Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

His eyes are what Yoongi fears the most. Always have.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles, bowing his head in a daze.

Particularly when they glisten with hurt is when Yoongi avoids gazing straight into Jimin’s eyes. However, it never made him run off before.

Yoongi finds himself out from under the gazebo and onto the damp grass with his next breath. The wind picks up, but its whistle is nothing compared to the whooshing of his blood, the rustle of the nearby forest weak compared to the drumming of his heart.

Head down, he heads east. Tiny beads of dew collect on his shoes as he speeds through the field, until dust from the path clings to the wet fabric.

Going back to town is not an option. Jimin will go home, and Yoongi is quite certain the omega wouldn’t want to see him. Or smell him. Even Yoongi can pick up on the spike of his own burned citrus peel—something that usually disappears beneath familiarity.

The wind tosses his long hair across his shoulders, and the silk of his robe catches on a bush. It’s only then that Yoongi realizes he has entered the forest, his eyes needing to adjust to the darkness cast by the tall trees.

Altering his pace to something more maintainable, he forces a deep breath in and out. The earthy scents wash a bit of the adrenaline away, and he finally dares to gaze straight ahead.

The foot of the mountain looks like the mouth of a cave at dusk. He’s never been here this late, and he understands it now, why stories of the mountain and its dense forest are born in plenty. Mischievous goblins, foxes with an unnecessary amount of tails, a white tiger with a human voice.

Any grandma would advise against strolling up at this hour, but Yoongi never believed the tales. Besides, he's got something far more pressing to worry about than silly bedtime stories.

Jimin.

What on earth was he thinking, asking Yoongi a question like that? They are friends, and they have been for quite a while. Why would he risk ruining what they have? What they are?

Friendship is simple, once it’s established. There are no expectations beyond getting along in one way or another, and Yoongi doesn’t need more than to get along. He doesn’t need a lot of friends either—only the right ones, and Jimin is one of those right ones. Or, he was.

“You should court me, hyung. Don’t you think it’s time? Before…”

Yoongi’s shoulders shudder.

Omegas don’t ask such questions, but that’s not the reason why Yoongi said no. He likes his friendships as they are, and flipping the board upside down like that shouldn’t be an option. All the pieces he'd tracked turn by turn are scattered everywhere but on the board, and Yoongi doesn’t know how to play the game now.

The thought of not talking to Jimin anymore feels foreign, like putting your foot in the wrong shoe. Jimin is always there, always eager to tell Yoongi about his day. Always willing to listen. Always knows when to crack a joke to lighten the mood or when to lay a hand on his shoulder, remaining silent.

Jimin has admirable social skills, Yoongi learned early on. He’s the warm blooded kind, unlike himself. “But you’re also warm on the inside, hyung. You might have thicker walls, but your stove burns hot,” Jimin would tell him.

Why does Jimin even want Yoongi to court him? They’re vastly different—like a cat and a mouse, Namjoon often says. It’s a miracle they’ve managed to remain friends over the years. A cat and a mouse don’t fit. Jimin is like his annoying little dongsaeng. Like a brother. Yoongi is Jimin’s hyung. They can’t court. Can’t marry.

Courting is to marry.

Did Jimin suggest they marry?

Yoongi grips his hands behind his back, shielding them from the breeze more so caused by his own walking speed. The chill creeping into his robe motivates him to maintain a steady pace, keeping his body warm. Plus, he’s always found his thoughts to slow when moving quickly.

The hike up the mountain is a piece of cake when the mind distracts from tired legs, and he briefly closes his eyes at the sounds of the nearing bamboo grove. This means he’s already quite far up the mountain, so he’d better turn around soon. Jimin must be home by now.

The moon starts to win the battle against the sun, but the pale light isn’t strong enough to overpower the burning orange. Yoongi heads into the narrow path that leads into the grove, placing the sun right behind him.

The tips of the bamboo are painted yellow, gently moving with the wind. The hollow knocks of the tall stalks echo endlessly, breaking the silence that Yoongi only notices now that it’s gone.

He slows, steady footsteps fading to a faint shuffle, and he tries his best to only listen to what’s around him—not to the mayhem coiling on the inside.

During the day, the forest is filled with the chirping of small bulbuls and the occasional laughter of children or the steady mumbling of hikers. But at this hour, it’s only a lone bird calling once or twice; perhaps a magpie saying good night for the owls to take over.

The creaking of the bamboo casts an uncanny shadow over the nightly wishes of the bird, and Yoongi looks up to see if he can spot the animal. It’s a needle in a haystack, until his eyes catch on black wings crossing the deepening sky.

And then it’s only the knocking and creaking of the stalks and the fluttering of leaves in the breeze.

Where are the crickets? At this time of year, Yoongi would expect there to still be plenty of them in the damp leaf litter, spreading a rhythmic background noise all around.

But it’s so, so silent.

A chill runs up and down his spine, a full body shiver following. He pulls his collar up, trying to soothe the sudden goosebumps. He should turn around now. He really should. There’s no point in continuing, yet Yoongi keeps following the path that pulls him in, a nameless curiosity fuelling his steps.

The warm colours of the sun don’t reach this depth, and it takes Yoongi only a couple meters to enter the type of fog that only grows under moonlight. It means the breeze is gone, and the creaking and knocking have stopped as well.

The mist hides the base of each stalk, the forest grounds blanketed in white silence. It’s beautiful, something Yoongi has never seen in the grove, and he tries to engrave the visuals in his mind as he decides to turn around.

But his body doesn’t turn, coming to a complete halt when something moves in the distance. The fog feathers up where it’s disturbed; too much for it to have been a squirrel, too little for a human. A fox, perhaps? If it was a wild boar, it’s definitely a sign for Yoongi to leave.

The silence cuts into his lungs. His heart races. Cold sweat on his nape. Why doesn’t he move? Something isn’t right.

A rustle. The feet of a deer?

Yoongi closes his eyes, zoning in on the sound.

It’s not rustling. It’s a whisper. A person. Who’d be out here this late? It’s unintelligible, but louder with each passing second. Each and every hair on Yoongi’s body rises, and then it’s crystal clear:

“Yoongi?”

Jimin’s voice.

Yoongi opens his eyes and rushes forward.

“Jimin-ah?” It comes out rough and quieter than intended, yet loud between the silent stalks.

“Yoongi-hyung?”

He’s closer now. Yoongi speeds up, the fog up to his knees. He grips his robe to keep it from getting stuck between the rougher fabric of his trousers.

”Where are you? Why the hell are you here?” Freaking idiot, is what Yoongi doesn’t add. After all, he’s in the exact same location.

Jimin continues calling, his voice so sweet. “Yoongi-hyung, please…”

The path narrows and darkens further, and Yoongi groans at how his damp socks stick to his wet shoes, rubbing his skin. He wants to get out of this damn forest. Quickly.

“Come on, Jimin-ah. It’s dark and I can’t see shit. Just—” He stumbles over roots sprawled across the path, just managing to catch himself against a bamboo stalk. 

“Fuck.” His own voice echoes through the forest, and Jimin’s calls stop. 

But they pick up again as soon as Yoongi continues down the path, determined to get Jimin the fuck out of here. What if he really did see a wild boar earlier? Or...

When you hear someone call your name in the Jangsan mountains, don’t answer.

He shakes it off with the next call. Childish tales.

“Yoongi!” It’s further away now, more desperate.

Is he going the wrong way?

“Just stay where you are, Jimin-ah!”

The bamboo splits the path into two directions. Yoongi halts to try to locate where Jimin’s calls are coming from.

A crack to the right, a creak to the left.

”I’m lost, please…”

Left. Yoongi makes haste. The fog is everywhere, limiting his ability to see further than only a couple of meters. He holds one hand out in front of him, the other lifting his robe.

The rustling of the bamboo leaves above him returns, along with it the knocking of hollow stalks in a messy rhythm. The wind must have picked up, but the fog doesn’t move. It’s like thick cream, slowing his pace. He pushes and pushes, and the creaking is getting too loud; he can barely hear Jimin anymore.

“Jimin-ah! Louder! I can’t—” Something blocks his throat. He coughs and stumbles, taking a two second break before speeding up again. Or so he tries.

His legs are numb. Way too numb. His hands are ice cold, barely registering the rough surface of the bamboo as he pulls himself forward.

Why is everything so heavy? Why can’t he see anything? Hear anything?

He tries calling out, but he only feels the rumble of his voice—doesn’t hear even a whisper coming from his throat. There’s only his heartbeat, the bamboo in the wind, something running behind him.

In front of him.

Yoongi stops. He thinks he stops. Everything is white, curls of shadows in the fog.

”Jimi—“ he tries, but his legs bend, knees hitting the damp soil.

The forest sings all around him, like a song holding him captive. He tries to raise his hands to find something to lift himself up with, but he only sinks further. His gaze drops. The contrast of pale fingers spread across dark earth slowly blurs.

With his next breath exhaled, the silence returns. Something approaches him, light on its feet.

It breathes.

And then, there’s nothing.

☰ 👹 ☰

Judgement sours the soul, weakens the mind, and keeps love at bay.

The smooth stones warm quickly in Yoongi’s hand as he picks them off the board. Another easy win. Perhaps he should feel bad about beating the market ahjussis who hand him free tangerines and extra sweet breads for his family. 

But he doesn’t. He doesn’t believe in letting someone else win for the sake of being polite. Isn’t that more embarrassing than losing? Yoongi would lose sleep over winning only because the other allowed him to.

Ever since his grandmother gave him his late grandfather’s baduk board, Yoongi has spent all his free time practising. Two whole seasons of learning about the game after his daily Confucian studies, and then he’s supposed to let some old guy win because he gives him fruit? No, thanks.

“Another win, huh?” Seokjin chuckles.

Yoongi turns, looking up at his friend from his stool. He only snorts in response, focussing back on putting the dark green stones in the green box and the cream ones in the white.

“You should let him win next time, Yoongi-yah,” Seokjin suggests—very unsurprisingly—while bending down to help Yoongi sort out the baduk stones, spinning his sun parasol in his other hand.

Apparently it doesn’t matter how often Yoongi tells him the sun isn’t strong enough to damage his precious skin at this hour. One day he’ll surely catch Seokjin still carrying that lavender thing around after sunset.

“I knew you’d say that,” Yoongi mutters, dropping the last green one in with the others.

Seokjin sighs, folding his parasol and sitting down on the empty stool with an ahjussi-like grunt. He likes to pretend he’s significantly older. And wiser.

“One day you’ll realise you don’t always have to be the best at everything.”

“But what if I am the best?” Yoongi peeks up at his hyung from under his brow and closes the small metal latches on the boxes with two clicks.

Shaking his head, smirking, Seokjin gives up on explaining himself. He knows there’s no point in trying, as Yoongi wins any of their arguments a solid nine out of ten times; be it about the shortest route across town or the legitimacy of Western astronomy—only parasols seem a pesky topic Seokjin won’t give in on.

Pleased with Seokjin’s silence, Yoongi sets the two boxes on his board, ready to pack up and go home. It’s been a long day and his tutor wanted him to still dissect some poems before tomorrow.

But someone walks up to their table, clearing their throat.

“Uhm, excuse me?”

“Yes?” Yoongi looks up at the boy dressed in a pastel pink hanbok; the colour of being unpresented.

“Uhm…” The boy tries to tuck the sides of his bowl cut behind his ears, but his hair is too short. “I was wondering if, ehh… if you’d allow me to play a game with you?”

Yoongi blinks. The kid appears even younger than he is, and Yoongi’s already the youngest to join the monthly local baduk event.

“You want to play? Against me?” He points at himself. Does this kid know Yoongi won all his games today? And last time?

The boy nods. “If you don’t mind?”

The poems waiting for Yoongi at home cross his mind, but he’s sure he can beat this kid in record time. Why say no to another win on his record?

“Sure. One more game couldn’t hurt.” He shrugs, lifting the boxes back off the board and setting them next to it.

The kid grins and claps his hands, barely making any sound, and Seokjin rises from his stool to offer it to him. The parasol opens with a dull click, casting a shadow over the board.

“Well, let’s see the great Min Yoongi play a game then.” Seokjin settles his weight onto one leg, his tone as teasing as ever.

The boy sits down, bowing his head and thanking Yoongi for his time. Yoongi hasn’t seen him around town, as he’d surely remember a boy with such a small face and full lips. Maybe his parents are visiting for the event?

