong blurts out. “I couldn’t—look, I know this is selfish of me, but I genuinely couldn’t bring myself to talk to you. I just—I was—” he cuts himself off, taking a deep breath to calm himself. “If I spoke to you, hell, if I even saw you, I would’ve…I would’ve come back.” He swallows nervously, looking uncomfortable with the admission. “I would’ve come back immediately. And I just couldn’t let myself do that.”
“And why not?” Yoongi asks. “In case you forgot, we decided to have Ara together. It was a mutual decision. And yet you just turned your back on us like it meant nothing to you.”
“It’s just…it’s different with a child,” Yijeong says. “It’s different having a baby. I love you with all my heart, Yoongi, but I just…wasn’t ready to be a dad.”
“That’s fucking stupid, Yijeong,” Yoongi shoots back, ignoring the way his heart thumps at Yijeong’s words. “It’s not like Ara magically appeared overnight. It’s not like she was randomly dropped at our doorstep, or something. It was literally months and months of planning. All those—all the fucking doctor’s appointments, hours of choosing a surrogate; you had plenty of time to get ready.”
“I know,” Yijeong says, and he sounds so sad, so guilty. “I know. I have no excuse, Yoongi. Truly. All I know is that one day she was here and that she kept crying, and I couldn’t do anything to soothe her, and that it terrified me.” He takes a deep breath. “She was so little, and I had no idea what I was doing, and I was afraid of hurting her, I was afraid I was going to hurt her…it truly fucked me up. I literally—I dreaded waking up every single morning and seeing her.”
It hurts to hear. It really, truly hurts to hear. “Then why didn’t you just tell me?”
“I don’t know,” Yijeong replies, forlorn. “I guess I was just thinking that if I could get her to love me, all my hesitations about being a father would disappear. But she never did, and she just always preferred you, and—” he breaks off, scrubbing a hand down his face. When he speaks again, his voice is quiet. “You were just so good with her. You knew exactly what to do and how to calm her. I couldn’t do anything.”
“You know damn fucking well I didn’t know shit,” Yoongi shoots back, letting his anger flare, white-hot and burning. “I still don’t. No parent knows shit. We all just make sure our kids are fed and happy and pray that we’re not fucking them up. We learn as we go, it’s a risk we have to take.”
Yijeong’s eyes are turned away, glued to the table in front of him. He looks so small, so tired—hunched over like he’s got the weight of the world on his shoulders.
“You’ve always been braver than me,” he says.
“Yeah, because you’re a fucking coward who runs away from a commitment,” Yoongi spits. “From a fucking baby, all because her crying terrified you.”
Yijeong doesn’t say anything to that. Yoongi takes a deep breath, then another, doing his best to calm himself. There are tears prickling the backs of Yoongi’s eyelids; he refuses to let him spill.
“I’ll ask again,” Yoongi says, his tone measured. “What do you want, Yijeong?”
At that, Yijeong’s eyes flicker upward to meet Yoongi’s. They’re wide and wet, and it makes him look so, so young—terrified of the world and everything in it.
Something in Yoongi’s chest pinches, then bleeds.
“I’m assuming you’ve burned my stuff,” Yijeong eventually says.
“I was tempted to, but no. They’re at your parents’. Seokjin-hyung dropped them off for me.”
Yijeong swallows, nods as if he’s assuring himself, then reaches down to the bag he has by his feet. He comes back with a brown envelope, which he tentatively pushes toward Yoongi.
Yoongi’s heart thumps loudly in his chest. “What’s this?”
When Yijeong doesn’t answer, he hesitantly picks it up, carefully opening the flap and pulling out a stack of documents.
Termination of Parental Rights, it reads at the top of the first page.
Yoongi inhales sharply. “Wh-what—”
“I had a lawyer draft this up for me,” Yijeong says. He’s not looking at Yoongi now, eyes glued on the table in front of him. “You can take the time to look it over, you don’t have to sign it now, but—yeah.” There’s an audible waver in his voice. “With Ara, I…I shouldn’t have called her broken. I’m sorry. But I guess that’s just proof that I’m not—that I can’t be a father, Yoongi. Not to her.”
Yoongi’s barely listening, tears welling up in his eyes as he reads the words over and over. He’d thought he couldn’t cry over Yijeong’s abrupt departure anymore, and yet somehow he still is, trembling like a leaf when faced with the clearest piece of evidence that Yijeong doesn’t want Ara. A legal document severing all his ties with her, like she’s just something he can just throw away.
“So that’s it then.” The words come out more quiet than he’d intended for them to. There’s vitriol in his voice, he knows; he hopes, more than anything, that Yijeong can hear it. “You’re just going to abandon her like that.”
“I think it’s what would be best for her,” Yijeong says. His tone is soft. “I—if we do this now, she won’t even remember me.” A pause. “Yoongi…she doesn’t deserve to have a father like me. She doesn’t deserve someone who can’t even take care of her.”
A part of Yoongi—the logical part, the one untainted by all these emotions— recognizes that he’s right. It would be better for Ara if Yijeong simply cut ties; she shouldn’t be saddled with a father who refuses to love her. It does more harm than good, keeping a parent who doesn’t want to be around; a parent who’d resent their child’s very existence. But just because it makes sense, doesn’t mean it doesn’t still hurt.
Ara’s only nine months old. Yoongi’s heart breaks at the thought of her being so young, yet already left behind.
“You…you have to know,” Yijeong says gently. He takes a breath. “You have to know that this is one of the hardest decisions I’ve ever had to make in my life.
Yoongi laughs. It’s a raw and ugly sound, tearing up his throat. A tear slips past his lash line and down his cheek, splattering on the corner of the page.
“You really are a fucking coward, Jang Yijeong,” he says.
Yijeong’s expression is devastating. “I know,” he says. He goes to grab his bag and pauses, his eyes flickering back up to Yoongi.
“For what it’s worth,” he says, “I really do love you, Yoongi. We really are great together.” The apology in his eyes is genuine, and the quirk of his lip is a small, sad thing. “I just…can’t do it. I can’t stay.”
And because he knows Yoongi better than most, he reaches out to place a comforting hand above his. “And I know you’re stubborn, but you can’t make someone stay if they’ve already made up their mind to leave.”
Yoongi roughly pulls his hand away to swipe angrily at his tears. “Fuck you.”
Yijeong shakes his head. “I’m sorry,” he says one last time.
And then he’s gone, picking up his coffee and exiting the coffee shop, and Yoongi is left sitting alone, clutching the documents and trying his best not to break down.
. . .
“Hyung! I—” Taehyung stops short when he catches sight of Yoongi, his brow creasing worriedly. “Hey. Is everything okay?”
“Fine,” Yoongi replies shortly. He isn’t sure what expression he’s making, but he isn’t sure he wants to know. He keeps his head bowed as he toes off his shoes, dropping his bag with the documents (the fucking documents) to the floor.
“You don’t look fine,” Taehyung replies, observant as ever. He’s holding Ara on his hip, and even she looks worried, staring at Yoongi with wide eyes all while dressed in a bunny onesie.
Yoongi’s heart aches at the sight of her. “It’s just been a long day,” he says. He lets out a ragged breath and holds out his arms; Taehyung passes Ara over immediately. “Just…give me a minute.”
He takes Ara into the guest bedroom before Taehyung can reply, shutting the door soundly behind him. He doesn’t bother to turn on the lights, just seats her gently on the bed. She blinks up at him, innocently confused.
“I love you so, so much,” he whispers to her.
She’s too young to truly understand what he’s trying to say. “`Pa,” she whines, reaching out for him. Yoongi picks her up and presses his forehead against hers.
“That’s right, Appa is here,” Yoongi breathes, his eyes falling shut. “Appa loves you, and Appa will never leave you.”
She wriggles in his grip after a few moments, making him pull away. But she stays close, throwing her arms around him and resting her cheek against his shoulder. Yoongi closes his eyes and just breathes her in.
He isn’t quite sure how long he spends cuddling Ara, only that when he comes to, his bedroom has gotten significantly darker and Ara’s already dozed off against his shoulder. Yoongi sighs, shifting her in his arms; she doesn’t even stir when he presses one last kiss into her downy-soft hair.
It’s quiet in the bedroom, the only noise coming from the muffled sound of the TV from the living room. Taehyung seems engrossed at whatever he’s watching; every so often, he can hear Taheyung let out a low chuckle.
The warm sound of Taehyung’s laughter calms him down, loosens the tight knot in his chest. I’m fine, he tells himself, timing his breaths to the rise and fall of Ara’s chest. He’s okay, Ara’s okay. They’re both okay without Yijeong, and Ara’s going to grow up so happy, and so, so loved. No one’s ever going to hurt Ara again—Yoongi’s going to make sure of it.
Just as he thinks that, he hears the shrill sound of a phone ringing from outside. Taehyung picks it up quickly though, a quiet hello that transforms into a happy exclamation when he hears who’s on the other end.
It takes a moment for Yoongi to realize that Taehyung sounds happy, and another moment for him to realize he’s speaking in rapid-fire French. There’s an easy warmth to his tone, his joy audible beneath the syllables of a foreign language. Yoongi listens quietly, listens to how natural Taehyung sounds, conversing in this language. Listens to how he sounds completely at home.
And something in Yoongi’s chest snaps, splintering into many different pieces. This, Yoongi realizes with slow-dawning heartbreak, this is the real Taehyung—the Taehyung who lives it up in Paris and does whatever he wants to. The Taehyung that’s free, hedonistic; the Taehyung unburdened by Yoongi’s daughter or his baggage. The Taehyung who’s got wings on his ankles like he’s the second coming of Mercury, always hopping from one place to another. Places to go, people to see. Unable to be tied down.
Everything that Yoongi’s seen of him here in Seoul had been a simple facsimile, a version of him that’ll cease to exist the instant he steps foot in Europe.
Because just like Yijeong, Taehyung was always going to leave.
A quiet sob wracks through his chest, making Ara stir in his arms. Yoongi shushes her, runs a soothing hand down her back, but doesn’t stop his tears from flowing.
He can’t believe he’s let himself believe this glimpse of happiness other than that—a glimpse. He should’ve known better. The situation with Yijeong should’ve taught him better. It’s never been a secret, after all since the first time Taehyung had stepped foot in his apartment, he’d always made it known that he’d be leaving eventually. But he’d gotten caught up in this whirlwind, succumbed to its orbit; ignored the ticking of the clock as he’d let everything descend into entropy.
But the problem with entropy is that it’s irreversible, far too messed up to be put back into a semblance of order. You turn around to find the path back has faded; you get to the platform only to find out that the last train has long gone.
And then you get stuck, rooted in place—left behind and unable to leave.
“It’s just us, isn’t it, baby girl?” Yoongi murmurs, clinging onto Ara tighter. Ara doesn’t respond, deep asleep. “It really is just us.”
Eventually, he manages to pull himself together, enough to set Ara down in her crib. She smacks her lips but otherwise doesn’t stir, and Yoongi takes one last moment to watch her, brushing his thumb against her cheek, before grabbing the baby monitor and heading to the living room.
