Work Text:
yeah yeah, a gentle breeze
one that brushes past
One day, Yoongi decides to take the subway home from work. It’s been so long since he’s taken transit, and it feels odd to be… excited isn’t the right word. Neither is nervous , though there’s a little bit of that too. Maybe it’s a mixture of both, a vaguely sick feeling in the pit of his stomach that’s most similar to the thrill you get when you’re about to go over a big drop on a roller coaster.
He’s not wearing the usual ball cap or bucket hat that he’d try to disguise himself with in the early days of their fame, before he realized that the fans will know him even by the shell of his ear, the slope of his shoulders. But he thinks somehow that the full coverage makes him more conspicuous, makes it more obvious that he is trying to keep a low profile. So he keeps it simple with nothing but a face mask to hide the lower half of his face, and his reading glasses providing a transparent mask for his eyes. Paired with one of the simple, starched button-ups he bought for work, he looks like any other salaryman going home for the day.
His hair helps, too. No extensions, just a buzz cut that’s growing out too slowly. It looks all spiky and awkward, even more so than their hair had been at debut. Instead of glossy black or some other fashion color, it’s his natural dark brown. And he hasn’t been doing his idol skincare routine, or his idol diet either– his cheeks are back, full dumplings, and there’s a light shine across them by the end of the day.
No one notices him. He gets on the subway and takes a seat across from a pair of students on their way home, and there is no spark of recognition in either of their eyes as he sits down. There is no one shyly coming up to him and saying they’re a fan, no one giddily asking for a selca or covertly taking photos. Nothing.
He is not special at all. No more and no less worthy than any other person.
Yoongi swallows down a sudden lump in his throat. This is something that he thought he’d lost for good. But there is no such thing, he’s discovering. Somehow it feels like he’s always discovering it, over and over again. Everything passes by.
It’s funny. For all that the D-Day tour was supposed to be about reconciling all of the disparate parts of himself, Agust D and Suga and Min Yoongi– he doesn’t think that he’s felt so close to Min Yoongi in over a decade. Or maybe that’s not quite right. Maybe it’s more that he feels closer to the Min Yoongi that he could have been, if he’d chosen differently. If he had been less hungry.
When Seokjin goes back to being an idol right away, Yoongi sees it from the back of the car he’s hiding in. It happens only seconds after he steps out of the gates: His back and shoulders straighten and his teary expression smooths over into something pretty, and just sad enough to be dignified. At the sight of all of his brothers waiting for him, he bursts into pleased laughter.
Well. Almost all of his brothers.
Yoongi stays in the car, frozen in his seat.
“What are you wearing ?” He hears Seokjin screech at Namjoon, voice as squeaky and loud as ever. It is a ridiculous outfit, baggy jean shorts with bedazzled accents worn with a shirt in a matching color denim. Paired with the saxophone he’s wielding, he looks like a member of a strangely casual marching band.
The company gives Seokjin a bouquet of flowers. They get crushed in between his and Jimin’s bodies, as Jimin pulls him into an achingly tender hug. Everyone hugs him, over and over again, and Yoongi still stays in the car with suddenly cold arms.
He’s not exactly sure why he doesn’t get out. It’s not like he’s ashamed, or embarrassed of how he looks, or anything like that. Besides, he wore a baseball hat today. All but a few tufts of hair are hidden beneath it.
Maybe he’s selfish. He’s gotten attached to being anonymous so quickly, greedy with the way he’s living his life for no one else’s sake but his own. Seokjin is coming home. Yoongi has missed him very much. This moment– he wants to keep it for himself. He doesn’t want to share.
But it seems that he has to, because the staff usher Seokjin into the other van. Namjoon and Hoseok climb in with Yoongi, even though Yoongi and Seokjin always share a car.
“Why is he going in that one?” Yoongi asks.
Hoseok shrugs. “I don’t know. The staff had it ready.”
“This one was ready too,” Yoongi mumbles, trying unsuccessfully to keep the pout out of his voice.
“They want him to do a live before we eat,” Namjoon explains. “They got him a cake back at the company, and more flowers and balloons and shit.”
“Oh.” A live? Already?
“Only a quick one, hyung,” Namjoon adds, and Yoongi curses himself for being so transparent. Or maybe Namjoon just knows how to read him. After almost fourteen years, you get to know a person. “And then the night is ours.”
It’s not lost on Yoongi that the only reason that this won’t become a Bangtan Bomb is because six of them are currently serving. Were it legal, their whole reunion would be filmed and photographed ad nauseam. He should feel grateful for that. Instead he just resents that they have to do this at the company building instead of home.