“You can play with black.” Yoongi slides the green box towards him.

Only one corner of the boy’s mouth rises, the lopsided smile twisting something in Yoongi’s stomach.

“Ah, thank you. How kind of you to let me start.”

Yoongi hums. At least this kid knows that black gets the first move, putting him in a slight advantage. Winning against black is even more satisfying.

Opening the box, the boy lets out a quiet gasp. “Whoa… These are so pretty! I’ve never seen green stones before.” He lifts one up, inspecting it closely. His eyes cross. Cute.

“Yeah, my grandfather made them,” Yoongi boasts, thinking about the unused tools in his grandma’s shed. “It’s jade. Not the usual slate.”

“Your grandfather must be a very skilled craftsman,” the boy says more politely than necessary. He lays the stone in the center of his palm as if he's afraid to drop it.

“He was, yeah.”

“Oh.” The boy’s gaze drifts away from the green jade, eyes roaming Yoongi’s face for a moment instead. “I’m sorry.”

“That—that’s alright.” Yoongi shifts in his stool, scratches behind his ear. “Go on then. Make your move.” He gestures at the board. He expects the boy to either think carefully about his first move or lay the stone down at wherever random spot.

But he places it where Yoongi would have in his position.

”There.” The boy nods determinedly. “Your turn!”

It must be a coincidence. Beginner’s luck, his grandpa used to say. Yoongi lays his first stone on the board, his eyes not leaving the boy’s face as he retracts his hand. He doesn’t look puzzled by Yoongi’s move at all.

The next green stone lands in a more unexpected location, and Yoongi lets out a breath that had been stuck up high in his lungs.

They play in silence for a while, each new move accompanied by more pondering as more options need to be weighed as the game progresses. The board fills up with a pattern that doesn’t sit quite right with Yoongi, and for his next turn he needs to mull over quite a few possible steps ahead. But eventually, he lays his stone down with confidence.

“Oh, interesting move,” the boy says.

A hot flash runs over Yoongi’s skin.

“Interesting move?” he questions the stutter-free statement.

“Yeah,” is all the boy responds with and immediately follows up with his turn. A brazen green stone appears deep in Yoongi’s territory, and his jaw goes slack. That’s a bold move.

“Are you sure about that?” Yoongi asks, voice unstable—much to his annoyance. “I’ll allow you to take it back. Just this once.” And it really would be just this once. Yoongi never hands out freebies.

But the kid snorts at Yoongi’s offer, raising his brows. “Didn’t see that coming, huh?”

The shift in attitude startles Yoongi, and Seokjin snickers behind his fist, pulling the attention to him for the first time since the game has started. Yoongi doesn’t quite appreciate his friend laughing at him during a game, so he tries to shush him away.

“Don’t you have something better to do?”

“Oh, you don’t want me to see you lose?” Seokjin shoots him a suggestive look, moving his parasol to his other shoulder.

Yoongi grumbles and folds his arms, then focuses back on the board. “I’m not losing.”

“Kinda looks like you are.” The boy leans his elbows on the table and cups his chin in his hands.

Sassy brat. He’ll probably present as an alpha soon.

It takes Yoongi about ten more turns to admit to himself that the situation does indeed look pretty dire, and when the boy plays another strategic move, a myosu, Yoongi realises there’s a slight possibility he might have underestimated him.

“You were planning this from your first move,” he mutters, repetitively turning a stone between his fingers.

”Oh, you thought I laid that stone there by accident?” The boy’s eyebrows jump. “Maybe next time, you can be black.”

Yoongi scoffs. “I can still win.” He lays the damp stone down on the board with a loud clink. But as he retracts his hand, blood pulls from his face. What a dumb move.

”Not anymore!” Seokjin sing-songs, and Yoongi would like to slap him with his stupid parasol.

The boy presses his lips together, clearly holding back a laugh. “Uhm… You want to take that one back? I’ll allow it. Just this once.”

Yoongi’s eyes bounce between the conceited look on the kid’s face and the board holding his dead position, neck itching with something hot.

Did he just lose? Against a child?

“Well, shibal.”

Seokjin tuts, tapping a correcting foot against Yoongi’s stool. Yoongi ignores it, scanning the boy in front of him as if he’s looking at him for the first time.

His hair is the blackest black—exactly what Yoongi always wanted—contrasting his peachy pale skin. His round, rosy cheeks are pushed up by his smile, and like this it’s no wonder Yoongi presumed him pure and innocent. Especially with how his eyes curve into crescent moons.

But the kid is clearly full of surprises. Not only does he hide a sly fox somewhere underneath that sugary sweet facade, he also packs quite a brain behind those playful eyes.

Yoongi hates to admit it, as he’s usually darn good at reading people, but he gravely misjudged this kid. What’s that saying again? The one his grandma always tells him? Something about weak souls or sour minds?

“How old are you?” Yoongi asks, hoping the kid’s older than he looks.

“Fifteen,” he answers, and Yoongi’s shoulders relax. He guessed the boy would’ve been at least five years younger than him, but it’s only two. Losing against an actual child would’ve been way worse.

“And what’s your name?”

The boy waits with his response, as if he enjoys being a bit of a mystery for a little longer.

“Jimin,” he then answers calmly. “Park Jimin. I just moved here.”

”Alright, Park Jimin-ssi,” Yoongi sighs, holding his hand out. “Welcome. And congratulations, I suppose. You’re the first one to beat me today.”

Jimin takes his hand and shakes it firmly. Definitely an alpha—despite his tiny hands.

“Thank you.”

The shadow over the board disappears. Yoongi pulls his hand free and wipes the sweat on his trousers. Next to him, Seokjin has folded his parasol, slowly clapping.

“Whoa, amazing. And so utterly boring. Come on, let me buy you kids some tteok. I think we could all use something sweet.”

☱ 👹 ☱

Stars are found outside borders that offer you comfort.

The field is covered in red and blue glowing dots, only a few yellow and white. It’s a sight Yoongi looks forward to each year; the mass of bright lanterns in the royal blue night never losing its magic.

It took him a bit of effort to fix up his old lantern, as he refuses to buy a new one. This one has been with him every year, and a few tears in the paper here and there shouldn’t deem it useless. He picked the bamboo for the frame in the grove himself as a kid, and that fact alone makes it more valuable than any other lantern will ever be.

“We’re a bit late for a spot by the river,” Hoseok says, pointing at the dense cluster of lights next to the gazebo.

Yoongi shrugs. “That’s alright. The view of all the lanterns is better from up here.”

“That’s true, I suppose. Let’s stay here, then?” Hoseok suggests, slowing his pace.

“Sure.”

They come to a halt, and Yoongi takes a deep breath. The scent of beeswax candles hangs delicately in the air, like a nostalgic cloud settling over the grass field. The lack of any wind this year is a welcome gift.

The murmur and laughter around them increase as more people arrive, and Yoongi looks around him, left and right. Repeatedly.

“They’ll be here soon.” Hoseok bumps his elbow against Yoongi’s. “Don’t worry.”

“Hm?”

“Jimin-ie and Jungkook-ie,” Hoseok clarifies, jutting his chin towards town behind them.

“Ah, yeah.” Yoongi swaps the stick carrying his lantern to his other hand and checks the knot of his headband. He scratches his neck under his long hair. This new scent muting cream itches. “You think they’ll find us in the crowd? We told them we’d be by the gazebo.”

“Well, at least they’ll be together if they don’t find us.” Hoseok shrugs, but then turns to Yoongi with a playful grin. “But I’m sure they will. Jimin-ie always finds you.”

Yoongi huffs, but he knows Hoseok will be proven right. Jimin always finds him. He always pops up out of nowhere, rolling some sassy remark right off his tongue at whatever Yoongi was just talking about. The surprise headlocks with little giggles are not so much of a surprise anymore—just plainly annoying. 

Checking behind him one more time, Yoongi’s gaze catches on a green lantern. It’s an uncommon colour, and he can’t quite keep his eyes off it as it sways back and forth, coming straight towards them.

“Yoongi-hyung! Hobi-hyung!” A little hand waves in the green glowing aura, and Yoongi’s muscles relax.

“Ah! Jimin-ah, Jungkook-ah, you found us!” Hoseok welcomes the two, and Yoongi braces himself for whatever greeting Jimin has in store for him.

It’s only a tiny jab in his side this time, and Yoongi routinely swats Jimin's hand away, forcing the corners of his mouth to stay put. Jimin sticks out his tongue. Yoongi tuts and rolls his eyes.

“Got your own lantern now?” Yoongi points at the green paper, neatly wrapped around the bamboo frame. It matches the sage green silk of his robe, as though he paired the colours deliberately.

“Ah, yeah!” Jimin holds his stick a bit higher, wiggling it as if it has a bell. “I made it with Kookie. Nice colour, huh? I love green.”

”Careful.” Yoongi lays his hand on Jimin’s to stop the jiggling. “We don’t want another accident like last year.”

Jimin giggles, lowering his lantern and fiddling with the ribbon of his braid that is slung over his shoulder. His hair is getting so long.

“Right. Sorry. I see you fixed your old one?”

Yoongi nods. “Yeah. I’ll never lend it to you again,” he mutters, running his hand against his white paper as if he’s petting a cat.

“I don’t even want to borrow yours. Mine is way prettier.” Jimin grins that cocky little grin of his. He looks happy today. A little different, somehow. Yoongi can’t quite put his finger on what it is.

“There’s beauty in flaws.”

“Alright, alright,” Hoseok cuts in. “Before you two kick off your bickering fest, can we enjoy a bit of this evening first?”

“I want to play some games! Can we do that after the show?” Jungkook asks, his round eyes jumping between Hoseok and Yoongi as if he needs their permission. Good kid.

”Of course, Kook-ah,” Hoseok lays a hand on his shoulder. “I really want to see Yoongi play tug-of-war.”

Jimin lets out a single “ha!” at that, looking Yoongi up and down. “Tug-of-war? This ahjussi?”

Yoongi would object, but, “I’d rather play yutnori.”

“As expected. Such an ahjussi,” Jimin states in that all-knowing tone of his.

Yoongi stretches his lips, narrows his eyes. It's not that he minds being called an ahjussi—as even he knows it's an easy resemblance—but he can't let Jimin get too comfortable with labelling him as he pleases.

“You and your board games,” Hoseok sighs and turns to Jimin. “Jimin-ah, how can we get our hyung to actually have some fun today? He needs to step outside his boring borders. Find some stars.”

Rubbing his chin with squinted eyes as if conjuring up a demonic plan, Jimin hums a lengthy hum, until he flings his braid over to his other shoulder. “Ah! I know just how to do that.”

Yoongi scoffs. “Oh yeah? You think you can make me play some stupid strength game?”

And Yoongi is not sure how, but after the drumming and the dancing end, his lantern is passed to Hoseok and he’s gripping his hands around a rough rope. Jimin is right behind him, laughing and encouraging him to pull harder—unaware Yoongi is already using his full strength. And, despite falling and twisting his ankle, Yoongi's quite sure he’s never laughed harder.

“Are you okay?” Jimin asks, not hiding his devilish snicker. His hands hover at Yoongi’s elbow, ready to catch him.

“No,” Yoongi replies sternly in between hops, but his own untameable smile might suggest his situation is not as dire as he makes it out to be.

Most festival guests have left, leaving the gazebo steps free for them to use. Yoongi tries to object, but Jimin insists on helping him sit down, one hand around his upper arm and the other on his back.

“Let me have a look.” He kneels in front of him and reaches for Yoongi’s foot, but Yoongi quickly pulls his leg in.

“Yaa, what do you know about twisted ankles?”

Jimin breathes out an annoyed breath through his nose, tucking the strands of hair that loosened during the game behind his ear. He places his hands on his hips—a pose Yoongi knows he strikes when his little ego is hurt.

“I twisted mine once during dance practice. Or, I thought I did. Our teacher taught me how to check,” he explains, puffing his chest.

“Dance practice?” Yoongi frowns, and something visibly shrinks in Jimin’s posture.

“Uhm, yeah? I joined the fan dance troupe. I told you?” Jimin states it as a question, his tone making him appear even smaller.

“Oh. Don’t remember.”

Jimin hums around his pursed lips, chest rising and falling with what must be a deep breath. He straightens up, the mousy smallness disappearing.