Taehyung looks up immediately as soon as Yoongi emerges. He’s hung up the phone, and his expression turns worried as soon as he sees Yoongi’s face.
Yoongi doesn’t let him ask. “She fell asleep,” he tells Taehyung, brushing past him to head to the kitchen. “Guess she was tired from the day.”
But Taehyung has always been stubborn, and he immediately gets up to follow him. “Hyung,” he says. “What is it?”
“What’s what?”
“There’s something bothering you.” Taehyung speaks slowly, like Yoongi’s a spooked animal ready to bolt.
Yoongi doesn’t look at him. “It’s nothing,” he says. He does his best to turn his focus onto making dinner, pulling out leftovers and side dishes. He isn’t sure what he’s going to cook tonight.
(Isn’t sure of anything, really—all his thoughts orbiting around one singular thought: Taehyung’s leaving.)
There’s a pointed silence after that, only broken by the clatter of food containers on the kitchen counters. Taehyung, Yoongi knows, is quietly watching—Yoongi can feel the heavy weight of his gaze on his back.
Then there’s a sigh, followed by the sound of a few footsteps; Yoongi stills when one of Taehyung’s hands rests on his forearm. “Hey,” Taehyung says, his voice gentle as anything, and Yoongi has to draw in a deep breath to stop himself from bursting into tears.
Taehyung tugs Yoongi gently, enough so that Yoongi has to drop his last food container and turn to face him. His eyes are round, and he looks so earnestly concerned, so genuinely worried.
“Talk to me,” he says softly. So tender-hearted and dear.
And the sight of him makes Yoongi crumple, then break. “It’s really nothing,” he says, averting his face. “I just…I met up with Yijeong today.”
“Yijeong?” Taehyung’s face, if anything, grows even more concerned. “Oh, hyung. Why didn’t you tell me?”
Yoongi shakes his head. “It wasn’t important.”
“Well, the way you’re looking now tells me that it was,” Taehyung says. He reaches out to cup Yoongi’s face between his hands, thumbs brushing the high point of his cheekbones. “What happened? What did he want?”
“It was just—“ Yoongi carts in a breath, holding it in his lungs before letting it out in one fell swoop. “It was a lot.”
Taehyung’s eyes are so large, and so open. “Do you wanna talk about it?”
“Not really.”
“Okay,” Taehyung says. “Okay, we don’t have to.” The corner of his mouth quirks upward into a small smile. “But hyung, if you find that you want to talk about it, I’m just here.” He ducks down to brush a soft kiss against Yoongi’s lips. “I’ll always be here.”
No, you won’t, Yoongi thinks bitterly. Because Taehyung’s time here is fleeting, ephemeral; everything they’d built wasn’t meant to last. Taehyung doesn’t belong here in Seoul, doesn’t belong in a city he’d escaped a few years back. He shouldn’t be here—sleeping next to Yoongi at night, playing house with him and Ara. He should be in Paris, surrounded by beautiful architecture and beautiful people—people who are far more interesting than Yoongi.
Yoongi shouldn’t have kept him here for this long.
He really should’ve known better. Yoongi thinks of the movie he’d seen with Seokjin, thinks of Taehyung reading The Hungry Caterpillar to Ara over and over again. No matter how many times he watches it, no matter how many times he reads it, the outcome is never going to change. It was always going to end this way.
Yoongi pulls away abruptly. “On second thought, I think I might just head to bed. Alone,” he adds, when Taehyung opens his mouth to speak. “I’m not feeling well.” He takes careful care not to meet Taehyung’s eye. “You should sleep in the guest room with Ara. I don’t want you catching it.”
Then he pushes past Taehyung out of the kitchen, slipping back into the bedroom. Once there, he closes the door firmly behind him, curls into his knees; shuts his eyes and lets his tears fall.
. . .
The terrible thing about thoughts is that if you let them linger too long they’ll fester. Let them fester too long and they become this one, fundamental truth that governs your entire being, so much so that you can’t escape it. You wake up in the morning and it’s the first thing you think of, you go to bed and it’s the last thing on your mind. You see it in waves, in patterns; while watching a movie or reading a book. You tell yourself you’re overthinking, that you’re reading too much into things. But still, it feels too large, looming like a cloud above your head—impossible to forget, impossible to ignore.
Taehyung was always going to leave.
It’s something Yoongi was aware of, yet somehow he feels like he’d never truly known it, never really sat down and figured out what it meant. Hadn’t really thought of how it would affect him; kept a sort of distance to the image of Taehyung living his life in Paris. But now it the idea of Taehyung leaving hurtles closer to him at break-neck speed, and Yoongi’s unable to do anything except stand in its path, close his eyes and wait for the inevitable collision.
Taehyung was always going to leave.
It sinks, sticks to him like glue he can’t wash off. Yijeong had left, and now Taehyung will too, the cobble-stoned streets already awaiting his return. And Yoongi will be left behind with Ara all over again.
He’s a shitty parent. He truly is, continuously subjecting his daughter to the affections of people who never wanted her in the first place. Ara isn’t even a year old, and already she’s going to be abandoned twice. Both times by people Yoongi thought would’ve loved her forever.
But that’s your fault, isn’t it? A small voice in his head whispers, each word piercing enough to hurt. Your fault for assuming. You forced it all on both of them. You wanted them to stay. They never wanted any of this.
And just as quickly as he and Taehyung had come together, they fall apart: Yoongi stops going to the office, and starts requesting to work from home once more. He moves Ara's crib back into his bedroom and starts waking up earlier too, just so that he can go through her morning routine as soon as she opens her eyes. He does all that he can, by himself—preparing himself for the inevitability of Taehyung leaving. It’s bad enough that he’s gotten used to Taehyung helping him, he can’t have Ara do the same and be heartbroken when he leaves.
It’s your fault, the small voice in his head says. Your fault, your fault, your fault, your fault—
. . .
“Oh,” Yoongi says, stopping short from where he’d been exiting the bathroom. “You don’t have to do that.”
Taehyung waves a hand. “It’s fine, hyung,” he says. He’s got Ara lying on her back on the couch, baby wipes, powder and a diaper next to her. “I got it.”
In the past, Yoongi would normally concede—take a step back and let Taehyung finish it. But this time, he steps up, nudging him a little out of the way and grabbing the diaper.
“I’ll do it, Taehyung,” he says.
Taehyung must hear something in his tone because he pauses, then takes a step back, out of Yoongi’s way. Yoongi takes the space Taehyung had vacated, and goes through the motions of changing Ara’s diaper.
He doesn’t look at Taehyung once.
. . .
It becomes a new routine, miles away from the easy one they had built before.
“Oops, it’s time for naptime,” Yoongi says, scooping Ara up from the playmat. Ara, unwilling to stop playing, struggles in his grip; she reaches out for Taehyung, but Yoongi turns her away from him. “Let’s take a nap, baby girl.”
“Hyung,” Taehyung says. He’s still sitting on the play mat, one of Ara’s toy plushies in his hand. “It’s still a little early.”
Yoongi shakes his head. “She’s tired,” he tells Taehyung. “She needs to rest. And I have to put her down before my meeting.”
At that moment, Ara bursts into tears, wriggling out of his grip to reach for Taehyung.
“I can put her down,” Taehyung says. “She still wants to play.”
“No need,” Yoongi replies shortly. “I’ll do it.” And then he takes Ara to the bedroom before Taehyung can reply, trying not to flinch as Ara’s cries get even louder.
. . .
It’s a few more days of this until Taehyung musters up the courage to pull him aside.
“Hyung,” he begins. He looks nervous, hurt. Like he’s a wounded animal on the side of the road and Yoongi has the potential to either save him or hurt him even further. “Are you—are you sure you’re okay?”
The despondent tone of his voice tugs at Yoongi’s heartstrings like a compulsion, like an itch he can’t scratch.
“I’m fine,” he says.
Something like frustration flashes in Taehyung’s eyes. “I,” he begins, then wets his lips. “Are you sure? Because why are you—but then why are we—?”
He cuts himself off, takes a deep breath. Looks away; Yoongi watches the muscles of his jaw tense, like he’s holding himself back from lashing out.
“Did I do something wrong?” he eventually asks, his tone steady. A challenge and simultaneously, a plea.
Taehyung never did anything wrong. He’s always been open about leaving, always been truthful about the fact that his time here would have an expiration date. It was Yoongi’s fault for forgetting, for letting go and succumbing to it—to the entropy and the inferno and the whirlwind of emotions. For letting Taehyung bleed through to every part of his life, every facet of his day, and never once thinking that it’d hurt to see him go.
Yoongi swallows, averting his gaze. “No,” he says.
Taehyung doesn’t buy it. “Please,” he says. His voice has gotten softer now, like he’s on the verge of tears. “Please, hyung. Just tell me.”
It’s a terrible feeling, the way his compulsion and his logic both claw painfully up his chest, demanding his attention. Taehyung is hurt and Yoongi wants to fix it, but Taehyung has a much better life in Europe and this will make their parting easier. Yoongi wants nothing more than to reach out for him, to hold him; to go to bed and wake up next to Taehyung for the unforeseeable future. But Taehyung is a wild bird that shouldn’t be kept captive, with a life out there that’s just waiting for his return.
So Yoongi takes a deep breath, shuts his eyes. Focuses on what he knows, on the one truth that can’t be disputed: Taehyung is leaving, a return ticket to Paris with his name written all over it, the cobblestoned streets already lining a path for his footsteps. He’s not meant to be here. Yoongi shouldn’t hold him back.
“It really is nothing,” Yoongi insists. Watches the way Taehyung’s face falls even more. He opens his mouth to say something else, to maybe try and make this better, but he thinks the better of it, shaking his head. “You’re fine, you did nothing wrong, I—I’ll…see you later.”
Then he leaves the room, and pretends, as he goes, that he doesn’t catch the way Taehyung buries his face in his hands, a quiet sob wracking through his body.
. . .
And home becomes cold, becomes a reminder of the inevitable, a realization of the transitory. Gone is the quiet singing, the happy babbling and low voice cooing; gone are the quiet, incandescent moments.
Home becomes four walls with the lack of gentleness and warmth; becomes hollow smiles and polite silence. Becomes the quiet click of two separate doors shutting at bedtime; becomes one person in a bed made for two. Home starts to feel like taking half a breath with your chest, a tension coiling slowly.
Tilted and skewed, Yoongi realizes that home is just synonymous to prison, that they’re the same place in different colors. A place that keeps you tethered and rooted, bound and held back to ensure that you don’t leave. That you can’t leave.
And Yoongi feels dumb and naive to have believed, even just for a second, that this is the kind of life Taehyung would’ve wanted to live.
. . .
“It’s terrible,” Seokjin deadpans despite the glimmer of joy in his eye. “Absolutely terrible.”
“Don’t lie,” Jimin chides, reaching over to smack him lightly on the leg. “You enjoy it. Doesn’t he, Jungkook?”
Jungkook, on Seokjin’s other side, doesn’t reply—just keeps picking meat off of Seokjin’s plate.