The notification that BTS Jin started a live flashes across Yoongi’s phone screen while he’s picking up some extra soju and beer. This time, Namjoon and Hoseok are hiding in the car while Yoongi goes into the store. He stands in line, arms laden with bottles, and swipes open the app.
Seokjin looks good. He’d looked good at the exit ceremony too of course, but the stylist noonas have done some quick, subtle work. His skin tone is even and lightly glowy, brows straight and tidy, and his short bangs combed and gelled. The volume is off, but Yoongi can already hear his tone of voice as he watches Seokjin gesture with fluttering hands. He huffs a short laugh as he watches Seokjin chuck his flowers off camera.
He closes the live when it’s his turn to pay, a feeling swimming in his stomach that he’s not sure how to name.
Hoseok is watching Seokjin with the volume up when Yoongi slides back into the car with two bulging bags.
“Ah, it’s been so long since I’ve done this,” Seokjin is saying, voice slightly tinny through the phone speakers. “I don’t know what to say!”
Hoseok snorts. “Ahh, Jin-hyung,” he says fondly. “Hasn’t changed a bit.”
“He always says he’s so awkward and he never is,” Namjoon comments. “He’s always so poised.”
That’s the thing about Seokjin. He’s so unfailingly polite, so effortlessly handsome, that he may feel awkward but he’ll almost never act awkward, and he’ll certainly never be seen as awkward. But it’s the first one that matters the most, isn’t it? Despite their line of work, it should be the first one that’s the most important. It never is, but it should be.
The kids are loud enough that they can be heard as soon as the elevator doors open, hooting and hollering and smacking each other. Jimin and Jungkook are both clinging to Taehyung when they get in the door, feeling up his newfound biceps with the appropriate ooohhhs and aahhhs. Taehyung is delighted, flexing and giggling and smiling so hard his eyes disappear.
“Do you think you could do a push-up with me sitting on your back?” Jimin challenges. “I bet you two packs of ramen that you can’t.”
“You’re on!” Taehyung immediately accepts the bet, dropping to the floor, as if he couldn’t just eat the two packs of ramen anyway. It would have been a much hotter commodity eight years ago, back when they still thought their first music show win was a lucky fluke. But old habits die hard, even if you try to kill them.
Sometimes, when the space between the years feels shorter, Yoongi will look at the members and see them as they were in 2012. When they first came together as a group, in their cramped apartment in Nonhyeon-dong and perpetually damp practice studio. He’ll see them underfed and scrawny, eyes too big in their faces and ringed with dark circles, but stubborn and hopeful just the same.
Right now he looks at Seokjin and makes himself see him as he is, not as he was. The live has already ended, short just like Namjoon had promised, and he’s peeling off his uniform in the corner of the room.
“Seokjin-ssi,” a staff member calls. “Can we get a group photo before you change?”
“Ah, sure,” Seokjin agrees easily, shrugging back into his fatigues.
“If you could sit in the center of the couch, where you just were,” the staff member directs. “And everyone else come sit around him.”
It’s second nature, to go where they tell them, to pose and smile pretty. Most of them keep their masks on, but they’re experts at an eye smile by now. Everyone moves to their places, Jimin sticking himself to Seokjin’s side immediately and Jungkook slinging himself across the back of the couch. Hoseok and Taehyung take the side next to Jimin, Namjoon opting for the floor. Yoongi perches as close to Seokjin as he can without covering up Jungkook’s face. His knee just barely touches Seokjin’s, and even the suggestion of contact feels electric.
When the staff member holds up the camera and begins to count down, Yoongi automatically makes finger guns and points over to Seokjin. Telling everyone hey, look at him. It’s all Yoongi can do sometimes, just look. Other times even that is too much.
After they’ve taken their picture, the staff clears out to give them their privacy.
“Finally,” Namjoon groans. “I thought they’d never leave. Hyung, pass the beer?”
“I’ll pour the soju,” Jungkook volunteers happily. Hoseok reaches out instinctively to ruffle non-existent hair, and Jungkook leans into his hand as it scratches through his buzz cut instead.
Yoongi can’t wait for them all to have hair again. Seokjin looks cute because he always looks cute, like a dandelion, all tufty and ready to be blown into wishes. It will do just fine to run his fingers through, but it won’t be the same. Sometimes, more than he’ll ever admit, Yoongi dreams of Seokjin. They’re not really doing anything, but they both have hair and they both have time. Those are good dreams.