“Right. Well, give me your foot so I can check.” Jimin holds his hand out, as if Yoongi can pop his foot right off and hand it over.

There’s only a brief moment when Yoongi hesitates. His foot probably stinks, but why would that be a problem? He lifts it as a sign for Jimin to do whatever it is he’s about to do. Carefully, Jimin hooks his hand under Yoongi’s ankle and takes his shoe off.

Yoongi hisses. Jimin tuts.

“Weakling.”

“Yaa! I’m still your hyung.”

Ignoring him, Jimin removes Yoongi’s sock next. Yoongi winces; more at the fact that someone else is touching his sweaty sock than at the soreness, but Jimin doesn’t seem bothered one bit. He drapes the sock over his lap and inspects Yoongi’s foot from up close.

“It’s not swollen, I think,” Jimin lays his other small hand against the side of the exposed ankle. Yoongi flinches.

“Will you stay still?” Jimin requests through clenched teeth. Yoongi grumbles.

It feels a little funny, having Jimin touch him so tenderly. It’s not how they usually handle each other, but it suits his hands in a way Yoongi can’t quite explain. He imagines Jimin putting his green lantern together with precise movements, tongue sticking out from between his lips in concentration.

He hopes Hoseok and Jungkook are taking good care of their lanterns.

“Not hot either. That’s good.” Jimin slowly places Yoongi’s foot on the wooden steps. It's cold. Rough. Much less pleasant than Jimin's hands, yet Yoongi's shoulders still relax at the loss of contact.

“I don’t think it’s strained, so my conclusion is that you’re just a big baby.”

Yoongi snorts. “Good. That means I can just sleep all day, right? If I’m a baby.”

“Sure, hyung,” Jimin chuckles, throwing Yoongi’s sock at him. "That way you'll never need to have fun with us again."

As if to put Jimin back in his rightful dongsaeng place, Yoongi waves his sock in the air with mock outrage, but Jimin only laughs harder, and the strange feeling in Yoongi’s chest fades. Back to their comfortable cat-and-mouse dynamics.

“Wanna head back to the guys?” Yoongi asks after the laughter has dimmed, but Jimin shakes his head.

“Nah,” Jimin stands up, dusting his robe, “let’s sit here for a bit.”

“Sure.” Yoongi pats the empty spot next to him and lays his sock on his other side. The breeze feels good between his toes. He straightens his leg to reach the grass next to the path, letting it tickle his foot. The old wooden plank wobbles under him as Jimin sits down.

It’s silent while Yoongi plays with the grass tuft, save for the distant chattering of festival guests and the flow of the river. A few crickets. Time slips away for a moment—until Jimin asks for attention with a bump against Yoongi’s shoulder. Soft and familiar.

“Hey. Hyung.”

“Hmm?” Yoongi turns, not quite meeting Jimin's eyes.

“What’s that big star over there called again?” Jimin points at the sky right in front of them, just above the tips of the trees.

“Oh, that’s not a star. That’s Venus,” Yoongi explains, pulling his leg back in. “You know its nickname?”

“Tell me.” Jimin balances his elbows on his thighs, chin propped up on his fists as he gazes at Yoongi.

Sometimes, when Jimin smiles softly like he does now, Yoongi wonders what kind of person Jimin will marry. Who will be at the receiving end of his smiles on a daily basis? He hopes it'll be someone kind and cheerful; like Jungkook, perhaps. Though, Yoongi guesses Jungkook will also present as an alpha.

“Dog food watching star,” he answers, tucking his hand underneath the thick braid to hold onto Jimin’s neck. He presses his thumb just enough to feel Jimin's pulse. Jimin leans into it, like he always does.

“Thought you said it’s not a star.”

“Yeah, it’s not," Yoongi confirms. "I didn’t come up with that nickname. People with dogs did. They feed their dogs when they see that star. Or, planet. Like a reminder.”

Jimin giggles, his entire body shaking with it. “That’s cute.”

It’s a bit of an extreme reaction to such a silly story, and something about it stirs Yoongi’s memory. “Haven’t I told you this before?”

“Yeah, but I like it when you tell me stuff,” Jimin answers simply.

Yoongi’s stomach swoops.

“Oh.”

Nothing happens for a breath or two. It’s the itching on Yoongi’s fingers against Jimin’s neck that causes him to unfreeze and retract his hand. He tucks it between his legs, feeling the tips of his fingers burn against the silk as he clears his throat.

“Hyung says it’s unbecoming to bore people with silly facts,” Yoongi mumbles, pulling his hand free to inspect the red pads.

Next to him, Jimin tuts. “Since when do you care about what’s unbecoming and what's not?”

“I don’t care. Just…” Yoongi trails off with a shrug, not quite sure what exactly he’s trying to say. Why do his fingers itch?

He jolts when Jimin tilts towards him, resting his head on his shoulder, but the warmth of his friend quickly relaxes his muscles again.

This level of physical contact is something Yoongi always avoided. There are no huggers in his family aside from his grandma, and even she understood to hold back a little with Yoongi.

But then, out of nowhere, there was Jimin.

Jimin likes to hug, likes to play with hair and earrings and he sticks his finger in Yoongi’s nose to annoy him. Jimin fixes Yoongi’s headband and tackles him on the grass. Jimin lays his head on his shoulder when he’s tired. Jimin holds his hand when Yoongi’s eyes prickle with tears.

And now Yoongi hugs his grandma how she wants to be hugged.

Taking a deep breath, Yoongi notices something sweet in the air. Not quite beeswax, not the tteok cart that packed up and left at least an hour ago. Omega-like. Maybe the couple walking by?

It’s a soothing scent, silencing Yoongi’s mind. Toasted rice? No; something fresher. Green tea with a drop of honey, perhaps.

What will Jimin smell like, once he presents? He’s long overdue. What’s taking his body so long to decide? He’s strong. Strong arms, strong legs, strong mind. Daring. Active. The baby face and missing height didn’t stop Yoongi from presenting as an alpha either.

Would he stop dancing if he becomes an alpha?

“Sorry I didn’t remember you telling me about your fan dance thing.” Yoongi’s heart stings as he says it. Jimin always remembers everything.

Jimin sighs, delaying his response as if to savour Yoongi’s apology.

“It’s okay. Come watch me sometime?” His voice is soft, sincere, and Yoongi briefly wishes he could stick to that tone, but they’re the cat and the mouse after all.

“Sure, Jimin-ie. I’ll come watch you fall on your face,” he deadpans, wondering where Jimin will decide to punch or kick him. Maybe a pinch.

“Hyung!” Clearly offended, Jimin straightens up, and the kick lands against Yoongi’s foot (the healthy one). “I won’t fall!”

“You can’t even sit on a stool properly!”

“Shut up.”

Yoongi laughs, grabbing his sock to put it back on. “Come on, let’s go. It’s getting late. And cold.” He shivers a theatrical shiver, as if needing to prove his point.

“Oh, poor thing,” Jimin coos. “Baby got cold? Go on then, put your little shoe back on so we can go tuck you in your warm bed.”

“Little? You’re the one with the tiny feet.”

“Tiny, but functional.” Jimin winks. “Wanna hop on?”

“Hop on?”

The explanation comes without words. Jimin rises to his feet and squats down in front of Yoongi on the path, offering up his back. Yoongi chuckles. He remembers the first time Jimin gave him a piggy-back ride like it was yesterday. Seokjin gaped at him as if he saw Jangsanbeom in the flesh.

Yoongi’s shoe is cold when he puts it on, quickly draping himself over Jimin’s warm back, arms hanging over his shoulders.

“Let’s go!”

“Yihaa!” Jimin hooks his arms around Yoongi’s knees and lifts him up like he weighs about as much as a kitten, not missing the chance to comment on his skinny little legs.

“I heard your twiggy leg snap when you twisted your ankle.”

“Twiggy?!”

“Yeah. Snap! Like a twig.”

By the time they reach the end of the field, Yoongi’s cheeks hurt, his stomach swirls and he groans when Jimin hoists him back up a bit too roughly. But it’s not a real complaint. He’s comfortable, at ease, and too tired to do anything else but rest his head down.

Jimin’s earring bumps against his nose with every other step, but it doesn’t bother him. It doesn’t bother him how Jimin’s neck is a bit damp. A bit sweet. Not quite beeswax, not quite like green tea.

Bamboo sap. That’s what it is. Earthy, sweet, but with that tang of something green being freshly cut.

He draws in closer, breathes in deeper. Smells so good. His fingers twitch, thighs tighten. It stirs and twists his lungs. His chest. The back of his throat vibrates. It’s when Jimin abruptly halts that Yoongi realises his nose is pressed against his neck. His scent gland.

Jimin.

His feet hit the ground, vision a bit blurry. He wobbles.

“H-hyung, I…” Jimin stammers, turning around. “I was gonna tell you. I swear. I just…”

“W-what?” Yoongi rubs his eyes, then sees the omega standing in front of him. “Oh.”

Oh.

It hits him all at once. Why didn’t he notice sooner?

“Since when…”

”A couple of weeks.” Jimin looks down at the ground between them, fingers tangled with his braid.

Weeks. It’s been weeks, and he didn’t say anything. Jimin didn’t tell Yoongi he presented as an omega.

Did he not want him to know yet? Does he not want things to change?

What could change?

Everything?

Yoongi doesn’t want things to change. He wants piggy-back rides and tackling. He wants the shameless jokes and not having to hold back. The night-long talks that never seem to end. He wants his Jimin-ie to remain his Jimin-ie. He wants to be his hyung. He wants to be himself.

“I-it’s okay. Nothing has to change.” Yoongi’s voice is unusually high-pitched, unstable—like their future suddenly appears to be.

Jimin looks up, eyes in search of something Yoongi can’t quite translate.

“I mean, we’re friends, right?” Yoongi continues when Jimin remains silent. “We can still be friends.”

“Friends?” Jimin peeps, tiny fists clenching around his braid.

“Yeah. Friends.”

Seconds seem to stretch into minutes, stars crossing the sky around them. The wind picks up and the forest rustles in the distance, and Jimin still doesn’t answer.

Until he does.

“Right. Friends… Sure. We can still be friends, hyung.”

☲ 👹 ☲

Don't poke the fan while it's open.

It's an unnecessarily warm day for early spring, and Yoongi would like to blame Jimin for the fact that he's out there, blinking against the burning sun.

Technically, it is Jimin's fault. Watching fan dances is not on Yoongi's typical weekend schedule, but he made a promise, and—despite it being ages ago that the promise was made—Yoongi does like to stick to his word. His grandpa was a man of his word, and the comfort it gave Yoongi is something he'll never forget.

So, here he is, watching a group of overly dressed up dancers wave their feathery fans around as if it's Chuseok all over again.

Not only that, but his mother told him to keep an eye out for Eun-mi, the omega daughter of her childhood friend. The last thing Yoongi wants to do with his time is bride shopping. He might be 21 now, but that doesn't mean he should be busying himself with tying useless knots. He's got a civil service exam and a future career to focus on first.

"So beautiful, right?" Namjoon whispers next to him.

Yoongi grumbles, folding his arms. "Why are you whispering?"

"Uhm, because there's a performance going on?" Namjoon gives him a pointed look, holding his hand out as if Yoongi doesn't know in which direction to look for this performance.

"Oh, I had no idea. Thanks for informing me," Yoongi deadpans.

Namjoon tuts, returning his focus to the fluttering fans that tell the over-told myth of Jangsanbeom, the extremely scary and completely nonexistent white tiger of the Jangsan mountains. Such a silly story. Why would a tiger go through the impossible effort of mimicking the voice of the person you love most, when it could simply attack?

The tiny woman with the giant eyes must be the omega Yoongi should be paying attention to, as his mom's friend always reminded him of a compact owl, but his gaze keep drifting elsewhere. She's not his type. He doesn't have a type.

There was ever only one person Yoongi liked, but he was too young to do anything about it. It was his classmate in calligraphy class, and Yoongi simply loved watching how precisely he moved the brush over the paper. However, once he presented as an omega, Yoongi's crush quickly faded. He reeked.

Jimin moves a bit like the bristles of a brush. He flows, gliding over the floor as if those thick thighs weigh nothing, and his feet are placed more precisely than any of the other dancers. If his fan could leave ink marks in the air, it would be an elegant painting.