Miraculously, all their schedules this week had lined up, which is why Yoongi finds himself here, at an impromptu barbecue dinner with his six friends. Yoongi’s grandmother is watching Ara for the evening—something Ara had been extremely happy about, judging by the way she squealed and clapped as soon as she saw her grandmother. Yoongi had watched, fond (and a little jealous) as Ara stuck to her grandmother as soon as she’d arrived, refusing even for just a moment to be held by someone else.
“Be good for halmeoni, baby girl,” Yoongi had told her right before he’d left, pressing a kiss to her downy soft head. Ara had barely even reacted, just babbled something nonsensical and threw her hands around her grandmother’s neck. Yoongi had tried not to wonder if Ara would even miss him while he was gone.
(He’d also tried not to pay too much attention to Taehyung bidding Ara goodbye, his voice soft, fond, and a little sad.)
And now they’re here. Good food laid out in front of them, a few drinks in their systems, and a free night to stay out as long as possible.
“It’s true,” Seokjin says, and he’s using his dramatic voice—the one he gets when he wants to over exaggerate and drive a point home. “You know what’s worse than having a boyfriend? Having two.”
“Ah, yes,” Namjoon deadpans. “I too hate being doubly loved.”
“You don’t know what it’s like! You don’t know how much affection they need!”
Jungkook lifts his hands and slaps it down on Seokjin’s thigh with a resounding thwack. Somehow, Seokjin doesn’t care, just keeps speaking.
“If you guys had two boyfriends, you wouldn’t even know what to do with them,” he rants nonsensically. “In fact, if you guys wouldn’t even last a day with two boyfriends.”
“If I had two boyfriends, I would dress them up as twins,” Hoseok contributes thoughtfully.
“Ooh,” Taehyung chimes in, his expression lighting up. He’d been a bit quiet throughout the dinner; Yoongi doesn’t want to think too much about the reason why. “What would you make them wear?”
Hoseok cocks his head. “Thing One and Thing Two shirts.”
Seokjin’s eyes light up at that.
“No,” Jimin shoots down the idea before Seokjin can even voice it. “You are not making us wear a Thing One and Thing Two shirt.”
“But it’s cute,” Seokjin whines. “Couples like to match clothes nowadays, don’t they?”
“I’d be happy to match clothes with you, hyung,” Jungkook says, with his mouth full. He’s starry-eyed staring at Seokjin.
Jimin reaches over to slap him lightly. “Don't try and butter your way up to becoming Seokjin-hyung’s favorite boyfriend,” he says.
Jungkook just pouts. “I didn’t mean it like that,” he whines. “I’d match clothes with you too, Jimin-hyung.”
Instantly, Jimin melts. “Really?”
“Of course.”
“Thing One and Thing Two shirts,” Seokjin whispers. “Inspired. Seriously. Going to order them now. Thank you, Hobi.”
Hoseok shoots him a finger gun.
“Okay, but who’s Thing One and who’s Thing Two?” Taehyung chimes in, incredibly amused.
“I’m Thing One,” both Jimin and Jungkook say simultaneously. A pause before they turn to each other, playfully glaring. “I’m Thing One,” Jimin reiterates. “I’m older than you, which means that I get to be number one.”
“Okay, but you don’t even want the shirts,” Jungkook argues back. “Which means that you forfeited your position. So if we do get shirts, I’m number one.”
“No, you’re not!”
“You guys are ridiculous,” Namjoon sighs.
“See what I have to deal with everyday?” Seokjin laments.
Yoongi just stays quiet, eating and occasionally rolling his eyes at his friends’ antics. It’s not that he’s in a mood, per se, it’s just that he isn’t quite feeling up to socializing. His brain is still a tangled mess of emotions he can’t quite sort out, ricocheting from Yijeong to Taehyung; to Ara—young, oblivious, and already twice left behind.
That’s the thing about being a parent—there’s nothing else you think about except for your own children. You want what’s best for them, do your absolute best to ensure that throughout their lives, they get hurt the least amount of times possible.
The conversation continues, drifting over him. His friends bicker and laugh, teasing each other over whatever they can think of. Taehyung in particular, looks to be enjoying himself—his grin wide and his eyes crinkled in the corners. Yoongi watches him, tries not to be too obvious watching him. It’s been a while since he’s seen Taehyung that happy.
Yoongi doesn’t realize he’s being spoken to until he hears his name. “What?” he asks, shaking himself from his daze and blinking at Seokjin, who’s looking at him with pursed lips and a raised eyebrow. “What did you say?”
Seokjin playfully rolls his eyes. “We’re getting ice cream,” he says, pushing himself up from his chair. “Come help hyung choose.”
“Why don’t you ask one of your two boyfriends to help you,” Yoongi grumbles, but obediently stands up anyway.
Seokjin leads them to where the ice cream freezer is—on the other side of the restaurant, tucked against the wall. But instead of immediately bending down to peruse the flavors, he crosses his arms, leaning his hip against the freezer.
“So,” he says.
“So,” Yoongi parrots back. He has an inkling of what’s coming—after all, for how well Seokjin knows him, Yoongi knows him just as well, able to read what he’s thinking from the microexpressions on his face. “Ice cream? You usually get the melon flavor, but maybe you want to get something else? I heard the banana flavor is great.”
Seokjin ignores him. “What’s wrong?” he asks.
And there it is. “Nothing,” Yoongi says automatically. “Why would there be anything wrong?”
“I’ve lived with you long enough to know when you’re quiet because you’re happy, or when you’re quiet because you’re stewing on something,” Seokjin replies. “Now out with it—what’s going on?”
“Nothing,” Yoongi repeats. He keeps looking at the ice cream, if only for something to do. “Everything’s fine.”
“Everything doesn’t seem fine,” Seokjin shoots back. There’s a pause. “Why does Taehyung look like a kicked puppy every time he looks at you?”
Yoongi rolls his eyes. “I don’t know,” he says. “That’s just how he was born, I guess.”
Seokjin rolls his eyes right back. “Yoongi.”
“What?”
“Seriously, what is it?”
“I told you, it’s nothing,” Yoongi insists. “Look, I just—work’s been a little stressful lately, and with Ara, I just…” he trails off. “I don’t know. It’s hard being a parent, hyung.”
Seokjin clearly doesn’t buy it. “You know that whatever it is, you can tell us, right?”
“I know.”
“We’re all here to help, Yoongi. Like, if work is stressing you out, I’m sure you could talk to Taehyung, and he’ll—”
“Taehyung’s done enough,” Yoongi snaps. Seokjin looks caught off-guard by the sudden outburst.
“Um.”
The new voice that joins them makes Yoongi freeze. Taehyung stands just a few meters away from them, eyes wide and mouth slightly open in surprise. He looks, as Seokjin aptly described, like a kicked puppy, hurt seeping into his eyes as his attention narrows down to Yoongi.
It’s Seokjin who speaks. “What is it, Taehyung?”
“I—” Taehyung fish mouths for a second. “I just…bathroom,” he says helplessly, the sentence sounding more like a question as he gestures past Yoongi. Yoongi looks up, realizes that where they’re standing is actually quite close to the bathroom—enough that people would have to pass by them to get there.
“Oh.” Yoongi steps aside to let Taehyung pass. He does his best to offer him a small smile, but it clearly doesn’t placate Taehyung, whose wounded expression doesn’t change as he slinks past Yoongi.
As soon as Taehyung is gone, Yoongi shuts his eyes, letting out a deep breath. He ignores the curious way Seokjin is watching him and turns back to the ice cream freezer, gathering seven popsicles at random.
“Look, Taehyung’s been—Taehyung’s been incredibly helpful,” he eventually says. “All of you have. But this is just…I think this is just something I need to figure out on my own.”
I have to, he thinks to himself. Because at the end of the day, it’ll only be him and Ara. At the end of the day, everyone always leaves.
Seokjin doesn’t say anything to that. The look in his eye has turned a little sharp, a bit more discerning, but Yoongi can tell from the look in his eyes that he won’t pry any further; always knowing when to leave Yoongi alone.
“Alright,” he eventually says, reaching out to grab a few popsicles from Yoongi. He shakes his head, then heads back to the table.
. . .
The walk back to the apartment is quiet, but not in a good way.
It’s strange, how everything’s turned into this—turned into him and Taehyung and this tense awkwardness, the gradual way they fall apart. Gone is the warmth, the happiness they used to share; now there’s nothing but stilted cold, a tension coiling tightly around their throats and ready to snap.
Yoongi breathes in, breathes out.
Tomorrow, he needs to pick Ara up from his mother’s; he’ll try to be there before lunch so his mother doesn’t have to worry about feeding her. Which reminds him, he needs to make more purée for her to eat, avocado and apples sitting on his kitchen counter, waiting to be blended up. He wonders which Ara would like more.
He breathes in, breathes out.
Tomorrow, he also needs to take the time to review the song briefing he was given in time for his meeting on Monday—his boss wants a four-bar instrumental concept to review during the meeting. It should be easy to do; Yoongi’s got a library full of half-finished instrumentals and bars he’d come up with and discarded. He just has to pick one, tweak it to fit the briefing, and hand it over to review.
He breathes in, breathes out.
Taehyung had been silent after he and Seokjin had returned to the table earlier that evening, and he’d taken great pains not to look at Yoongi for the rest of the night. He’d looked sad—he still looks sad, walking alongside him now with his head bowed and brows slightly furrowed. Yoongi wants nothing more than to cross the distance between them, to kiss the wrinkle on his forehead okay; to hold him in his arms until Taehyung gives him that bright, boxy grin once more. But he can’t, because that wasn’t how things were supposed to be; because if he does, it’s going to hurt when he leaves.
(It already hurts now, his heart already protesting at the thought of Taehyung in Paris, far away from his grasp. But it’s better for Yoongi to hurt than Ara, better that it’s only him that’ll ache when Taehyung leaves. She’s still so young, far too young to have to experience being hurt this way. Yoongi prays to any god who’s listening that she’ll be okay.)
He breathes in, breathes out.
There’s a line Yoongi once read in one of the poetry books Namjoon lent him, something that he didn’t even realize had squirreled itself away in the recesses of his mind. Someone has to leave first. This is a very old story. There is no other version of this story.
And Yoongi thinks again of Taehyung reading A Very Hungry Caterpillar over and over to Ara until she’d fallen asleep—there’s just no other way for this to end. Sooner or later, Taehyung has to go back to Paris. Yoongi can either delay the inevitable, or rip the bandaid off.
“Seokjin-hyung’s right, you know.”
It takes a moment for Yoongi to realize that Taehyung’s spoken, his voice barely loud enough to be heard. The wind whistles, the leaves rustle—sounds of the night louder than Taehyung’s voice right here, right now.
“About?”
“About—about you being able to talk to us.” Taehyung’s eyes still have that sad, kicked-puppy quality to them, even though Yoongi can tell he’s doing his best to hide it. “I…I overheard you guys talking by the freezer earlier.”
Around them, the wind seems to blow a little harder. Taehyung takes a quivering breath.
“I don’t…I don’t know what I did to make you hate me,” he says lowly. “But I…I care about you, hyung.”