A drink gets pressed into his hand. He’s quiet most of the night, but no one calls him out on it. These people know him, down to his bones, and know when his introspection is and isn’t destructive. He still joins in when Jungkook breaks out the karaoke machine the staff had brought him when he guested on Suchwita, drug out from some prop closet or another, and they all start screaming ballads.
It’s a nice night, but not a late one. The others have saved up their leave for this, and they have others to see before they have to head back to base. Seokjin already has rehearsals scheduled for the next day, an event and performance to prep for. Yoongi hangs back awkwardly as cars are sorted out, waiting. The maknaes are glued at the hip as they wave goodbye. It’s clear that Taehyung has missed Jimin and Jungkook, even as he’s been delightedly updating the group chat about each kilogram of muscle he’s packed on.
Finally, finally, it’s just him and Seokjin. At first, Seokjin doesn’t notice. He’s facing away from Yoongi, sitting on the couch. Yoongi watches as he lays back, letting his eyes fall closed. He seems to sag into the cushions as he lets out a sigh that’s ragged at the edges, handsome face crumpling a bit.
“Hyung,” Yoongi says.
Seokjin startles, eyes flying open. “Wah,” he gasps, a hand on his chest. “A ghost! What do you want, spirit?”
“I have unfinished business,” Yoongi answers, moving to the couch and putting one knee up, half-straddling Seokjin.
“Oh yeah?” Seokjin reaches up and gets a handful of Yoongi’s shirt, tugging until Yoongi sits properly in his lap. At this moment, Yoongi couldn’t care less that they’re still at the company building. Seokjin is solid beneath him, his hand warm where it spans across Yoongi’s clavicle. “What is that?”
“I’ve been waiting for a certain someone to come home,” Yoongi tells him, leaning into Seokjin’s touch. As much as he loves Seokjin’s voice, he’s missed being able to feel him as well as hear him. “A fisherman that I know.”
“Ah,” Seokjin breathes. “Was your sailor boy away at sea? Stolen away by a siren’s song?”
It’s silly, but it’s nicer to imagine Seokjin has been on a long ocean voyage. Yoongi wouldn’t have worried about him any less probably, but he likes the idea of Seokjin on a boat somewhere, wind-swept and handsome and making fish puns. Happy. Learning to scrimshaw instead of how to shoot.
Yoongi hums, sparing a quick glance for the empty doorway before ducking down and pressing a quick kiss to Seokjin’s plush mouth. “I don’t know about a sailor boy,” he says when he pulls back. “Sailor uncle, maybe. Sailor grandfather.”
“Yah,” Seokjin protests, but the way he’s laughing gives him away. “Pot, kettle. Three months, Yoongi-chi.”
“Do you know that one book,” Yoongi continues, kissing the crinkles of Seokjin’s eyes. They’re very precious to him. “ The Old Man and the Sea ? I want my old man back, hyung.”
“You have been very patient,” Seokjin says, stroking over Yoongi’s shoulder blade. He rubs circles into the muscle. It makes it difficult not to melt entirely into him.
“I have.” Yoongi nods.
Seokjin pulls Yoongi down for one more soft kiss. “Let’s go home, little phantom,” he whispers against Yoongi’s lips.
Home . And with Seokjin there, it’ll finally feel like it again.
Maybe Yoongi has been feeling a bit like a ghost lately. Caught in between the life he has and the many lives he could have had. Adrift, almost afraid to open the door to his studio even if he knows in his bones that music is something that would be a part of every Min Yoongi, no matter what.
“Aigoo, Yoongi-yah,” Seokjin coos, thumbing at Yoongi’s cheeks. “Are you crying?”
“No,” Yoongi lies.
“Don’t cry,” Seokjin soothes. “I’m here now, aren’t I? No siren has songs like yours. I went to the ocean, and there was no Min PD, so I came back.”
“I think I was drowning, hyung,” Yoongi chokes around the lump in his throat.
The life they’ve chosen can be suffocating. The constant scrutiny, the grueling schedules, the performances that never stop until they’re alone in their homes, and sometimes not even then. But the office– forty hours a week, the aunties showing him pictures of their daughters and nieces, and an empty apartment at the end of the day without even echoes of squeaky laughter– that’s water, pouring in on all sides.
“Well it’s a good thing that I’m an excellent fisherman, huh?” Seokjin says. “Big fish, my Yoongi.”
His fingers thread in between the gaps of Yoongi’s, squeezing once, twice, three times– and Yoongi breathes.
flow along the way the water flows
maybe there’s something at the end
a special life, an ordinary life, each of them on their own
it’s all good, it’s all good