His hair looks good unbraided, the long strands twirling along with him. Ink black. So shiny. He probably does rice water rinses every week, now that he's an omega. He's been wearing makeup as well; today a little extra.

"He's good."

"Hm?" Yoongi leans closer to Namjoon, eyes stuck on the elegant fan movements. "Who?"

"Our Jimin-ie. He's good."

"Oh. Yeah." Yoongi shrugs. "Better than the others, I guess."

"You should've seen him the first couple of times. He was so nervous," Namjoon lays his hand over his heart, "poor thing. He seems a lot more confident now."

It doesn't register until two twirls later.

"Wait, first couple of times?" Yoongi repeats, frowning. "You were here every time?"

"Of course." Namjoon throws him that look again, all high and mighty. It usually doesn't affect Yoongi in any particular way, but something pesty crawls underneath his skin as he's pinned under that judgemental gaze.

"You know, he was quite disappointed when—" Namjoon cuts his sentence short. He squints his eyes and waves a dismissive hand. "Ah, never mind."

"What?"

"Nothing."

It's not difficult to get Namjoon to spill whatever he doesn't want to say, but Yoongi is tired and it's hot and the dance ends, resulting in too much commotion to dive into this conversation.

The dancers flock backstage and the crowd thins out, but Namjoon insists on waiting for Jimin. In the sun. Not a cloud in the sky.

If Seokjin could hear Yoongi's wish for a parasol right now, he’d never let him live it down.

Once the dancers come back out, Yoongi lets out a sigh of relief. Just a few more minutes, then he can go back home to study. Maybe he'll even have time to prep some writing exercises for the kids. Tutoring might be more fun than he anticipated, but it's a ton of extra work.

"Jimin-ah!" Namjoon waves, and Jimin's smile reaches all the way up to his eyes when he spots them.

"Yoongi-hyung!" Jimin approaches him first, cheeks pink from all the exercise. No bamboo sap. He must've freshened up just now. "You came!"

"Said I would," Yoongi mumbles, arms still folded. No poking, no bumping or hair ruffling—no nothing. Just distance. Palpable distance.

Nothing has to change.

But it did.

"So, ehh," Jimin tucks his long hair behind his ears, "what did you—"

"Good thing you didn't fall. Would've been embarrassing."

Jimin blinks, and Yoongi notices the tiny beads of sweat on his forehead, wet tips of the hair framing his face. Yoongi's hand itches to reach for his handkerchief, but he refrains.

"Right."

"Can I go home now? It's hot. You know I hate sweating," Yoongi says, fully aware he just set himself up. A crack about his stinky feet or hairy armpits is practically gift-wrapped, lying in Jimin's small hands.

But Jimin's lips stay pressed together, the vibrant pink in them shifting to a pale peach. His gaze drops, and Yoongi's heart begins to race.

"Hey, Jimin-ah," Namjoon steps in, squeezing Jimin's arm. "You were so good today! Much more confident than last time."

It's like a lantern is lit behind Jimin's eyes, his face brightening up with a soft smile, and Namjoon lets out an airy 'oof' as Jimin throws himself into the alpha's arms. Yoongi scrunches his nose.

Was it never awkward for them?

"Thank you so much for coming again, hyung-nim," Jimin mumbles against Namjoon's shoulder.

"Of course, Jimin-ah."

And all Yoongi can do from his aching position in the burning sun is stand and watch how Seongmin walks up and claims all the attention, showering Jimin with obnoxious compliments. With his perfect teeth and perfect dimpled smile. Tall as well. He could easily be Namjoon's brother, if he weren't so fake.

The punk has barely even acknowledged Yoongi aside from his overly polite greeting, only busying himself with making Jimin giggle nonstop. Why does Jimin always act so strangely around Seongmin? It's theatrical. Disturbing. A confusing mixture of his pretending-to-be-royalty act and how he talks to market ahjummas.

By the time Seongmin drags Jimin away for a refreshment, Yoongi's had about enough of this day.

"Alright, I'm out," he announces, but Namjoon holds him back by his elbow before he can even take one step towards the shade.

"Yaa, Yoongi-yah."

"Yaa?" Yoongi raises his eyebrows and scoffs.

"Why are you being such a knothead to Jimin?"

"Excuse me? A knothead?" He scoffs again, surely breaking some sort of scoffing record today. "This is how we always talk. You know that."

Namjoon huffs out a breath, arm dropping to his side as he releases Yoongi's elbow. "Yeah, but… Jimin might need—"

"I'm the one who's acting normal. He's being the weird one." The words rush out of Yoongi with the same speed that a certain heat covers his entire body, and he cringes at his own unintended and audible pout.

But it's true. Yoongi is being the normal one. Why should he treat Jimin any differently now? The omega thing was completely unplanned and they agreed nothing has to change. They agreed to be friends. This is how Yoongi does friendship, and Jimin knows it.

Namjoon sighs. "You're really dumb for an intelligent guy, you know that?"

"What are you talking about?"

"I'm talking about how you shouldn't poke a fan when it's opened up and fragile, you fool. Now go home. You reek of rotting fruit."

☴ 👹 ☴

The heaviest brush weighs nothing when writing with the heart.

The road to the Park home is engraved in Yoongi's memory, so much so that a blindfold couldn't stop him from finding it the at the edge of town.

The scent of savoury stew always greets him at the door, and just thinking about it waters his mouth. Jimin's father never asks if he wants any; he simply starts spooning a generous amount into a bowl whenever Yoongi enters.

And the honey cookies. Oh, the honey cookies. Jimin's mother makes the best ones in town, and Yoongi doesn't shy away from playing rock-paper-scissors with Jimin's little sister over who gets the last one. She's pretty bearable for a child.

All in all, he does expect to be greeted warmly again today, even though it's been a while.

Yoongi tightens his grip on the silk wrap as he slips through the small side gate—the one he keeps reminding them to lock, though it’s apparently still left open for convenience.

The sight before him is a little unusual.

Right outside what Yoongi knows to be Jimin's bedroom window, Jungkook is building what looks to be a giant doltap. Jungkook's hands hover around the tip of the carefully balanced stone tower, about the same height as the baby alpha himself.

"Jungkook-ah?"

He whips around, eyes as round as marbles. "Ah! Hyung-nim!" He smiles.

"What are you doing?" Yoongi walks up to him, slowly, afraid that moving any faster would make the stone tower tumble over.

"I'm making a doltap!" Jungkook's grin is as proud as can be, yet his hands still remain close to the top stone as if he's not quite sure of its stability.

"Yes, I can see that. But why?"

"Oh, to pray for Jimin's health," Jungkook answers, finally lowering his arms and taking some distance from his creation, inspecting it from top to bottom, hands on his hips. "Looks pretty good, right?"

"Yeah," Yoongi chuckles, "pretty solid. Should I just return the medicine then?"

Jungkook twists his neck to now look Yoongi up and down, his eyes settling on the blue silk wrap in his hand. "Ah, you brought him medicine?"

Yoongi nods a single nod.

"That's so nice of you, hyung." Jungkook deflates a little, pout budding. "Why didn't I think of that?"

"Because you thought of doltap." Yoongi points at the surprisingly stable looking structure. "I never would have thought of that. Looks great, kid."

Jungkook preens at the compliment, pout melting away. "Thanks, hyung."

A deep breath steadies Yoongi, a sense of pride filling him for managing to lift Jungkook's spirit instead of accidentally crushing it. At least he made one of his dongsaengs feel a bit better today.

But the tightness in his chest returns when it becomes clear Jungkook expects him to go inside. Jungkook nods, stepping aside to let him pass through to the front door, yet Yoongi’s legs remain rooted to the spot. He switches the silk wrap to his less damp hand, wiping the other one on his robe.

"Uhm… Hyung?"

"Here, you give it to him." Yoongi holds the wrapped medicine out for Jungkook to take, wiggling it when Jungkook doesn't move.

"Hyung," he sighs, shifting his weight to one leg and folding his arms. "Just go in. It's fine. You've been in his bedroom before."

Yoongi's arm lowers with a dejected swing. "Well, yeah, but…"

"I've been in there since presenting. Trust me, it's fine," Jungkook encourages, offering a reassuring smile. "Besides, we all know you're an omega at heart," he adds, his smile changing into something more sly.

Not even sure what Jungkook means by that, Yoongi sputters, trying to fire back some kind of protest, but his mind’s too stuck on 'omega bedroom, scary' and 'since when is his Jungkook-ie so clever' to come up with anything decent.

"Yaa!" is all that comes out when Jungkook groans and steps behind him, pushing him forward by the shoulders and finishing up with a little slap on his butt when they reach the door.

"And be nice!" Jungkook demands as if he's the hyung here, and Yoongi's a little offended that he'd think Yoongi can't learn from his mistakes.

The door is open, so Yoongi simply steps inside after toeing off his shoes. He can smell the stew, but nobody appears to be home—aside from Jimin, that is. Jimin in his bedroom. His omega bedroom.

Pushing through, Yoongi stalks up to Jimin's door and knocks right away, not giving himself the option to simply place the delivery on the floor and leave.

His heart races as he waits for an answer, and the weak little "come in" only worsens the state of Yoongi's chest. He slides the door open, the scent of stale bamboo sap flooding through. Bitter. No sweet edge.

The room is coloured with the last bit of sunlight of the day, the deep orange painting a window-shaped grid over the wall and floor. The floor where Jimin's sleeping mat is covered in an assortment of white and pastel blankets and a jumble of ink black hair.

He looks exhausted, splayed out on his belly like he simply gave up on ever rising to his feet again. So small. Delicate. Cheeks pale and lips lacking their usual dark pink hue. Simple, linen bedclothes.

And limbs. Yoongi hasn't seen so much of his skin ever since he presented.

An omega. Yoongi sees it now more than ever, yet he wonders if Jimin will ever be anything but his alpha dongsaeng in his eyes. Those legs carry his weight so easily.

It's warm.

Time starts ticking again when Jimin lifts his head, eyes barely open, and Yoongi clears his throat.

"Uhm…"

That's when Jimin seems to realise who's standing in his bedroom.

"H-hyung?" He sits up, collects armfuls of bed linen and holds it to his chest as though he's butt naked and needs to cover up for the alpha in the room. "What are you…"

Yoongi holds up the silk wrap. "Medicine. Tae told me you're sick."

That should pretty much explain everything, Yoongi believes. But Jimin remains doe-eyed and tense, his gaze roaming over every inch of Yoongi in crisscross paths, probably scanning him for anomalies. Yoongi holds his breath, expecting to receive the first jab for bringing over medicine, or for literally anything else. But the silence lasts, air thick.

"I'll, ehh… I'll just place it here," Yoongi mumbles, carefully approaching the small desk next to the mat—as if quick movements would worsen Jimin's state and topple over the doltap.

The table is where it always was, but it's completely stained with what must be ink. He places the silk wrap next to it on the floor, his eyes travelling up over the sunlit wall. It's covered in pieces of paper with elegant black brushstrokes.

"Whoa, Jimin-ah…" Yoongi steps closer to inspect the calligraphy. "You… you did this?"

"Y-yeah?" comes from the mat.

Yoongi turns to him, the insecurity in Jimin's voice matching his demeanour painfully well.

"I didn't know calligraphy's part of your writing class."

"It's not. I just…" Jimin shrugs, his arms relaxing onto his lap. "I just like it?" There’s a question in his eyes, one Yoongi reads as a need for approval, and Yoongi wonders if Jimin left him in the dark on purpose.

"You didn't want to show me." Yoongi fails to state it like a question, heart sinking. Did he screw up that badly after the fan dance? He's quite sure he made up for it by now.

"Well, you tutor in writing, hyung. I'm just messing around at home." Jimin waves a lazy hand at the wall covered in art.

"Aah," Yoongi drags out, half relieved he didn't necessarily do anything wrong. "But, writing and calligraphy are not the same thing, you know."

"Yeah, but…" Jimin sighs heavily, something close to a groan, "I'm not supposed to be doing this. I'm not an alpha."

Not an alpha.

Why hadn't Yoongi thought of that fact yet? He scratches behind his ear, avoiding Jimin's gaze.

"Right…"

"I should be focussing on things like sewing and cooking class. It's not exactly appreciated to show up there with black ink all over my hands."