“I don’t hate you,” Yoongi replies immediately. He picks at the skin around his nail—a nervous habit he can't seem to outgrow. “And I’m fine, seriously.”
“No, you’re not,” Taehyung says. “You’ve barely said three words to me these past few weeks.”
“I’m talking to you now, aren’t I?”
Taehyung ignores his attempt at deflection. “Look, you don’t have to talk about it with me, if you don’t want to,” he finishes in a rush. “But just…” he reaches out, hesitates, and grabs Yoongi’s arm to stop him from walking. “Just talk to someone. To Seokjin-hyung. To Namjoon-hyung. Anyone.” A pause. “Whatever it is you and Yijeong talked about, I can tell it’s eating you alive.”
“It’s not about Yijeong,” Yoongi says, even though privately he wonders if that’s even true. “I just…I need to figure this all out alone.”
“You don’t have to,” Taehyung says, the hurt in his eyes only growing. “We’re all here to help. I’m always here to help.”
And something about the way Taehyung says it—like it’s a given, like it’s an undeniable truth—makes something in Yoongi break, his sadness turning to anger in the blink of an eye.
“I don’t need your help,” Yoongi snaps. “Besides, how are you even going to help? You’re leaving.”
His tone is acrid, and it comes as a surprise even to him. Taehyung clearly looks taken aback, his eyes blowing wide, his hand falling from Yoongi’s arm.
“I—what?”
Yoongi lets out a breath. “You’re leaving,” he reiterates with a finality. “I can’t keep relying on you—you’re going back to Paris.”
It hurts even more saying the words out loud, but at the same time there’s something almost cathartic about it, about letting everything he’s been stewing on fall from his lips. This time there’s no pretense, no plausible deniability—nothing but cold, hard truth lying in between them.
“Look, I—I didn’t mean to keep you here,” Yoongi continues, unable now to stop the words from pouring out. “I was selfish and hurting and terrified of being alone. You’ve already done so much for me, Taehyung. I need to figure out how to do the rest on my own.”
“I don’t understand,” Taehyung replies, his brow furrowing in confusion.
“You just have…you have so much waiting for you out there,” Yoongi says, his voice breaking. “You’ve got a career and a life and you live in one of the most beautiful cities in the world. I’m just…” he shrugs. “I’m just a guy with a boring job and a baby daughter. I don’t have a life, not the way you do.”
He shuts his eyes. “You should be out there. You should be out there seeing the world and falling in love with beautiful people. You shouldn’t be here helping me take care of my baby daughter. I just…I didn’t mean to trap you. I’m sorry.”
“I—what do you mean trapped?” Taehyung’s tone has risen in volume, kind of like he can’t believe what he’s saying. “You think you…you trapped me here?”
“I mean, I—that’s why you’re still here, isn’t it?” Yoongi replies. “You feel bad for me because I’m a single father with a daughter who can’t get my shit together. Because we’ve been left behind in the most brutal way possible.”
“I—no? That’s really what you think of me?”
“It’s the only explanation, isn’t it?”
Taehyung shakes his head. “Has it ever occurred to you,” he says, voice emotional, “that maybe I’m here because I want to be? That I chose to be here, right now? I—” he breaks off, scrubbing a hand down his face. “Fuck, hyung. You’re making all these assumptions about me, but you’ve never even asked me what I think.”
“I know you,” Yoongi replies, a little helpless. “I’ve known what you were like since university. You’ve never been one to be tied down.”
Taehyung gives him a long look; Yoongi thinks he can see tears on his lower lashline. “You don’t think I would’ve chosen this kind of life?” he asks.
“No one would’ve,” Yoongi replies in a heartbeat. “No one would’ve chosen me.”
There’s a long pause, nothing but the sound of their ragged breathing permeating the night.
Yoongi breathes in, breathes out. “Look,” he says. “What I have here…this isn’t much of a life. I signed up for it, but you didn’t. You said it yourself, you aren’t ready to settle down yet, and I—” he can taste the tears on the back of his tongue. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I foisted Ara on you. I’m sorry I kissed you that one night. And I’m sorry I looped you into this—into this dream I had of a family for Ara. I shouldn’t have done that. I shouldn’t have tied you down.”
For a moment, Taehyung doesn’t say anything, just keeps looking at Yoongi. His tears have started to fall freely now, streaking down his cheeks.
“So that’s it, then?” he eventually asks, voice quivering. “This is how it’s going to end?”
There’s no other way for it to end, Yoongi wants to say, the words heavy in his chest. Someone has to leave first. Someone always has to leave first.
Better he end it now rather than later, when Taehyung has seeped into his life so much that it’d hurt to lose him. Better now and lose a few tears, rather than later and sever his whole heart. Better now, before Ara’s old enough to realize that Taehyung is transient.
This is the only way to protect your heart, the sharp, flickering thing in his chest whispers.
“It wasn’t going to last, anyway,” Yoongi continues, and he isn’t sure if he’s convincing Taehyung or himself. “I mean, you were always going to leave. I’m just making the process easier for you.”
The way Taehyung looks at him is indescribable, anger and heartbreak waging war on his face. He looks at Yoongi like he’s furious; he looks at Yoongi like he’s broken. He looks at Yoongi and his expression is one giant contradiction that Yoongi doesn’t know how to explain.
But whatever it is, it makes Yoongi feel like a dagger’s been pierced through his chest.
“You know what,” Taehyung says, his voice trembling. “I think I’ll go and stay with Jimin tonight. Good night, hyung.”
He walks off before Yoongi can muster up a reply, barely even glancing back. Yoongi stays rooted in place, watching him go; tells himself that this is for the best, that this is how it’s supposed to be.
That being alone is better than being heartbroken.
He breathes in, breathes out. Takes a moment to collect himself, tries his best to reorient himself around this sudden, overwhelming loneliness. It’ll fade eventually, he tells himself; sooner or later it’ll just be one of those memories that’ll only ache dully every once in a while.
But tonight—
He walks the rest of the way home alone. Unlocks his door, comes back to an empty apartment, the space larger than he remembers it to be. He gets ready for bed on autopilot, doing his best not to think of anything at all.
And when he crawls into bed, pulling the blanket over his shoulders, he finally allows himself to wonder when the night had gotten so cold.
[five]
Here’s the thing: Yoongi’s never been the best at dealing with sadness.
You shut down when you’re sad, Seokjin had said to him years ago. It had been just six months after they first became roommates, and Yoongi had been in quite a bit of a funk back then, dealing with homesickness and school and his then-contrary parents. You shut down, you self-sabotage, and you get angry. And when you get angry, you’re kind of an asshole.
(Seokjin claims to have no memory of ever saying that to him. But it’s something Yoongi remembers as clear as day, simply because being held up to a mirror like that hurt.)
Back then, it had been a wake-up call—it was a bit harsh, yes, but it was true. It had succinctly laid bare the parts of himself he’d been grappling with: his emotions and the way he responded to them. He’d sat and thought about it for a long time, and eventually, he’d finally allowed himself to entertain the thought that despite being at his absolute lowest, there was a chance that he was still capable of being loved.
Yoongi liked to think that things are different now, that he’s different now. That he’d worked on himself and found better ways to cope, found healthier outlets in his songwriting and in therapy. But see, bad habits don’t die, they simply linger in the shadows. And all it really takes is that one moment of weakness until they’re back in full force.
. . .
“What. Happened.” Jimin asks, taking a menacing step forward as soon as Yoongi opens the door.
Yoongi opens his mouth to reply, but before he can, he’s interrupted by a loud, angry huff. It’s Ara, who at the sight of Jimin, seems to have decided she wants no business with him—her little face pinched up in a scowl.
It’d be hilarious if Yoongi didn’t feel so dead inside.
Jimin’s angry expression falters. “I’m not angry at you,” he tells her, his voice going soft. His eyes flicker to Yoongi. “I’m angry at your appa.”
That doesn’t seem to matter much to Ara, who huffs again and pointedly turns away from him. Yoongi just takes a step back to let Jimin enter the apartment, waiting until he’s bent down to take off his shoes before shutting the door.
“Taehyung’s things are in the guest room,” Yoongi says, pointing Jimin towards the room. But before he’s able to scurry off and hide, Jimin grabs one of Yoongi’s arms, keeping him in place.
“No,” he says firmly. “I am not letting you leave before you tell me exactly what happened.”
It’s been three days since Yoongi last saw Taehyung. In those three days, time seemed to drag on endlessly, each second ticking by at a snail’s pace. Yoongi’s sure he’s done a few things during the week—the fact that Ara’s clean, content and happy is proof that he was somewhat of a functional human being—but he couldn’t for the life of him remember what it is. He just feels numb, lifeless; feels a little like he’s standing on his tiptoes in neck-deep water, one wrong step away from drowning.
In a way, it kind of feels a lot like when Yijeong had left him all those months ago.
“Nothing happened,” Yoongi says, shaking Jimin’s arm off. “I don’t know why you assume something did.”
“Well, something must have,” Jimin reasons. “Because there’s just no reason that Taehyung would suddenly decide to move back in with me.”
“What did he tell you?”
“Nothing,” Jimin replies. “He texted me that night, telling me to wait up, and just randomly showed up on my doorstep.” He lets out a breath. “He was a wreck, hyung. His eyes were all red and his face was all puffy. He’d been crying, but he told me he didn’t want to talk about it.”
Something twists painfully in his chest at the thought of Taehyung crying. Taehyung shouldn’t be crying, he wasn’t made to be sad. But now he is, and it’s all Yoongi’s fault.
(It had caught him off-guard when Jimin had texted him this afternoon, saying that he’d be dropping by. taehyung wants me to get his things, his text read, and Yoongi had given himself a moment to sit with the words, to fully understand their implication, before sending back a concise whatever.)
He pushes the guilt away. “You’re blaming me for something you’re not even sure happened,” he says. He takes Ara to the living room, setting her down on the playmat. “Maybe I’m just not cut out for having a roommate, have you ever thought of that?”
Jimin follows him. “Hyung,” he says incredulously, “you literally lived with Seokjin-hyung for like, six years.”
“Yeah, well, people change.”
Jimin gives him an exasperated look. “Just tell me,” he all but begs, flopping down onto the playmat next to Ara. Ara gives him a wary look, but it’s clear she’s the least of Jimin’s concerns right now. “Please. Hyung, I just—I hate seeing Taehyung like that. It’s so heartbreaking to see him so quiet.” When Yoongi doesn’t say anything else, he sighs. “I just don’t understand what went wrong. You guys were getting along great a few weeks back.”
“I dunno,” Yoongi says, stubborn and non-committal. “Look, how am I supposed to know what Taehyung’s thinking? He’s always been off in his own world, you know that.”
He regrets the words as soon as he says it, but regrets it even more when Jimin turns to glare at him.
“Don’t be a dick,” Jimin says primly.
“I’m just saying, I don’t have the time or mental energy to sit here and try and figure out why Taehyung’s crying,” Yoongi shoots back. “I already do that everyday with my own daughter.”