"But, Jimin-ie…" Yoongi trails off, his eyes wandering to the elegant, black strokes again. "This is good enough for the calligraphy contest."

Jimin scoffs. "As if I'm allowed to enter."

Yoongi doesn't need to be looking straight at Jimin to know there's a scowl on his face. The small, curled up form on the mat in the corner of his vision speaks louder than Jimin's muttered words. Way louder. It screams. Shouts.

It’s no secret that Jimin takes pride in being an omega. He dances with his head held high and he's quite vocal about his excitement about being pregnant one day, often expressing his amazing about the anatomy of it all.

But Jimin also doesn't hide the fact that his life would be easier as an alpha. Yoongi is sure he'd actually enjoy sewing and cooking class if people didn’t expect him to excel at it just because of his gender.

Not much changed for Yoongi after he presented—aside from the teasing about his height and the usual things Jimin picks at—so he never thought much about it. But for Jimin, a lot shifted. Remembering how ignorant Yoongi had been brings back the heat of his embarrassment.

It's ridiculous that Jimin isn't allowed to do whatever he wants. Why on earth should a calligraphy contest be restricted to alphas? Clearly, Jimin is pretty damn capable of controlling a brush.

Who wouldn't want to give Jimin anything his heart desires? Who wouldn’t want to protect that smile from being dimmed by stupid, nonsensical rules?

Yoongi's hands ball into fists.

This won't do.

He snatches one of the papers off the wall, turns on his heels and plops down next to Jimin on his mat, ears hot.

"Jimin, this is the most beautiful su I've ever seen." He holds the paper with the su character in front of Jimin, pointing at it as if it's not clear enough what he's talking about. "People need to see this. Just enter the damn contest under my name," he suggests, more harshly than intended.

Half-expecting Jimin to complain about the unnecessarily stern tone, or to pout at him for whatever other reason, Yoongi's stomach tingles a little when Jimin smiles instead.

A shy smile, gaze drifting down to where he fiddles with the ruffle of his blanket.

And then it hits Yoongi.

He's sitting on Jimin's bed. Omega bed. Scary. He swallows.

Apparently unaffected by Yoongi's location, Jimin drags out a soft "hyung…" with a playful roll of his eyes, tucking his hands into his sleeves. "You really think it's that good?"

All Yoongi can do is nod.

Jimin takes the paper, little fingers sticking out of the white linen sleeves, and he stares at it for a moment—as if trying to understand why Yoongi praises it so determinedly. His eyes jump between the black strokes and Yoongi's face, a faint hint of colour on his cheeks blossoming.

"But, if I enter under your name, you would get all the praise," he pouts. "Or nobody would believe that you actually made this. Your writing is completely unreadable, and your calligraphy is all angular and stuff."

Ah. The first jab of the day has landed, Jimin's smile giving away that he's ready for a bit of cat-and-mouse. Yoongi tuts, huffs, and shakes his head, but all with a smirk and relaxed shoulders.

"Yaa, Jimin-ah," he puts one hand on his hip for dramatic effect, the other pointing at the little brat, "talk shit about my amazing calligraphy skills one more time and I'll never bring you medicine again."

Expecting a pinch or a poke, Yoongi's eyebrows raise when Jimin's face only warms up with a broad smile, eyes jumping to the blue silk. "Right! I forgot! You really brought me medicine?"

"Y-yeah. You're sick."

Yoongi makes sure not to ask what he's under the weather with; no need to embarrass the poor thing. Taehyung already told him it was something stomach related anyway.

But Jimin seems unfazed when he lays his paper with blank ink strokes next to the mat and places his hand on his stomach, smile changing back into a pout. He always shifts through a thousand emotions before Yoongi becomes aware of just one of his own.

"Yeah… Papa brought some weird drink home from the market," Jimin explains, pulling a face. "He said it's Mongolian? From horses?"

"Horses?" Yoongi leans back a little, wondering what kind of drink could come from a horse.

"Yeah. It was sour. Disgusting." Jimin shivers, perhaps reliving drinking the mystery substance. Yoongi can only imagine what it must have been like. For some reason, he pictures it as something slimy.

"No wonder you've been shitting yourself for days."

"I have not!" Now comes the slap: a weak hit against Yoongi's shoulder. He really did lose a lot of strength.

Yoongi still laughs, despite wanting to growl and get up to go find that idiot who decided to sell horse liquids at the market; the person responsible for transforming his strong Jimin-ie into a feeble and washed-out worm.

A very hairy washed-out worm.

Yoongi ruffles Jimin's hair at the top of his head, where it's a little greasy. "Idiot. Who drinks horse juice?"

Jimin grunts, swatting his hand away. His lips curl into that mousy little smile, the one that appears when he's trying his best to look stubborn. Not cute. And failing miserably, obviously.

"Anyway…" Yoongi's chuckle dies out. He reaches for the blue silk and hooks his finger under the knot to pull it closer. "Hyung's got you everything you need."

He places the package between them on the bed and unwraps it, the gasp and coo Jimin lets out lighting a little flame in Yoongi's chest. This reaction is exactly why he always buys him sweet bread at the market.

"There's some dried ginger and licorice root for making tea," Yoongi points at the items folded in stamped paper, "some cinnamon and candied ginger, and this is—"

"Oh! Candied ginger?"

"Yeah, here." Yoongi flings the envelope at him, which Jimin immediately opens up. He hums softly as he chews on a piece of the sugary medicine.

"And, ehh… Oh. Right." Yoongi's cheeks warm as yellow paper with black lettering appears from under all the wrapped roots and herbs. "I, ehh… I got you something else as well."

Jimin leans in, swallowing the medicine down. "What's that?"

"It's, ehh… It's just a book. It was on sale and I needed something sturdy as a base for under—"

"A book?" Jimin chirps, perking up like a tiny weasel. He tucks the envelope with candied ginger between the other items to lift the book with both hands, inspecting it from all sides like it's an ancient artefact before carefully opening it to the first page.

"You got me a book?" His voice is softer now, fingers gently brushing over the written characters from top to bottom.

"Uhm…" Yoongi scratches his neck. "Yeah. It's nothing. Just some silly story about a prince or something. Figured you'd be bored, so—"

"Will you read it to me?" Jimin asks without shame, eyes locking with Yoongi's as he bounces in tiny. Yoongi quickly averts his gaze.

There are a lot of things Yoongi has no shame in doing, like telling Jimin his breath reeks of dead rats or twisting his arm until he squeals, but blatantly saying no straight to his face is not one of those things. Especially when he looks so damn frail and unlike his usual dapper self.

"R-read it to you? Why? You're perfectly capable of—"

"I'm sick! You have to take care of me! You're my hyung! You're—" Jimin cuts his sentence short, the bouncing coming to a halt. "Just read it," he adds more quietly, pushing the book against Yoongi's chest. Yoongi takes it silently.

It's been so long since Yoongi read to him—at least a year, if not more—and his heart drums a little. It's different from reading to his students.

He mumbles a silent curse to himself while Jimin is busy with blankets and pillows behind him, the medicine carefully being placed next to the mat. He's always so cautious with items, so calculative. He should treat himself like that more.

"'Kay. I'm ready." Jimin pushes his knee against Yoongi's butt through the blanket. "Read, please."

Yoongi scoffs. Brat.

"I'm not your slave," he mutters as he turns to look at said brat, and his stomach flips.

So soft, like a kitten curled up in a basket full of fresh laundry. Tiny balled of fists grip the edge of the blanket under his chin, ready to doze off while Yoongi reads.

"I said please." Jimin flutters his lashes, flashing a sly grin, and Yoongi sighs to show his annoyance. The devil's kitten, he is.

"Just the first chapter. Then I have to go home."

"Alright, alright. Just start." Jimin uncurls a hand and pats the empty spot beside him, where pillows are propped against the wall. "Come."

It's perfectly clear what Jimin wants Yoongi to do, but it's completely unclear why Yoongi does exactly as he's told, considering the whole scary omega bed and all. He rests his back against the pillows and straightens his legs over the blanket, crossing his ankles. They've done this before, so it should be fine.

Right?

He clears his throat, Jimin wiggles to get more comfortable, and then there's really nothing left to do but read.

The book is a bit stiff as he opens it to the first chapter, and it still has that new book smell of recently pressed paper and fresh ink. The sun is about to leave the room, but there's still enough light to comfortably read without a candle.

Just one chapter.

"Once—" Yoongi stops right after the first word to clear his throat again. Jimin giggles.

"What's funny?"

"Nothing. Go on." Jimin bumps his knee against Yoongi's leg, letting it rest there, and Yoongi tries his best to ignore it as he starts over from the first word.

"Once upon a time…"

It's a lovely book, the scenes flowing from one to the next like a breeze, and Yoongi blames it completely on the story that he's already halfway through the second chapter without any willpower to stop.

It doesn't help that Jimin keeps kicking his feet in excitement at every plot twist, pulling Yoongi's sleeve with questions Yoongi can't answer, like what's going to happen next and why doesn't the prince just confess already?

"I don't know." Yoongi shrugs. "Because he's a coward?"

"He's not a coward! He's just… scared?"

"Yeah. A coward," Yoongi deadpans.

Jimin tuts, probably rolling his eyes.

Muted sounds have started to come from within the house, and Yoongi knows it wouldn't be the first time for Jimin's parents to see them like this if they were to come in. But that was before. Will they ask Yoongi to leave if they find him in Jimin's bed now?

It's so comfortable and warm, and the sweetness in the bamboo sap spikes with every new scene of the prince and princess, so Yoongi keeps reading, keeps sinking a little further down the mat.

Let them kick him out then, if they come.

His head is fully resting on a pillow by the end of chapter three, and it's then that Jimin starts complaining about it being too dark to read along.

"Just light a candle."

"Mom says I can't when I'm in bed. It's dangerous," Jimin says, propping himself up on an elbow. "Just let me come closer."

"Closer? How?"

There really isn't any space left between them for Jimin to move into, which Yoongi's about to tell him when his arm is lifted up and hinged to the side, and his entire body stiffens when Jimin lays his head on Yoongi's chest.

Alpha and omega cuddling: bad.

But he can't move.

"Jimin-ah," he whines instead, "I can't flip the pages like this." He tries to prove his point by wrapping his arm around Jimin, wiggling his fingers to show they're not capable of touching the book.

He could probably reach, with a bit more effort.

"I'll do it. I'm reading along anyway."

Yoongi sighs. Jimin always has an answer to everything, always finding solutions to get his way.

The fact that he can feel Jimin take a deep breath should tell him enough. He can feel every little squirm Jimin makes to get more comfortable, can feel how the blanket pulls under him with every shift.

Can Jimin feel the way his heart beats? Isn't he worried about his parents coming to check in on him? Aren't omegas told to keep their distance from alphas, until they're actually wed to one?

Yoongi's quite certain they're aware, meaning Jimin must know, and since it's Jimin who's initiating all of this, it should mean that this is an acceptable situation. He's sick, after all. Maybe there are exceptions for when they're sick.

"Fine. We'll just finish this chapter, alright?"

"Yay!"

It takes Yoongi forever to decide where he should rest his arm. Behind Jimin and off the mat makes sense. Or is that too cold, too distant, compared to how Jimin is practically laying on top of him?

Eventually, Yoongi lowers his arm like a stiff plank. His fingers brush the fabric of Jimin's bedclothes before his hand forms around Jimin's upper arm, holding his breath for any type of reaction. But Jimin doesn't flinch.

"Okay, where, ehh… where were we…"

"Here." Jimin taps the book, and Yoongi continues reading.

Having Jimin flip the pages goes rather smoothly—at least compared to the arm-placement conundrum. But the next problem arrives quickly: Yoongi keeps getting distracted by how Jimin's face looks from this angle. His nose is smaller than Yoongi ever noticed, especially compared to his lips popping out from under it like a duck's beak. And such long, dark lashes.

But he manages. He manages to get to the end of the chapter. And the start of the next. He manages to flip a few pages himself when Jimin's breath evens out, tiny fist resting in front of the book on Yoongi's chest.

The room is getting too dark to read, and it's warm. The kind of warmth that doesn't come from the sun or the floor heating. It's body warmth, soothing and familiar, on the edge of being too much while fully dressed.

Yoongi pushes Jimin's hair back to check the temperature on his forehead. No fever.

Jimin stirs, smacking his lips. "Why'd you stop?" His voice is rough yet quiet, eyes still closed.

"You're falling asleep."

"'M not."

Yoongi lets out an airy chuckle. "Right. You're wide awake."

Jimin nods against Yoongi's chest, cheek squished, and Yoongi doesn't really think when he cards his fingers through the ink black hair, lightly scratching Jimin's scalp until the hint of a purr rumbles in the omega's throat.

It's not any louder than the constant murmur coming from the other room—the type of humming Yoongi remembers falling asleep to when he was younger, back when his parents still talked and laughed—but it's there. Has he ever heard Jimin purr before?

The book lowers to his stomach, resting face-down and spread out, and Yoongi listens. He listens to Jimin's breath and his purrs that intensify whenever air leaves his lungs. He listens to the voices on the other side of the door. The faint crickets. Lonely owl.

He should let Jimin rest for a bit. Getting up now might pull him out of his sleep too much, and the thought of leaving aches in an unfamiliar way.

So Yoongi tells himself he'll read a few more pages in silence to pass the time.

But the book remains flat on his stomach.

His lips press a soundless kiss against silky hair. A deep breath.

And his eyes close.

☳ 👹 ☳

Shoot your shot before Jangsanbeom comes.

Mayhem. It's always mayhem with Jimin and Taehyung.

When another item clatters to the floor, Yoongi decides to go take another look in the kitchen. The house will actually burn down before the end of Chuseok if he leaves these two unattended for too long.

What he finds is nothing out of the ordinary. Jimin swings a wooden ladle around like he's a practised swordsman, producing swooshing sound effects with puckered lips, and Taehyung holds a pot like it's a shield, tears in his eyes from laughter. Dirty aprons, messy buns.

Those two have always had something special; something Yoongi can't quite put into words. An omega bond, perhaps, as the only way he manages to describe the feeling he gets when he's in a room with them is being left out.

"Yaa," he raises his voice when the omegas haven't noticed his presence after a minute or so, but they continue like they're still the only two in the room.

Yoongi groans. Surely the sound of the simmering rice and sizzling jeon isn't any louder than his voice.

"Yaa, what the hell are you two doing?" He walks up, still not having received any attention, until he spots the knife on the floor between them.

"Yaa yaa!" He points at the razor sharp item, and the mock fighting is finally aborted. "Are you guys cutting and serving floorboard?"

"Oh, sorry, hyung-nim," Jimin giggles, squatting to pick up the knife. "The beast bit me and took over my soul, so obviously Taehyung had to protect himself, and—"

"Beast?" Yoongi cuts in, eyebrows raised as far as they can.

"Yeah," Jimin grins, waving the knife to clarify that the beast is in fact the knife. Yoongi's eyes are drawn to the shiny object, but it's the cotton wrap with the red dot around Jimin's finger that causes him to gasp. He jolts closer.

"You're bleeding?" He pries the knife out of Jimin's grip, carefully lays it on the countertop and grabs Jimin's wrist to yank it closer.

"Oh, yeah. That's the bite of the monster."

Yoongi sighs—loud enough to get his point across—while twisting and turning Jimin's hand to inspect the tiny finger wrapped in cloth. "Jimin-ah…"

"I know, I know… Jimin-ah, be more careful with yourself," Jimin mocks Yoongi's voice, low and grainy. Yoongi presses his lips into a flat line.

"You'd think he'd be pretty good at cooking, right?" Taehyung chuckles from behind them. "He dances like an angel and draws with the elegance of a peacock, but cooking…" He clicks his tongue.

"Peacock?" Yoongi twists his neck to throw Taehyung a curious look. Taehyung blinks as though he said nothing out of the ordinary.

"Whatever. Just go grab some clean wrap and soju." Yoongi shoos Taehyung away with a flick of his wrist and focuses back on the damaged little finger. "Why are you so clumsy…"

Jimin sets his other hand on his hip. "Why are you so bossy?"

"I'm not."

But the shuffling of Taehyung's feet only proves Jimin's point, and Jimin raises a cocky brow at him.

"Whatever," Yoongi mutters.

He gently unwraps the cotton to take a look at the cut. It doesn't look that bad, just a lot of blood. Without a word, he pulls Jimin to the nearest jar of water and dips his free hand in to cup some water out.

"What are you doing?"

Yoongi doesn't answer, letting the tiny bit water run over Jimin's finger. As if the liquid is pure alcohol, Jimin hisses and clings himself to Yoongi's back, nose pressed against his shoulder.

"Weakling."

"It hurts!" Jimin complains, voice muffled, and Yoongi can't help but snicker at the theatrical victim behaviour—especially right after his victorious soldier performance with Taehyung.

"It's just water." Yoongi cups more over the red finger. This time, Jimin only groans, but it still twists something in Yoongi's stomach.

Taehyung returns, setting the soju bottle down with a loud clink. Jimin flinches, clutching at the silk at Yoongi’s waist, and the way Taehyung’s brows dance suggests that he's getting some sort of joy out of this.

"Are you really going to pour soju on it?" Jimin peeps, tightening his grip on Yoongi's robe.

Yoongi hums in a stoic confirmation. "Can you open it, Tae?"

"Yup." Taehyung does as he's told and hands Yoongi the opened bottle, but he doesn't let go. "Actually, can I do it?"

Observing Taehyung's sadistic grin for a moment, Yoongi can't really come up with any reason why he should refuse, so he nods and wedges Jimin’s arm tighter against his ribs, caught beneath his own arm.

Like the drama queen that he is, Jimin lays his cheek against Yoongi's shoulder, averting his eyes away from his finger—as if that reduces the sting—and he takes a deep breath.

"Okay. Just do it," he says as though they're preparing to cut his entire finger off.

With a devilish little snicker, Taehyung pours a generous amount of soju over the wound. The squeal that Jimin lets out almost causes Yoongi to jump, but he stays put, waving the soju bottle away and quickly taking a clean cloth to dab at the area, softly blowing to ease the pain.

"Shh, almost done," he whispers, his back getting pressed tightly against Jimin's chest with an arm that snakes around his waist. "You big baby."

Jimin whines, but Yoongi can tell he doesn't mind the label; not only by the audible smile, but the fading scent of scorched bamboo is a clear giveaway. However, it's quickly replaced by burning pancake fumes.

"Uhm, Tae? Pan?"

"Shit!" Taehyung springs into action, taking the pan off the fire with a string of swear words even Yoongi barely ever uses.

"Seriously…" Yoongi shakes his head in disbelief.

He wraps Jimin's finger up with a thin cotton strip, tying a knot between two joints. It looks perfectly secure, but he still redoes it anyway, keeping the drama queen attached to his back for a bit longer. If not for Taehyung's swearing and groaning behind them, Yoongi would probably retie it a third time.

He taps Jimin's hand on his stomach and gently pushes back in a silent request to be able to move. When Jimin peels himself away, he leaves Yoongi's back much colder than expected in the warm kitchen.

Yoongi draws in a breath, squares his shoulders, and turns to join Taehyung, investigating the charred pancake situation.

It's pretty dire.

"You know what," he sighs, fixing his headband, "I'll do it. Where's the batter? Are there enough chives left?"

"What?" Taehyung eyes him up and down. "You want to help us cook?"

Before Yoongi gets to answer, Jimin jumps in. "He's really good, actually. His grandparents taught him. He made me cold noodles during the heat wave." He lifts his chin as he says it, the corners of his mouth curling up—the horrors of his cut finger apparently already long forgotten.

The lengthy "ooh" Taehyung lets out earns him a slap from Jimin's uninjured hand.

"Stop fighting before we need to waste more soju."

"Sorry, hyung-nim…" the two apologise in sync, much to Yoongi's surprise.

"A-alright, well. Taehyung, get rid of that crusty pancake so I can use the pan, and Jimin…" Yoongi trails off, his chest tightening at the sight of the cotton wrap. "Just… stay away from anything sharp. Or hot."

"But, hyung—" Jimin whines, cut off by Yoongi's raised finger.

"Listen to your hyung if you know what's good for you. Now hand me some chives."

Jimin wrinkles his nose—the type of scrunch Yoongi knows to mean he's holding back a taunt. It'll probably still come out later. He turns his back to Yoongi with a sassy swing, hips swaying as he walks to the vegetables, and returns with a handful of green chives.

"The batter is over there." He tips his chin to the side.

Getting to work, Yoongi pretends not to notice Jimin's eyes on him, and he tries not to pay any attention to how different it feels compared to before.

With a clean knife, he cuts the roots off the chives and halves them, listening to the rice that fogs up the room. He requests Taehyung to fetch some pine needles to steam the rice cakes on after he returns with the pan.

He's about to pour the batter in the hot pan when Jimin stops him with a high-pitched "wait!"

"What?"

"The oil will spatter over your clothes." Jimin bends down, grabbing something from the cabinet. "Here, wear this." He holds up an apron with a grin.

"Uhm, okay." Yoongi empties his hands and reaches out, but Jimin is already in his aura, wrapping his arms around Yoongi's neck to tie the straps.

"Let me." Jimin's breath hits Yoongi's skin. "Your hands are dirty."

Yoongi grumbles.

A waft of fresh bamboo sap washes over him, and Yoongi should really be used to it by now, but his eyes close and his lungs expand as he breathes in a little deeper. It's not the most omega-like scent. It's more earthy. Fresh. It suits Jimin so well.

Maybe one day Yoongi will marry someone with such a lovely scent. That would be nice. Taehyung's mixture of rose and rosemary isn't bad either, but there's just something about that bamboo…

"There." Jimin secures the knot behind Yoongi's neck, and Yoongi lazily opens his eyes as his hair gets pulled free. It tickles.

It tickles like Jimin's breath on his neck. Just like that night.

Yoongi raises his arms a little as Jimin moves on to tie the apron around his waist, and he notices a pretty yellow stone in Jimin's dangling earring.

"New earrings?" he asks, lips a little heavy and slow.

Jimin stills briefly, sighs. "No. Got these last year already."

"Oh."

A little more roughly than Yoongi deems necessary, Jimin pulls the apron tight and secures the knot, Yoongi's body swaying with the force.

"Will you still allow me to breathe?"

Jimin hums, as if he's giving the question some actual thought. "Maybe." He backs up, flashing a grin that doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Maybe I like you a little breathless."

Yoongi huffs, smirking. "I bet you do."

The apron is on and the pan is hot, ready to go, but Jimin's hands remain on Yoongi's waist, squeezing lightly.

"I do."

Something tingles in Yoongi's belly.

It's a new kind of attitude that Yoongi can't quite place. It could classify as a bit of cat-and-mouse, but it's not sharp, not quick. It's a soft kind of slow—yet impatient, judging by how his eyes jump between Yoongi's. Is he waiting for Yoongi to say something? Something specific? Yoongi's left a little speechless, and a lot uncertain where to rest his gaze.

"Ah." Jimin reaches up, pulling a strand of hair over Yoongi's shoulder and combing his fingers through the entire length of it. "We should tie your hair up. Let's not serve the guys hair pancakes."

Yoongi's gaze shifts up to Jimin's bun. It doesn't quite resemble the marital hairdo, but it's not difficult to imagine what Jimin would look like after marriage.

"You'd look good in a bun," Jimin mumbles, using both hands to lift Yoongi's hair up from his nape. He raises onto his tippy-toes—as if he needs that to hold the bundle of hair high enough—and tilts his head, judging the result.

"Yeah. Pretty." Jimin smiles. "You'd make a pretty husband."

Husband.

Yoongi never talked to that omega like his mother asked him to. Imagining himself as her husband churns his stomach, makes him a little nauseous.

"Well, I guess I'll have to marry someday," he mutters, pulling a face.

"Do you, ehh… Isn't there anyone..?"

"No," Yoongi scoffs, and something about the answer must tick Jimin off, because he releases Yoongi’s hair rather unceremoniously and drops back on his heels.

"You're way too bossy to be anyone's husband, anyway."

And there's the taunt.

Jimin whips around and busies himself with cleaning up the mess Yoongi has already made in the kitchen. The intent to continue cooking is definitely there, but Yoongi needs a moment to remember where exactly in the process he left off. And just as he's about to grab a chopstick to pin his hair up, Hoseok barges into the kitchen.

"Jimin-ah," he singsongs with his most cheeky grin. "Seongmin-ssi is here."