Jimin’s gaze hardens even more. “You know, if it wasn’t going to leave Ara an orphan, I would kill you right now.”
Yoongi shakes his head. “Whatever,” he says. “Now if you’re done bothering me for something that may not even have happened, you can head to the guest room. Maybe Taehyung would marginally stop crying if he gets his stuff back.”
Jimin looks like he’s about to cuss Yoongi out, anger and frustration all over his features. But then he looks at Ara and sighs, pushing himself to his feet and leaving Yoongi with one last angry glare. Yoongi pretends he doesn’t notice, busying himself with Ara.
Jimin makes quick work of packing all of Taehyung’s things, and it’s only half an hour later that he emerges from the guest room, dragging Taehyung’s suitcase behind him. He doesn’t say anything else and neither does Yoongi; Yoongi pretends to be preoccupied with Ara’s babbling as Jimin lets himself out.
As soon as the front door shuts, Yoongi deflates, letting out a sigh and scrubbing a hand down his face. “We’re okay, aren’t we?” he asks Ara, who blinks back at him.
“`Baaaaaa,” she says, handing him one of her plastic fruits. Yoongi smiles down at her, and continues to play with her to distract himself from the sudden, gaping hole in his chest.
. . .
The next few days drag on at a snail’s pace. Yoongi does his best to keep his head down, busying himself with work and with Ara. He turns off all the notifications on his phone so he doesn’t have to see his friends’ texts and calls, pretends not to hear the buzzing of the door when they drop by and try to check on him. He doesn’t need to talk to anyone. Yoongi’s fine on his own. Or well, he will be. He just needs some time to get used to it.
Taehyung doesn’t text him, and neither does he text Taehyung. There’s no reason for him to after all; there’s nothing left of his presence in Yoongi’s apartment. Everything he’d brought with him to Seoul had fit nicely into one large suitcase, which Jimin already rolled out the door a few days prior. In a way, it strengthened his resolve—Taehyung had brought too little things. It had been stupid of Yoongi to even entertain the thought. What was he doing, dreaming up plans that would never come to fruition?
It was always inevitable—Yoongi’s fall into Taehyung’s orbit and his unavoidable descent into heartbreak. That’s just what happens when you’re too soft. You fall in love with the world and the world chews you up to spit you back out.
So nevermind the emptiness, nevermind the solitude. Nevermind that his bed is cold, and his apartment is devoid of the gentle warmth it used to hold. Nevermind that there are moments during the day that it feels like ghosts have moved in—haunting the empty spaces, the tiny crevices.
Yoongi can learn to live with ghosts. Yoongi can deal with the loneliness.
As long as it means that Ara’s okay.
. . .
Parenting alone is—fine, Yoongi thinks as he bounces a wailing Ara on his hip, trying his absolute best to calm her down. It’s not that hard, actually. It’s just exhausting and overwhelming and stressful, but, you know. He’ll manage. Or try to, at least.
“Shh,” he soothes Ara desperately, rubbing a hand down her back. “Please don’t cry. It’s okay, we can play with something else.”
Ara’s cries don’t decrease in volume. She struggles in his grip, reaching past him to where the box of her toys sit—the small bear Taehyung had gotten her peeking out from under a giant Pokemon plushie. Yoongi knows it’s what she’s reaching for; he does his best not to huff in frustration as he turns her away from it.
It had been an accident pulling it out. Yoongi was reaching for one of the blankets he’d stuffed in there and it had toppled out, landing right in front where Ara was sitting. Her eyes had lit up when she spotted it, and she’d grabbed it before Yoongi could put it away.
He knows it isn’t that big of a deal. But something about the way Ara had smiled when she looked at it made Yoongi’s heart ache, and he’d snatched it away from her on impulse.
Which—wrong move.
“Shh,” he soothes again, trying not to let frustration bleed through his voice. “Please, Ara. Please.”
Ara doesn’t listen to him. “Eh-eh,” she cries, her little hands reaching behind Yoongi. “Eh!”
Fuck. Yoongi scrubs a hand down his face, doing his best to calm down. Ara babbles a lot, he tells himself. This shouldn't be any different. This isn’t any different.
(Except for the fact that Ara’s growing so fast and she’s repeating syllables a little more consistently now, trying her best to communicate. Except for the fact that Ara’s learned to refer to regular things, to constant things, with her own mishmash of babbles, no matter how far off they sound from the original word. Except for the fact that this isn’t the first time Yoongi’s heard her refer to Taehyung as Eh, and that she’s specifically reaching for the small bear he’d given her.)
“God,” Yoongi huffs out, feeling tears prickle in his eyes. “Please, Ara, can you just—stop crying, it’s okay. Look, you don’t need that one, you have a bigger bear Uncle Hobi got you.”
Even as he says it, he knows he doesn’t sound convincing, the waver in his voice giving it away. It’s just—it hurts so much, Yoongi thinks, squeezing his eyes shut and finally letting his tears fall, his shoulders shaking with quiet sobs. It hurts that the last few months were just a facsimile of a nuclear family. It hurts that Yoongi had wanted it so much that he’d forced it onto Taehyung, kept him caged when he was supposed to be enjoying the world. It hurts that Taehyung had been made of absolute magic, so absolutely perfect that even Ara, Yoongi’s prickly, grumpy, snobby baby, absolutely adored him.
(Yoongi did too, but he doesn’t want to think about that too much. His feelings shouldn’t really matter in all this.)
It takes him a long moment to realize that Ara’s stopped crying, her wails replaced by hiccuping. When he opens his eyes, he finds her staring at him, her eyes wide despite the tears still dotting her lash line. She looks stunned, almost like she isn’t quite sure what to make of this situation. Yoongi feels an even bigger sense of shame creep up.
“Sorry, I’m sorry, Ara,” he tells her quietly, his voice breaking. He uses his free hand to wipe his face, and takes a deep breath to calm himself. “I suck, I know.”
For a moment they just stare at each other—matching tear tracks on their faces. Then she hiccups, blinking, and reaches out to press a tiny hand to his face.
“`Pa,” she says, sounding almost firm. Then she babbles a long string of incoherent syllables, which makes Yoongi crack a smile.
“I’ll be better, I promise,” he tells her quietly. “I’ll be a better appa for you.”
She doesn’t say anything else to that, just stares at him with wide, innocent eyes. Yoongi pulls her close to press a kiss against her forehead and she goes willingly, all the fight leaving her body.
It’s clear that all the crying has worn her out because it takes no time at all for her to doze off, her eyelids fluttering as she rests her head against Yoongi’s shoulder. Yoongi hums to her—it’s nothing as nice as the songs Taehyung used to sing, but he wants to think that she likes it all the same.
Eventually, he’s able to put her down in her crib. She smacks her lips but otherwise doesn’t wake up, head shifting a little until she finds a comfortable spot. Yoongi smiles down at her sadly, brushing a thumb against her chubby cheek.
We’re okay, he thinks to himself, even as his heart splinters in his chest. If he says it over and over again, maybe he’ll even start to believe it.
. . .
Yijeong’s documents taunt him from where he keeps them in his work bag. Sometimes, when Ara’s already fallen asleep, Yoongi pours himself a glass of whiskey and pulls them out, reading them over and over until the words stop making sense.
When he was younger, he thought he’d grow up to be successful. That he’d be living in a nice apartment in Seoul, with a successful music career under his belt. He had big ambitions and even bigger dreams, and he thought that if he wanted it hard enough, it would happen.
Then he grew up, graduated university, and found out that he was nothing special. He wasn’t particularly smart or handsome, nor was he talented or athletic. He just kind of was, the same way most everyone else was—boring and ordinary and trying to make the most of the hand life has dealt them. And no matter how hard he tried, no matter how much he worked, that was never going to change.
That’s the thing you don’t hear about in the movies: hard work isn’t a guarantee. Stubbornness doesn’t pay off. The things you want don’t magically fall into your lap, just because you asked nicely.
(The boy you love won’t stay just because you cried. Who are you, anyway, to keep him? Why would he want to stay with you?)
Tonight, he drains his whiskey glass. Reads through the words on the document one more time before he musters up the courage, affixing his signature on each corner and the dotted line at the end. Then, he tucks the documents back into their manila folder, the manila folder back into his bag.
. . .
Yoongi’s always had a weak spot for his mother, which is why he’s unable to say no when she insists on dropping by to see Ara. The instant she steps foot into his apartment, he knows that she can tell that there’s something wrong, her eyes flickering around worriedly despite Ara chewing happily on a teething toy in her arms.
“Yoongi,” she says, once she’s seated on the couch. “Is everything alright?”
“Fine,” Yoongi mumbles.
She frowns at him. “Where’s Taehyung?” she asks, craning her head as if he’d simply been hiding in a different room.
“He left.”
“Left where? Back to Paris?”
Yoongi’s unable to meet her eye. “No,” he answers. “I think he’s staying with Jimin now.”
There’s a long pause where his mother seems to take that in. “Why?”
Yoongi shrugs. Doesn’t say anything for a long time.
Eventually she sighs, scooting a little closer to him. “You know,” she begins gently, “it isn’t good for a child’s development if her parents are apart for too long.”
“Well, that shouldn’t be a problem then,” Yoongi replies. “Yijeong’s gone. Out of the picture for good.”
His mother raises an eyebrow. “What about Taehyung?”
“What about him?”
There’s a pause, and then a quiet huff of breath. “I didn’t know I raised you to be this blind.”
Despite her teasing tone, there’s an underlying hint of seriousness to it, an implication that Yoongi doesn’t want to talk about. Yoongi resists the urge to roll his eyes. “I’m not blind, I’m realistic,” he points out. “He’ll be out of the picture soon. He’s going back to Paris soon.”
“And so?”
Yoongi blinks. “I mean, that’s exactly it,” he replies. “There’s no possibility he’s going to stay. Why would he, when he’s got a life there? There’s nothing here in Seoul for him, and if he stayed with me he’d be bored out of his mind. Better to just save myself the heartbreak.”
“But did you really?” his mother asks, sounding a little wise. “Because to tell you the truth, it does still seem like you’re heartbroken that he’s leaving.”
“Yeah, well, my feelings don’t matter.” Yoongi mumbles. “It’s just…better now than when Ara’s older. At least she won’t remember him.”
The silence that rings out is a little pointed. Yoongi lets the words ring out, and settle. He can feel his mother watching him, an unreadable expression on her face.
“Look,” she says. “I think you may be making a few wrong assumptions.”
“What do you mean?
“You’re kind of just letting your past experiences taint your future ones,” she says. “But just because someone leaves, doesn’t mean that everyone else will. And it’s not fair of you to assume that of everyone.”
“I’m not assuming, I’m just saying that realistically speaking—”
“Realistically speaking, there are people who would love to settle down and have a family,” his mother interrupts. “Realistically speaking, there are people who would change their entire lifestyle if they found something worth changing it for.” She raises an eyebrow. “And realistically speaking, you have no idea what Taehyung really wants to do, exactly.”
There’s a lump in Yoongi’s throat. “I mean, I can guess,” he mumbles. “We actually—well, we sort of had this discussion before. At the time, he said that there was still so much didn’t want to miss out on.”