Yoongi's lip twitches at the mention of that name. What's he doing here?

Jimin doesn't answer Hoseok. He sighs, drops the towel on the counter and takes his apron off, laying it next to the towel with a stoic expression. He takes a few steps towards Hoseok, then halts to undo his bun, pulling the decorated pin out in one swift motion. His hair drops down to his waist, light reflecting in smooth waves as he runs his hand through.

Such thick, beautiful hair. More silky than ever.

Then, instead of heading towards the door, Jimin turns on his heels and approaches Yoongi.

"Here," he shoves the hairpin into Yoongi's hand. "Thanks for helping, hyung." He says it like he'd rather skip the politeness, his gaze sharp as needles that Yoongi can’t quite dodge, and he turns and walks off.

The look Hoseok throws Yoongi before following Jimin out is only a mild solace: at least Yoongi's not the only baffled one.

And just like that, Jimin's gone. No more remarks about how many utensils Yoongi uses, no more pokes and shoves, no more hushed scheming between the two omegas about how they'll trick Yoongi into cooking for them every holiday. Just an apron that suddenly feels too tight, and laughter spilling in from the other room.

"Well," Taehyung sighs, walking up behind Yoongi. "At least someone is trying to avoid Jangsanbeom tonight." He pats Yoongi's shoulder.

"What?"

"You can still go. I'll manage in here."

Yoongi scoffs, twisting his hair up to pin it tight. "And let you burn the house down? Absolutely not."

☵ 👹 ☵

Spirit guides guide the ear.

22 is a good age for an alpha to get married, Yoongi's mother always says. She was 22 herself when she married his father. It's a good time to settle down, get a stable job and plan for children. Because, what else are you going to do with your time at that age?

If his parents' marriage were anything like Yoongi hopes to see in his own future, he might agree.

They don't really understand why Yoongi wants to take the civil service exams. They don't understand that there are bigger opportunities outside of town, and that Yoongi wants more for himself than a loveless marriage and a marginal wage.

So, it doesn't bother him one bit that he's 23 and unmarried, pouring all his free time into studying.

Because, what if he could have it all?

"But… what does having it all mean, exactly?" Namjoon asks, rubbing his chin and squinting his eyes like the true philosopher he is.

Knowing he'd get this type of response and knowing Namjoon won't like his answer, Yoongi smirks. "It means having everything I want."

Namjoon tuts, giving Yoongi a weak punch on the arm. "Yeah, but… do you really think being a scholar is better than your teaching job here? You love your job, and you don't particularly like the government you'd be working for in the capital."

"So?" Yoongi shrugs. "I'd be a freaking scholar, Namjoon. Do you know how big that is?"

"Big this, big that. You always want everything bigger." Namjoon waves his arms to portray how big Yoongi wants everything, as if it could be measured in a three-dimensional space.

"Well, what can I say," Yoongi breathes in a sharp breath, his gaze briefly dropping to his own crotch before throwing Namjoon a look. "Being a genius with big things just comes naturally to me."

"Good Lord," Namjoon groans, dropping his face in his hands, "please just get married, you horny son of a bitch."

Yoongi laughs, lying down on the picnic blanket. Maybe coming out for a study break wasn't such a bad idea after all. Sometimes he worries he forgets how to laugh, and the fresh air and warm rays of sunshine aren't such a terrible addition to his day either.

The sky is a vibrant blue, contrasting with the white cherry blossoms in such a way that he can't keep his eyes off it. The petals dwindle down so gently, like the snowflakes that painted this area white only yesterday—or so it feels. Time doesn't exactly wait for Yoongi to catch up.

He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and hears Namjoon shift next to him. He hears the breeze through the trees, hears the murmur of voices from all around him.

But one of them sticks out from the crowd. He's got the most unique giggle, after all. Yoongi doesn't even need to see him to know he's got his little hand in front of his mouth as he laughs, eyes like little crescent moons.

"Tae, you can't say that!" Jimin laughs, only one tree over.

"Why not? It's a fact that I like thick thighs. Why couldn't I say that I want my future spouse to be able to hold me down with their thick—"

"Tae!" Jimin shrieks, a slap against clothed skin following suit.

Pressing his lips together, Yoongi manages to hold his laughter. Better not give away that he's eavesdropping on the two omegas. They're always louder than they're aware of. Much louder than the typical omegas in town.

Yoongi tries to focus on other things, like the birds and the ahjussi trying to sell honey sticks. He knows it's not a polite thing to do, to listen in on other people's conversations, but his attention keeps drifting to the most familiar voice around.

"But I want a green robe for my wedding," Jimin says, still on the wedding topic. "A strong, bright green."

"Green? Not a traditional red?"

"Green is traditional too, just less common. Red is like… supposed to protect you against evil, but I don't need that. Green stands for youth and vitality."

"Right, you need that way more, considering you're already 21 and still unwed."

"Yaa! We're the same age! You're also still wearing your hair down!"

"Ouch!" Taehyung yelps, and this time Yoongi can't help but chuckle, imagining Jimin pulling Taehyung's hair.

He opens his eyes and turns his head, peeking at the two settled on a blanket together. Taehyung pouts, stroking his hair—suggesting Yoongi was right about the hair pulling—and Jimin falls backwards with laughter. He always laughs so fully. Yoongi wishes he could laugh like that. So free, letting his body do whatever it wants.

Everything seems to come so naturally to Jimin. He bonded with Taehyung so quickly after he started dancing with him, he fit into town like he'd always lived there, and he even slid into Yoongi's ironbound life like a piece of paper under a closed door.

And right now, the sun scattering through the blossoms onto Jimin's pale green robe is a perfect example of how he fits in this park. He's like water, bending to any situation.

And Yoongi is a rock.

"Are you, ehh…" Namjoon starts, pulling Yoongi free of his thoughts. "Aren't you thinking about marriage?"

The answer to that question is something Yoongi's recited often enough, but he still pauses—only because it's the first time that it's Namjoon who dares to ask him. Perhaps he's the one who's thinking about marriage himself.

"No." Yoongi returns his focus to the blue sky dotted with petals. "I won't have time for it until after the exam. I'll just find someone in the capital after I move."

"You mean you'll wait for someone to find you?"

"What?" Yoongi squints his eyes at his friend. "What are you trying to say?"

Namjoon laughs under his breath, shaking his head as if he saw that question coming, like Yoongi shouldn't have to ask—but Yoongi's drawing a blank.

"It's just difficult to imagine you courting anyone, hyung," Namjoon explains. "I wouldn't be surprised if you are the one who is asked to court one day. You've got such an omega-like soul."

Omega-like. Jungkook had said something like that before.

"What does it even mean?"

Spinning a fallen blossom between two fingers, Namjoon delays his reply, dimples blooming with a smile he tries to control.

"Well," he then begins, "aside from your obsessive need for greatness, your traits are kind of… like an omega? You might be straightforward, but you're soft spoken. And you like poetry and cooking and yapping like a grandma, you enjoy the market ahjummas doting on you, your scent is light, you're kinda small with your thin, omega legs—"

"Being small is not a trait," Yoongi quickly interferes, it being the only thing he can factually object to.

"And you've never tried to court anyone," Namjoon continues, undisturbed. "Not even just for fun, like innocent flirting. Not on purpose, at least," he adds in a mumble.

Yoongi props his arm beneath his head, levelling Namjoon with a look. What an odd thing to say. Innocent flirting, on purpose? What even is that? Courting is for marriage, not some game to pass the time. That's what actual games are for.

"And who should I be flirting with, exactly? There's no one here I'd consider for marriage. If I'd even be looking."

Breathing out a hoarse breath—like a bothered groan that's too scared to come out fully— Namjoon folds his legs, leaning in a little closer with his elbows on his knees.

"But, what about…" he jerks his head towards the next tree over.

"Tae?" Yoongi shoots up, inspecting Namjoon's face like he's lost his mind. "Why would I marry him? I don't have thick thighs."

"Shh!" Namjoon slaps Yoongi's not-thick thigh. "No, you dumbass. Jimin-ie," he whispers.

"Oh." Yoongi frowns, looking over at the two omegas. His eyes fixate on Jimin's hands as they move in all directions, explaining something that probably doesn't require such gestures. The image of his ink black hair in a topknot flashes by. A bright green wedding robe.

"Marry Jimin-ie? But he's my dongsaeng."

"But not like an actual little brother, right?" Namjoon asks. "Not like family."

"Well, no, but… I don't know." Yoongi shrugs, untwisting his neck. "I never really thought about it."

It's the truth, mostly. He's thought about what kind of alpha Jimin might marry, and how that Seongmin guy really isn't the right fit for him. Too eager. A little fake? Jimin laughs differently with him. Too promptly. It's like he brings out something sad in Jimin, something Yoongi can't quite place.

"Seriously? You never imagined yourself with Jimin?"

"Yeah, no. I don't know. He's… I always thought he'd be an alpha, so I just…" Yoongi shifts, swallows, and halfheartedly shrugs again, finger poking into the blanket. "I don't know."

"But he's not an alpha. Sure, he has some alpha-like traits, but that's what makes you and him such a good—"

"Besides," Yoongi interrupts, "he wouldn't want to move to the capital."

Because Jimin fits here, Yoongi doesn't add, not wanting to explain himself. Not wanting to specify that it would feel like ripping Jimin away from the place where he shines so brightly when he dances, where he laughs so comfortably with Taehyung and Jungkook. He flows here, like the river cutting through town. You can't move a river.

"How do you know that? Have you asked?"

"Have I asked if he wants to marry me and move with me? Uhm. No?" Yoongi scoffs, picking up a kimbap. "Why would I do that?" he asks with his mouth full of rice and bulgogi.

Namjoon follows his example, popping the last piece of Yoongi's carefully rolled kimbap into his mouth. "You get along so well. Why not?"

"We bicker, mostly. I don't want to end up like my parents." Yoongi swallows his food, the thought of souring Jimin's life like that leaving a bitter aftertaste.

"Your parents don't bicker; they fight. You and Jimin-ie never fight. And you care so much about him."

Despite that being true, it's not exactly difficult to care for Jimin. He's practically got the whole town wrapped around his tiny finger, without needing to lift it.

"Not any more than you do, or anyone else in his vicinity," Yoongi mutters, and Namjoon smiles as if Yoongi just agreed with him—which he supposes he kind of did, unwillingly.

"Well… I think it's a little different," Namjoon says, his tone close to taunting. "I've never slept in his bed before."

"Yaa!" Yoongi straightens up, heat rushing to his cheeks, to his ears, and somewhere deep within his chest. "That wasn't like that! And it was by accident. I left as soon as I woke up."

"Bet you only left 'cause you were hard as fuck."

Yoongi sputters, contemplating clarifying that he was still soft enough to walk out without having to hide anything, and that it's completely normal as it happens plenty of times when he wakes up alone.

But denying it fully seems a lot easier.

"I was not!"

Namjoon sucks in a sharp breath. "I see how high his scent makes you."

Due to the lack of kimbap to throw at his friend, Yoongi opens his mouth to object once more, but the shade cast by a lavender parasol interrupts him.

"Yaa, can you two keep it down?" Seokjin looks down at the two, hand on his hip. "Not the entire town needs to know about Yoongi's boners."

"What? We're whispering!" Namjoon says, his volume loud enough to hardly be classified as a whisper anymore.

"Then how did I know what you were talking about, hm?"

"Maybe it's your spirit guides." Namjoon answers, eyebrows dancing.

"Ew." Yoongi pulls a face, his gaze jumping to Jimin to check for any evidence that he might have been able to hear as much as Seokjin did.

But, luckily, he appears blissfully unaware.

☶ 👹 ☶

Avoidance is but a sour delay of destiny, not an escape.

The threatening need for a candle means the tutoring session ends later than usual, so Yoongi gives the kid a tangerine as an apology for her being late for dinner. Her parents won't mind, he's sure. He won't charge any extra for it, after all. Free lessons.

The kid says her polite goodbye and rushes out, leaving Yoongi with not much else to do besides piling up the worksheets and going home. He clutches the papers against his chest and looks out the window. The dark storm clouds are opening up to reveal the last bit of sun, so at least he won't get wet on the way home. That's always a plus.

Making his way out of the tea pavilion, he hears voices coming from the private terrace. The door to the roofed area is wide open, meaning there's probably nothing too secretive going on out there. He glances outside as he walks by, and his heart jumps.