His mother pins him with a gaze. “And what’s changed since then?”
Yoongi’s first instinct is to say nothing, but there’s a part of him that knows it isn’t true. Somewhere between that conversation and this moment lay dozens of quiet moments, of gentle touches and soft kisses. Of early mornings only they shared, Taehyung’s body pressed warm against Yoongi’s as he slowly woke up. Of dinners shared and movies watched.
Somewhere between that conversation and this moment, Taehyung had looked at him, his eyes full of happiness and love, and Yoongi had found himself looking back.
Yoongi swallows. His silence tells his mother everything she needs to know.
“Talk to him,” his mother urges gently. “Ask him what he wants. And okay, maybe he tells you that he doesn’t want to stay, but then at least you’ll know for sure. Because I think it’s a little premature for you to be this resigned over someone who doesn’t seem like he wants to leave.”
Yoongi carts in a breath. Holds it in his lungs, counts one, two, three before letting it out. He doesn’t say anything else, just scoots closer and leans his head against his mother’s shoulder.
. . .
But before he’s able to muster up the courage to talk to Taehyung, he accidentally comes face-to-face with a series of messages.
Tuesday, 5 September 2023
Park Jimin:
hey losers
taehyung’s flying back on sunday
so our goodbye dinner is on saturday!
semegae @ 7 pm
if u don’t show up i’ll gut u 🥳
Yoongi stares at them for so long that his screen goes dark. He hadn’t meant to read this—he’d been steadily ignoring all the messages his friends have been sending him—but Ara had grabbed his phone while they were playing, and her chubby fingers had somehow tapped open the messaging app.
Taehyung’s leaving on Sunday. Which means he’s only got four days left here in Seoul. It’s a lot sooner than Yoongi expected it to be, because the last time they saw each other, Taehyung hadn’t even mentioned a leaving date.
But the last time he and Taehyung saw each other was two weeks ago, and there are so many things that can change in two weeks.
Tears well up in his eyes before he can stop them. His mother was wrong. There was absolutely no chance that Taehyung was going to stay. It didn’t matter if Yoongi talked to him, it didn’t matter if Yoongi asked him what he wanted. The end of them was written in stone.
He must make a noise of some sort because Ara looks up from where she’s playing with her plastic fruit, her head tilting inquisitively.
“Buh?” she asks. Yoongi gives her a smile.
“I’m fine, appa is fine,” he reassures her. “Appa just…” he takes a breath, “appa will just miss Uncle Taetae, that’s all.
She looks at him for a few more moments before turning back to her toys. Yoongi shakes his head, wiping the rest of his tears away.
But before he can close the messaging app and put his phone away, his screen lights up with a new message.
Tuesday, 5 September 2023
Kim Seokjin:
so taehyung’s leaving on sunday
are you done being a dick now
Min Yoongi:
never
. . .
Seokjin seems to take Yoongi’s one word reply as an invitation, because he shows up at Yoongi’s building a few hours later. Yoongi’s fully intent on ignoring him, except one of Yoongi’s neighbors must recognize him and lets him in, and Seokjin migrates from insistently pressing on Yoongi’s buzzer to insistently ringing the doorbell to his apartment.
“Please stop,” Yoongi hisses, pulling open the door when the sound gets too irritating and Ara starts to whine. Seokjin pays him no mind, however, sweeping into the apartment and toeing off his shoes.
“Ara!” he greets, as if he wasn’t the one about to make her cry just a few minutes ago. “I missed you! I can’t believe your appa kept us apart like this! You’re so big now!”
Ara looks at him skeptically.
Yoongi sighs. “Why are you here?” he asks, shutting the door.
Seokjin holds up a plastic bag, and the sudden movement makes whatever’s inside it clink. When Yoongi starts to shake his head, Seokjin interrupts him.
“I’m not leaving until you tell me what’s going on,” he says sternly.
There’s no getting Seokjin to leave when he’s made up his mind to stay, so Yoongi just rolls his eyes, goes about setting another place for him at the dinner table.
Dinner is a surprisingly calm affair. Even Ara seems to sense that there’s something impending, and she keeps her messes to a minimum, barely playing with her purée. When she starts yawning in her high chair, her eyes drooping, Yoongi knows there’s no postponing it any longer.
“I’ll go put her down,” he says. Seokjin waves him off, bids a good night to a sleepy Ara, and starts putting the dishes away.
Ara falls asleep within five minutes, but Yoongi pretends it takes her ten. He’s not quite sure if he’s ready to face Seokjin yet. He wonders if there’s a surreptitious way to kick him out.
But in the end he sighs, shakes his head, and decides to bite the bullet.
When he walks out of the bedroom, Seokjin’s already got the soju poured into shot glasses. “So,” he says the instant he spots Yoongi, “tell me. What the fuck is up with you?”
Yoongi snorts as he sits down across from Seokjin. “How long were you waiting to say that?” he asks, throwing one shot back. The alcohol burns in his throat.
“Since you opened the door,” Seokjin says mildly. “I had to watch myself though. Wouldn’t want Ara thinking that her favorite uncle was a bad influence.”
“You’re not her favorite uncle.”
“No,” Seokjin agrees. “Taehyung is.” A pointed pause. “But Taehyung seems to be less of an uncle to her nowadays, doesn’t he?”
Damn, caught. Yoongi blows out a breath, pulling the soju bottle closer and pouring himself a shot. “How did…how’d you know?” he asks, after taking the shot. He’s not nearly as drunk enough as he needs to be for this conversation.
“I mean, you guys weren’t exactly subtle,” Seokjin says, shrugging. “I saw you guys holding hands under the table.”
“Does Jimin know?”
“I didn’t tell him,” Seokjin replies. “I don’t think Taehyung told him either. You guys are cute, by the way. I never would’ve thought.”
“Yeah,” Yoongi replies. “It was, um…” he trails off, then lets out a humorless laugh. “I mean, it doesn’t matter, now. He’s leaving.”
“Are you coming to the goodbye dinner?”
“Am I even invited?”
Seokjin blinks. “I don’t see why you wouldn’t be,” he says, confused.
Yoongi lets out a breath. “I just…I don’t know,” he tells Seokjin. “See, I’m not sure I can watch him leave. I think I’m just tired of watching the people I love walk away from me.”
“What do you mean?”
Yoongi takes a moment to think, pouring him and Seokjin another shot of soju to distract himself. “I mean, look at me,” he eventually says. “I’m a single father. For the foreseeable future, my life is going to revolve around Ara. Not that I’m complaining—it’s the life I’ve chosen for myself.” He pauses. “But I’m always going to have this caveat, this…this baggage. And for so many people out there, it’s a dealbreaker.”
Seokjin frowns, but Yoongi keeps speaking. “I already know that no matter who I choose, no matter who I decide to fall in love with, I’d be asking for too much from them. Like here I am, and here’s my daughter as well. Not everybody wants that kind of life.” The corner of his lips tug up in a small, humorless smile. “Yijeong certainly didn’t.”
“Yijeong’s stupid in that he made a huge decision and then changed his mind.”
“Yeah. I met him the other week, did you know that? He…” Yoongi trails off, swallowing past the sudden lump that appeared in his throat. It’s still hard to say out loud, no matter how many times he’s read that stupid contract. “He gave me a contract to terminate his parental rights.”
Seokjin’s gaze turns mutinous. “He did what?”
“Yeah.” Yoongi averts his gaze. “He said that he loved me, but he didn’t want Ara, and he couldn’t be a father to her. He also said that it’s a lot better for Ara’s development to grow up surrounded by people who want to be around her.”
His voice comes out all choked up, and Yoongi has to clear his throat. “So I’m just tired,” he says, “of watching people leave. I can’t watch Taehyung go.” He lets out a huff. “It just sucks because I knew it was temporary, I knew he was going to go back to Paris eventually, but I still…I still let myself hope.”
That’s the terrible thing about hope. The idea, the possibility can be so intoxicating that it fills your head with daydreams and makes you forget the cold hard truths, the undeniable facts. Taehyung’s a wildcard, a wild bird—spontaneous and daring and a little bit feisty, meant to be admired by many. He could be timeless, he could have the whole world at his feet. Just because he’d eaten out of Yoongi’s hand a few times doesn’t mean he was his to keep.
Seokjin’s silent for a good while, studying him with an unreadable expression. Then he shrugs, knocks back his glass of soju. “Okay, two things,” he says, holding up two fingers. “One, Yijeong left because plain and simple, he’s an asshole. But you have to realize that not everybody is an asshole. Certainly not Taehyung.”
Yoongi opens his mouth to speak, but Seokjin bulldozes over him. “And two, I don’t think it’s fair of you to push Taehyung away just because you think he might leave.”
“But he is,” Yoongi replies, confused. “He has a flight on Sunday. I’m not the one making that choice on his behalf.”
Interestingly, Seokjin suddenly looks a little uncomfortable. He looks like he’s about to say something but he stops himself at the last minute, averting his gaze and taking a shot of soju.
Yoongi narrows his eyes at Seokjin. “Hyung,” he says. “What is it?”
“Nothing,” Seokjin replies, straight-faced.
“You know something that you aren’t telling me.”
“Bold of you to demand when you spent the last two weeks lying to me,” Seokjin says. But then he sighs, shakes his head; reaches over to pour himself another glass of soju.
“Fine,” he says after he’s taken a sip. “I’m not—so I’m actually not a hundred percent sure, because it’s not something Taehyung told me directly, but Jimin mentioned it to me in passing. He said that Taehyung was actually supposed to leave two months ago but kept pushing back his return date because he was trying to negotiate with his agent to see if he could move back to Seoul.”
Something seizes in Yoongi’s chest. “Wh—what?” he gets out.
“I don’t know the exact details, of course,” Seokjin continues. “Jimin was just super excited about it, talking about how excited he was to have Taehyung back in the country. But, yeah.” He shrugs, and there’s a knowing twist to his smile. “If I had to guess, though, I think he wanted to move back because he found a reason to stay.”
A reason to stay. Yoongi’s heart thumps loudly in his chest, almost like it wants to break free. Taehyung couldn’t have been thinking of staying for him…could he?”
“But he’s still leaving,” Yoongi reasons, though he isn’t sure if it’s for his benefit or someone else’s. “He’s still flying back on Sunday.”
The look Seokjin gives him is so exasperated that Yoongi feels a little bit like crawling under the table and hiding. “Look,” he says. “I just think you should talk to Taehyung about all this. Because when you sit and assume things, you just end up making an ass out of u and me.” He pauses, cocks his head in thought. “Or out of you and Taehyung, rather.”
Unfortunate pun aside, Seokjin’s words make something kindle inside Yoongi. He looks down at his shot glass, half-empty, and wonders if it’s actually half-full. The same thing in different colors, he thinks again, downing the rest of his glass. Maybe Taehyung didn't stay because he felt bad for Yoongi.
Maybe he stayed because he actually wanted to.
. . .
The collar of Yoongi’s shirt feels too tight, even though it’s impossible for it to be—he’s wearing one of his older, more well-worn shirts, the neckline stretched out. He hadn’t had the idea to change out of it when impulse struck, unable to think of anything else except Taehyung leaving.
This is stupid, he thinks to himself, standing outside Semegae. So fucking stupid.
Funnily enough, he wasn’t supposed to go to Taehyung’s goodbye dinner—he’d spent the rest of the week tossing and turning in his bed, mulling over everything Seokjin told him. He thought about how he wanted it to go, versus how it would realistically go. Thought about what would be the most likely outcome.
After a while, he’d concluded: there was no way Taehyung was really ever considering staying. After all, all the evidence points in that direction—the return ticket booked, the goodbye dinner. He’s leaving, and Yoongi had better quash that hope before it messed with his head.
But that evening, while Yoongi was playing with Ara, he saw her reach for that small bear Taehyung had given her ages ago. Saw her hold it to her chest, looking up at Yoongi with a small smile on her face. Saw her look around the apartment, as if she was looking for someone.
And Yoongi had felt something inside him fray, and then snap.
He’s already late when he arrives at the restaurant, the clock ticking closer to eight because he’d had to wait for his mother to come by to stay with Ara. Still, it doesn’t take him long to spot his friends, taking up a long table and holding court at the corner of the room. They’re all laughing, talking shit and cracking jokes like they always do, and right between them sits Taehyung, head ducked and his smile bright as he listens to them speak.
Namjoon says something to him that makes him laugh, his eyes turning into slits. The harsh fluorescents of the restaurant render him in angles—the thickness of his eyebrows, the high bridge of his nose, the sharp curve of his jawline. He’s beautiful, so perfectly-crafted that it borders unreality.
Yoongi’s heart aches at the sight of him. His feet take him surely to the table, unwilling to ket him lose his last nerve.
It’s Jimin who spots him first, his eye smile fading when he locks eyes with Yoongi. His gaze turns sharp, almost slightly threatening. He doesn’t break eye contact even as he nudges Taehyung with an elbow.
Taehyung looks up from his food, frowning, then follows Jimin’s gaze to the sight of Yoongi standing there.
It’s heartbreaking to see the play of emotions on Taehyung’s face—from surprise, to an instinctive joy, to the sudden fall of his expression, his eyes getting a sad quality to them. He averts his face, and at this angle Yoongi can see the clench of his jaw, almost like he’s holding himself back from crying.
“Hey, hyung,” he says, his voice neutral. “I’m glad you could make it.”
“Taehyung.” His name falls from Yoongi’s lips before he can stop himself. The rest of the table looks up at his voice, conversations tapering off. “I just…I wanted to see you before you left. Wish you safe travels, and all that.”
Taehyung smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Thanks,” he replies.
Yoongi feels stupid, feels ridiculous; feels like he’s unable to orient himself in this conversation, the rest of the world moving while he struggles to catch up. “I also wanted…” he starts, his voice coming out thick. “I also wanted to talk. To you.” His eyes flicker to the side, where five curious faces stare up at him. “Alone.”
Jimin’s the first to react. “No,” he says, protective. “Whatever you want to say to him, you can say in front of me.”
“Jimin,” Seokjin says.
“No,” Jimin insists. “Absolutely not.”
“Jimin,” Seokjin says again. He looks up, meeting Yoongi’s gaze; whatever he sees in Yoongi’s expression makes him relax a fraction. He rests a hand on Jimin’s thigh to try and calm him down. “Let them talk.”
“No way, hyung,” Jimin says, his eyes flashing dangerously. “I am not letting Yoongi-hyung hurt Taehyung. Not again.”
The mention of his name seems to shake Taehyung out of his reverie, and he blinks at Yoongi for a few moments, expression impassive. “It’s fine, Jimin,” he says, setting aside his napkin and pushing himself out of his chair. He runs a hand through his hair and visibly lets out a breath, before turning his attention to Yoongi.
“Outside?” he asks.
Yoongi nods. “Please.”
“What’s going on?” Yoongi hears Hoseok ask quietly as he steps away from the table, Taehyung following quietly behind him. He hears Seokjin’s voice reply, but he can’t quite make out the words.
It’s a warm enough evening, a slight breeze chasing away the remnants of the summer humidity. Yoongi leads them to a bench in front of a convenience store, just a little ways away from the restaurant. He takes a seat and Taehyung does too, making sure to leave a considerable amount of space between them.
A heavy silence rings out between them. It’s stiff and awkward and cold, a stark contrast from the warm quiet he and Taehyung would share a few weeks back. Yoongi wishes, just for a moment, he was back there—waking up with Taehyung asleep in his arms, his profile made gold by the early morning sunlight.
In the end, it’s Taehyung who breaks the silence. “How is she?” he asks tentatively, like he isn’t quite sure he’s allowed to. “Ara?”
The question makes the corner of Yoongi’s lips curl up in a smile. “Fine,” he says. “She’s with her grandma now, actually. She’s doing good.”
“Oh.” Taehyung’s eyes grow a touch warm. “I’m glad to hear that.”
“If I’m being honest, though,” Yoongi says, doing his best to keep his tone light, “I think she misses you.” A pause. “I miss you too.”
Taehyung draws in a loud inhale. Doesn’t say anything else.
“Look,” Yoongi begins. “I just—I wanted to apologize before you left. I know I was an ass these past few weeks, and you didn’t deserve that.”
Taehyung doesn’t say anything to that. He’s tense, body coiled up like he’s about to flee.
“You…I don’t know if you know, but you really made me happy these last few months, Taehyung,” Yoongi says. “I was hurt and terrified after Yijeong left, and having you around…you just pulled me out of that. You helped me with Ara, kept me company—kissed me until I couldn’t stop smiling. And I don’t know, maybe it didn’t mean much to you, but it meant the world to me.”
“I just wanted everything with you,” Yoongi continues, the words falling freely from his mouth. “I wanted this life, with you. But then I saw Yijeong and he told me that I—” he cuts off, taking a deep breath, “—that I can’t make people stay when they choose to leave. And you were leaving—you were always supposed to leave—and that…that messed with my head, a little. I’d been imagining a life that could never happen.”
Taehyung’s eyes are dark and his expression is unreadable. Yoongi pushes on before he loses his last nerve.
“Maybe it doesn’t count for much now, but I’m sorry,” Yoongi finishes. “I’m sorry for pushing you away these last few weeks. I…I shouldn’t have, not when it was my own fault. Not when I was the one who got so attached to you.” He takes a deep breath. “You were lovely, and perfect, but you were always going to leave.” He laughs, a little humorlessly. “I don’t even know why I deluded myself. After all, you have a life back in Paris, and I’m just—I’m just a single father. There’s no way you would’ve chosen to stay with me. I really should’ve dealt with my emotions better.”
The whole time, Taehyung’s face doesn’t change—he’s still staring at Yoongi, as if he’s trying very hard not to blurt something out. His hands are curled into fists in his lap.
It takes a moment, but eventually, he speaks. “You know what, hyung,” he says, his gaze trained on his lap. “I’m really, really tired of everyone assuming that living in Paris must be the greatest thing ever. Sure, it’s fun, but it isn’t the pinnacle of all living.”
The outburst catches Yoongi off-guard, and he blinks, a little unsure of what to say. But before he can speak, Taehyung keeps going.
“Personally, I like it better here in Seoul,” Taehyung continues, his voice heated. “I didn’t before, sure. But it’s different now. It’s different when you have something that feels like home. But see, nobody ever asked me how I felt about coming back, so I didn’t bother talking about it.”
Taehyung takes a deep breath, averting his gaze. “It’s funny,” he says, although there’s no humor in his voice. “When I was first moved, I told myself I’d never move back to Seoul. I felt like I’d outgrown this—this stuffy, conservative country. I felt like I didn’t belong here. But then I came to visit, after years away, and I just—I don’t know, something inside me changed. I fell in love, I think. With you, and with Ara, with the life that you both were living. Suddenly, I realized that I wouldn’t mind living here with you guys for the foreseeable future.”
His lower lip trembles. “I wanted to stay,” he admits quietly. “I kept pushing back my return date because I wanted to stay here with you, hyung. I liked waking up next to you, I liked taking care of Ara. I liked that it was easy being with you, having this makeshift family—kind of like my heart found a place to settle.”
He looks at Yoongi, and his eyes filled with unshed tears. “Not once did I ever think that I would rather be in a club in Paris. Hyung, I—l love you. I loved being a family with you. I wanted to be with you.”
I love you. Taehyung’s words ring out in the quiet of the night, settling in the space between them. For a moment, Yoongi’s frozen; unable to think, unable to breathe. Taehyung loves him. Taehyung loves him.
“Oh,” Yoongi says, a little breathless.
“Yeah,” Taehyung replies. “But then you met up with Yijeong, and after that you started pulling away and I thought—” he shakes his head, “I thought that you suddenly realized you didn’t want me, hyung.”
“It wasn’t that,” Yoongi says immediately, because he doesn’t want Taehyung to get the wrong idea. “I do—I always want you.” The confession falls from his lips easily, almost like they’d just been at the tip of his tongue, waiting. “But I was just—Taehyung, you’re still so young.”
“I’m only two years younger than you.”
“Two years is still a lot of time,” Yoongi says. “There’s so much you can still do. You’ve got such a great career—I don’t want to keep you from that.”
Taehyung’s eyes are bright. “You wouldn’t be keeping me if I choose to stay with you,” he says earnestly.
Yoongi’s heart (his traitorous heart) thumps with something akin to hope, but he doesn’t dare let it consume him. “You say that now, but a year down the line, you find yourself bored out of your mind,” he says, keeping his tone steady. “You’re—you’re meant for great things, Taehyung. You create art that people around the world enjoy. It’s not going to be much of a life being here. Being with me. I have Ara, and that’s—she always has to come first. No matter what.”
“I know that,” Taehyung answers. “You think I don’t know that? Even if you were as boring as a—I don’t know, a rock or whatever—I would still want this life. I would still want to be with you.
Yoongi takes a shaky breath. “You may regret saying that.”
“I won’t,” Taehyung replies firmly. “I know that I can be a little fickle. But I know myself, and I know that I’m certain about the things that matter.”
“The things that matter?”
Taehyung’s eyes are bright, reflecting the streetlamps and the neon signs. “You,” he says, like it’s so easy for him to give it away. “And Ara.”
The silence that comes after rolls over them like a heatwave—slow, viscous, and slightly terrifying. Yoongi’s heart keeps thumping in his chest, a loud march that leaves him breathless, exhilarated. Taehyung wants to stay here in Seoul, with him. Taehyung wants to watch Ara grow up.
“I don’t know,” Yoongi begins quietly, “if I’m allowed to ask for what I want.”
Taehyung’s expression doesn’t change. He scoots closer to Yoongi. “Ask it, anyway,” he says.
“It might be a little too late.”
Taehyung cocks his head. “It might,” he agrees. “My flight back to Paris is tomorrow. My agent’s expecting me back and ready to work next week. Says he’s got big plans for the next exhibition.”
“Oh.”
Taehyung takes Yoongi’s hand in between his. His palms are rough, slightly calloused; warm, like he’d been nurturing a tiny flame.
“But maybe I could…” he wets his lips, keeping his gaze fixed on Yoongi. “Maybe I could be persuaded to move back,”
“Move…back?” Yoongi echoes.
“Yeah, here.” There’s a slight tilt to Taehyung’s lips, a sight Yoongi’s missed so, so much. “I could…I could wrap everything up in Paris. Ship all my things back here.”
It’s a heady thought. Yoongi takes a deep breath. “I don’t want to keep you from everyone else,” he says as steadily as he can manage.
Taehyung shakes his head. “You wouldn’t be,” he says, his tone is gentle now. “Because whether you ask or not, it doesn’t change a thing.” He curls his hand around Yoongi’s waist, lifts it to press Yoongi’s hand against his chest.
Beneath his palm, Taehyung’s heart flutters—certain, sure.
“I’m yours, either way,” Taehyung says.
And maybe this is too impulsive, too sudden for what they have. But Taehyung’s looking at him a certain way, one that makes his stomach do somersaults; but Taehyung’s looking at him and Yoongi feels like he’s known him for five seconds and five lifetimes. It’s too much, too big of a promise to make, goes against all logic and rationale, but—
The best way to deal with entropy, Yoongi’s learned, is to lean into it.
“Then stay with me,” Yoongi whispers. Afraid of saying it too loud, afraid that he’s asking for too much. “Move back to Seoul. Stay here with me.”
A moment, then the corner of Taehyung’s lips curve upward.
“Okay,” he whispers. He lifts Yoongi’s hand from his chest, twines their fingers together. “Okay.”
. . .
The goodbye goes like this:
Ara perks up in Yoongi’s arms as soon as she recognizes Taehyung at the airport, and she all but wriggles from his grasp to get to him. Taehyung laughs as he catches her, immediately pressing a kiss to her cheek, immediately basking in the hug she gives him, humming quietly to her.
The rest of the boys are there too—Jimin’s still a little huffy with Yoongi, but he begrudgingly doesn’t complain about his presence. It helps, Yoongi thinks, that both Seokjin and Jungkook are holding both of his hands, as if they’re ready to intercept and pull him back at any moment.
Taehyung stays outside with them until the last possible minute, when the time on the clock gets dangerously close to his flight time. “You have to go soon,” Hoseok advises him, his eyes flicking nervously to the big airport screens.
Taehyung just laughs. “I will, I will,” he says, and then hands Ara to Hoseok.
Everyone else says their goodbyes first. Jimin is all sullen about it and Jungkook even tears up, eyes wide and lower lip quivering. This doesn’t dampen Taehyung’s spirit, however;he just happily doles out hugs, promising they’ll see each other again soon.
Then it’s Yoongi’s turn, and the lump in Yoongi’s throat only grows as he steps forward. Taehyung’s grin dims a little, but his eyes soften, and the curl of his mouth remains gentle.
Yoongi clears his throat. “Hey,” he says. Wonders, for a moment, how he could ever compete with Paris—with its rich history and its bustling nightlife and the way Taehyung seems to thrive in it, basking beneath their streetlights. He could be losing him, he knows; he could be sending Taehyung away with a promise he’d never keep.
But Taehyung seems to read what he’s thinking on his face because he bites his lip, reaches out to tug Yoongi closer. “Hey,” he replies, his tone knowing and certain and sure.
Around them, the world falls away—the bustle of the airport and the staticky voices on the intercom and their friends, quietly watching. Yoongi doesn’t look away from Taehyung, does his absolute best to commit him to memory: the exact angle of his jaw, the slope of his eyebrows, the curve of his lips when he smiles.
It’s Taehyung who moves first, taking a step forward and pulling him into a hug so tight Yoongi can barely breathe. Yoongi closes his eyes, loses himself in it; lets himself drown in Taehyung’s presence, in Taehyung’s warmth. He’d hold him like this for eternity, if he could. Keep him in his pocket. Never once let him go.
“I’ll see you soon,” Taehyung eventually murmurs.
Yoongi feels breathless, feels like his heart’s been strung on the highline, dangling precariously. Please come back, he thinks. Please, please, please, please—
It’s silly, Yoongi thinks, to trust someone this blindly; he’s always been one to stick to evidence and logic, never taking stock in horoscopes and hints of faith. But when Taehyung leans back, kisses Yoongi in front of all their friends and his baby daughter, something in Yoongi’s chest acquiesces, then settles into Taehyung’s gentle palms.
Then Taehyung pulls back, nudges his nose against Yoongi’s. Yoongi keeps his eyes shut, but even then he can sense it somehow: Taehyung’s slow smile, coming up like the dawn.
“Goodbye, hyung,” Taehyung says, but it’s just the same word in a different color. It doesn’t feel like a goodbye.
In fact, it feels like a promise.
[six]
two months later…
“Okay, you know what,” Yoongi says, one hand holding a tiny plastic spoon, two fingers of his other hand pressed to his temple in frustration. “That’s enough. No more.”
Ara’s eyes flicker to him from where she’s sitting on her high chair, eating beetroot purée. Or well, she’s supposed to be eating it; currently she’s just upended the bowl and spilled purée everywhere. She’s a mess, fuchsia all over her face and her hands, as well as tangled in the short strands of her hair.
It looks almost like a terrible crime scene happened in his apartment.
“Muh-muh?” Ara asks, her mouth full.
“No,” Yoongi says sternly, righting the bowl and dropping the spoon into it. “No more muh-muh. You’re just playing with it.”
Ara’s face contorts. “Muh-muh,” she whines, smearing the purée that’s on the table. She bangs her hand in it too, and some of it splashes onto the floor.
“Stop that,” Yoongi scolds, and decides to extract her from the mess.
She fusses as he cleans her, whining and reaching back towards her high chair. But Yoongi isn’t deterred—he makes sure her face and her hands are clean, before wetting a towel to wipe the purée out of her hair. Thankfully, she doesn’t need a bath, just a quick change of clothes, and Yoongi quickly sheds her of her messy dinosaur onesie and changes her into one with a small plush bear sewn to the front.
She grabs onto the bear as soon as Yoongi lets her go, making a sound of delight as she stuffs it into her mouth. She smiles up at him—her eyes turning into slits and her little teeth making an appearance, and Yoongi can’t help but smile back at her.
“There,” he tells her. “Isn’t it so nice to be clean?”
She gurgles at him in response.
Ara fed, changed and clean, Yoongi sets her down on the play mat with a few toys before tackling the mess in his kitchen. He moves quickly—dropping her plastic bowl and spoon into the sink, then picking up the rag to wipe down Ara’s table and high chair. He mops too, making sure to get rid of the stains before they set. No more beetroot purée, he thinks to himself as he gets on his knees to scrub at a particularly stubborn spot. Ara doesn’t even seem to like it.
All throughout, he makes sure he can still see Ara from the corner of his eye. Not for the first time, Yoongi thanks all his lucky stars that she isn’t so hyperactive; most one-year olds would be trying to run around by now, climbing onto things and pulling themselves to their feet. Ara, however, has no inclination towards that, content to just be sitting on her playmat banging on her light up piano and babbling things to herself. It means it’s a lot easier to watch her while he’s focused on other things, not really having to worry about her stumbling or hurting herself.
Jimin, however, is of the opinion that it’s terrible, and worrying, and is constantly pestering Yoongi about Ara’s development. But, whatever. Yoongi doesn’t care. Ara’s going to learn how to run around eventually, and when she does, Yoongi is going to drive to Jimin’s house, force him to babysit, and take a free day all to himself.
The sound of the doorbell rouses Yoongi from his thoughts, and he looks up, surprised. He hadn’t been expecting any guests today, and any surprise visits from his friends would still mean that they’d have to ring the building buzzer and ask to be let in. Unless it’s Seokjin, who, at least fifty percent of the time, manages to charm Yoongi’s unsuspecting neighbors to let him into the building.
Yeah, it’s probably just Seokjin.
“`Be?” Ara asks, looking to Yoongi for an answer.
“Yep,” Yoongi says, getting to his feet and scooping her up from the floor. “That’s the doorbell. Let’s go see what Uncle Seokjin wants, shall we baby girl?”
“`Ji,” Ara hiccups, shifting so she’s comfortable in Yoongi’s arms. She turns to the door, but keeps one arm around Yoongi’s neck; she doesn’t cry as much anymore, but she’s still a little shy, often hiding her face in Yoongi’s shoulder when confronted with someone she isn’t that comfortable with. It’s yet another thing Jimin likes to complain about—why doesn’t she like me? he likes to ask—but Yoongi’s really just learned to tune out Jimin’s complaints about his baby.
Besides, Ara’s warmed up to most everyone by now. Yoongi privately thinks that Ara’s just decided to have an arch enemy, and then decided that Jimin was the perfect person for that role.
Yoongi moves forward, grasping the door handle to pull it open. He opens his mouth, ready to scold Seokjin with some variation of why don’t you call before visiting?, but the instant he lays eyes on the person on the other side of the threshold, he feels all the breath knocked from his lungs.
Because it isn’t Seokjin.
In his arms, Ara stills. “Eh-eh,” she says quietly, but Yoongi can hear the budding smile in her voice.
“Hi,” Taehyung says, on the other side of his door. He looks a little ridiculous: leaning against a large suitcase, dressed in a pair of soft-looking trousers and an even softer-looking sweater. His hair—honey blond this time—is a mess, sticking up at all angles, but his eyes are filled with glee, his gaze trained straight at Yoongi. The corners of his lips curve up, then stretches; his grin is knowing and the slightest bit mischievous.
And he’s—fuck, he’s here. Yoongi’s heart soars at the sight of him.
“Hi,” Yoongi says, just managing to keep his voice steady.
There’s a pause.
“So, I seem to have found myself back in Seoul,” Taehyung says casually.
“Seems like you have,” Yoongi replies just as casually. Although they video-called while Taehyung was away, Yoongi can’t help but run his eyes over Taehyung—cataloging the things that changed, at the things that stayed the same. “You didn’t tell me you were coming.”
“That’s what you call a surprise,” Taehyung quips.
Yoongi raises an eyebrow at him, even though he feels his own grin spreading on his face. “What can I do for you?” he asks, playing it up.
Taehyung shrugs. “So usually, whenever I’m in Seoul, I’d stay with Jimin. But see, Jimin’s got two boyfriends now, and his apartment is a little too cramped for four people.
“Right.”
“So I was wondering,” Taehyung continues, “if you’d have the space for me.” A pause. “I heard you have an extra room and lots of extra space.”
For a moment it’s still, nothing but Taehyung’s knowing grin and Yoongi’s heart beating rapid fire against his chest. Yoongi looks at him, at this silly, impulsive, wondrous boy standing on his doorstep—his heart on his sleeve, a promise kept and looped tightly around his pinky finger.
Yoongi looks at him, feels the whole world condense into this one, beautiful boy. Thinks I love you, and takes a step back, opening the door wider for him.
“Welcome home.”