Jimin-ie.

He halts, hand already halfway up to wave at his friend sipping tea with his parents, when Yoongi recognises the other guests.

Seongmin and his dads.

Yoongi freezes, hand slowly sinking back down.

He knows what this means. He knows exactly what this means. There's absolutely no other explanation for why an alpha and omega would meet with their parents like this. This exact terrace is the most popular spot in town for this type of meeting.

Has Seongmin been courting Jimin all this time? And, not only that, but has Jimin actually agreed to having marriage negotiations?

Does Jimin want to marry Seongmin?

Yoongi wakes from his thoughts when Jimin rises to his feet, and Yoongi doesn't think when Seongmin's parents turn their heads.

He hides.

As swiftly as possible, Yoongi disappears from the door opening and presses his back against the wall right next to it, heart pounding under his worksheets.

Memories of Jimin and Seongmin race through his mind, of them laughing and blushing, and suddenly Yoongi wonders if Jimin's pretty yellow earrings and necklaces were gifts.

The paper wrinkles in his grip, thoughts start to crisscross and slip, and the room has shrunk to half its size when Jimin appears before him.

"Hyung."

He sounds so far away; a whisper.

Jimin's hand finds Yoongi's, and their fingers interlace as if they've done that a thousand times—but it's only the first.

"Hyung, I need to talk with you."

"W-what?"

Jimin purses his lips, eyes jumping to the open door. He steps closer. "Wait for me at the gazebo? We're wrapping up. I'll be there soon, okay?"

His breath smells like fancy tea sweets.

"I-I…"

"Please." Jimin squeezes his hand.

"The gazebo? But… it's getting late. You should—"

"Please." Another squeeze.

Those eyes. Those damn eyes. The urgency behind them cuts right through, leaving Yoongi with no other choice.

He nods, dropping his gaze.

Jimin pulls his hand free and disappears.

It doesn't take Yoongi any longer than necessary to get out. The low sun filters through the trees, but there's no power left in the rays to warm him. The only heat comes from within him, coursing through his body as he speeds towards the gazebo.

Yet something deep inside turns colder and colder. His stomach churns, nausea coming and going.

The small wooden structure comes into sight, and Yoongi pants by the time he reaches it. He lays his papers on the bench, some characters smudged by his sweaty hand, and he sits down next to it.

Is it silly to wait here? He doesn't know why he's here, how long he's supposed to wait and what it is that's making his skin feel too tight around his body.

Taking a deep breath, Yoongi turns on the bench and folds his arms over the wooden railing, gazing over the river. The last blossom petals of the season drift by, collecting in corners against the rocks.

Jimin's probably just going to tell him the news about Seongmin. It's nothing to be so nervous about.

Will he call it happy news?

Yoongi closes his eyes, trying to listen to the water flowing, trying to disappear in the scents of nature. Cool air, full with that particular scent after rain, wet wood, and fresh hints of grass.

Bamboo.

Can he smell the grove all the way from here?

He opens his eyes, checking if someone wearing a green hanbok is making his way over here, but there's just the blue grass and green sky.

Everything's different, upside down. Something's not right. The forest rustles, but it's deadly silent. Birds walk across the clouds and fish fly through the river.

This is ridiculous.

Yoongi picks up his papers, deciding he might as well spend his time wisely. Hopefully checking his pupil's assignments will put his feet back on the ground and make him come to his senses.

But the sentences move, like a fan dance on a warm spring day, and the ink melts into elegant calligraphy strokes. Yoongi keeps having to start at the beginning—or is it the end?—and he has no idea how much time has passed when he hears someone walk over.

He stands up, papers discarded on the bench, and mentally prepares himself to be kind and to smile as genuinely as possible. To tell Jimin it's wonderful news and that he'll have a beautiful life here with Seongmin.

Because why should he tell Jimin otherwise?

The corner of his mouth trembles when Jimin walks up the few steps—exactly where they sat when everything started to change. But Jimin's face still looks as it did back in the tea pavilion.

And then he's suddenly in his arms, Yoongi needing to take a step back to stabilise them both.

"You're here," Jimin breathes out, arms flung around Yoongi's neck.

It takes Yoongi a moment to respond, preoccupied with where he should place his own arms.

"O-of course," he says after lightly settling his hands on the slim waist.

It could be a celebratory hug. Jimin is a hugger. He hugged everyone when his tutor praised him for his precise embroidery work, after he'd been poking himself with the needle for several weeks in a row.

But he smelled sweet then, and he didn't push his nose into Yoongi's neck like he does now. He didn't breathe in deeply, right against his scent gland. He didn't grip Yoongi's robe and squeeze him tighter and tighter.

"Jimin-ie?"

No response—not with real words, anyway. There's a tiny whine and a spike of something sour, and the mere despair in it all makes Yoongi wrap his arms around Jimin fully. He feels much smaller than he looks.

"It's okay. You're okay," he tells him, not exactly sure what he's claiming to be okay, but it takes some of the sourness away.

"Don't want to marry him."

Yoongi breathes in, holds him a little tighter. Thank God.

"I know." It comes out without thinking, and it's only with Jimin's response that Yoongi realises he said it out loud.

"You know?" Jimin loosens his grip, backing up.

"Oh, I mean…" Yoongi tries to avoid Jimin's gaze; those piercing eyes that seem endlessly in search of something today. "You always look sad around him."

Jimin hums, lips pressed together. "But do you know why?"

If Yoongi knew the answer to that, would he have done something about it?

He shakes his head.

The wind picks up, blowing strands of hair out of order, and Jimin tucks some of it back behind Yoongi's ear.

"Yoongi…" His voice is strained, like he's tired of talking about too many things he doesn't want to discuss, fingers brushing over Yoongi's earring. "Do you really have no idea?"

Perhaps, if they weren't standing so close—attached, basically—then maybe Yoongi could give it some thought.

But he can see each individual eyelash, the pores on his small nose, and every minuscule movement of his lips. He's so close that Yoongi can smell bamboo sap through the roasted barley tones of the scent muting cream. Long, ink black hair tickles his hands, and the green silk underneath is so soft.

How could he possibly think, when all his senses are on fire?

Jimin runs his hand down, settling right over Yoongi's heart, and Yoongi tries to get his breathing under control in the hopes it'll calm his heart. Can Jimin feel it?

"You're rarely so silent with me," Jimin says.

It's true, and Yoongi would talk if he could. But everything is still upside down—and now also inside out. This Jimin is different, and Yoongi wants to either run away or hold on tighter.

"You're really going to make me say it, aren't you?"

"What?"

"Fuck, Yoongi…" Jimin murmurs as if he's cursing to himself. He grips the collar of Yoongi's robe, sighs, releases it, shifts to his other leg, opens and closes his mouth, and it all happens in either a split second or a whole hour.

"Having Seongmin court me makes me sad, because…" he pauses, locks eyes, "because he's not you."

Yoongi frowns, breaking eye contact in order to give thinking one final shot.

Isn't it a good thing that he isn't Seongmin? Jimin wouldn't be his friend, otherwise. Or would he? What does it even mean, if Yoongi were Seongmin? Or if Seongmin were Yoongi? Does Jimin want Yoongi to be more like Seongmin?

"Yaa, Yoongi-yah," Jimin demands attention, cupping Yoongi's jaw. It trembles. "Are you ever going to say anything?"

"Why aren't you calling me hyung?"

It's a stupid thing to ask, but it's what came out.

The warm hand leaves Yoongi's face. Jimin's upper lip twitches, his eyes narrow, and Yoongi swears he hears the hint of a growl coming from the back of Jimin's throat before he opens his mouth.

"Why aren't you courting me?"

Initially, Yoongi only snorts. But as the sharpness in Jimin's eyes fades to something softer, something crestfallen, Yoongi's heart crumbles.

He means it.

"Oh."

"Oh?" Jimin parrots, and Yoongi finally understands what his eyes have been searching for all day.

"Jimin-ie, I—" His voice cracks, throat dry and thoughts hazy. "Y-you're my dongsaeng. We're friends."

The extra bit of distance Jimin takes feels unstable, breakable, like thin paper stretched too tightly around a lantern.

"But…" Jimin hesitates, his tone more uncertain than Yoongi has ever heard it. "Don't you want more?"

"More?"

"We could have it all, hyung."

Having it all.

Having it all means passing the exam and becoming a scholar. He can't marry his dongsaeng. He can't marry Jimin.

What is happening?

"But…"

"You should court me, hyung. Don’t you think it’s time? Before…"

Yoongi backs up, hands slipping from that warm waist.

"Hyung?"

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles, bowing his head in a daze.

☷ 👹 ☷

ǝı̣p ʎןnɹʇ ɹǝʌǝu sɯɐǝɹp uɹoqןןı̣ʇs

The orange leaves and the teal sky are a match made in heaven, and the earthy scents carried by the crisp air bring out a certain joy. Peaceful. The arrival of the newly harvested rice puts people in a good mood, and the roasted chestnut carts are dusted off and prepared for another wonderful season.

Autumn is beautiful, and it's an exceptionally sunny day today.

But something's off.

There's this nagging feeling in the back of Yoongi's head. Did he forget something? He tries to go over his to-dos, but it's all blurry. Hazy. He should go to bed early today and sleep it off. He doesn't have any plans tomorrow, anyway.

Or does he? He should, because he's always busy. Right?

"I'm glad you finally came for a visit," Seokjin says, spinning his orange parasol.

"Yeah, finally," Yoongi responds before his thoughts catch up, the words feeling rather foreign right after they slip out.

A visit?

"You should be thankful we haven't forgotten about you," Seokjin continues, his voice stable yet clearly trying to hide a tinge of hurt.

"Oh, I wish I could forget about you," Yoongi simply teases back, assuming his lack of understanding of what Seokjin is talking about must be due to his foggy headache. Something pounds in the back of his head.

They turn the corner, and Seokjin lets out an excited "ah!" when the tea pavilion comes into sight. The place is decorated with delicate, pink flags, and Yoongi can spot a small crowd through the windows, a few standing outside on the veranda. Looks like there's a party going on.

"Guess we're the last ones to arrive." Seokjin doesn't hide his annoyance. "Remind me why you asked me to wait for your slow ass? It's not like you don't know your way around here anymore."

Yoongi huffs, mouth half-open to roll a clever comeback off his tongue, but the words that remain stuck in his throat appear to be unrollable cubes. Even if he wanted to, he couldn't answer Seokjin's question.

Because why did he ask Seokjin to arrive together? And to go where? Are they going to this party?

"Wait," he rubs his eyes, slowing down, "why are we here?"

"What do you mean, why? The party's not at Jimin's home, if that's what you thought."

Yoongi halts, trying to blink the haze away. "This is Jimin-ie's party?"

Something shifts in his chest, something sharp that feels awfully familiar, but it doesn't spark any memories. There's definitely something he's forgetting. When did he last speak with Jimin?

Seokjin raises his eyebrows. "You did not forget Jimin's birthday, did you? Isn't that what you're visiting for?"

"His birthday is in October," Yoongi answers confidently. Does Seokjin seriously think he'd forget Jimin's birthday? Ridiculous.

But the level of confusion on Seokjin's face only increases. "Yeah. It is. Hence the party." He waves his hand towards the pavilion.

"It's spring, hyung. Why are you testing me?"

Seokjin scoffs. "Are you drunk? This early in the day? Please don't tell me you take after your mother."

"What? No, I…" Yoongi trails off, the scent of the autumn leaves sparkling awakening in his brain. The orange leaves and teal sky return from not having been gone, and Yoongi wonders if he forgot he's drunk.

"Right. Autumn."

"Right…" Seokjin drags out, eyeing Yoongi up and down as if he's gone completely bonkers. "Now that we've established it is indeed autumn, let's get ourselves a drink, shall we?"

"But you just said—"

"Ah, but I guess they won't have any alcohol. Would be kind of rude to drink in front of the birthday boy. Word's been going around it's bad to drink when you're pregnant."

"Yeah, that's true, actually." Yoongi slowly nods, still distracted by the strange expectation to see bare blossom trees all around, petals collected at the bottom. "But, who's pregnant?"

Seokjin doesn't respond, gazing at Yoongi with brows now lowered in an unusual level of concern for his doing. He reaches his hand out and places it against Yoongi's forehead, clicking his tongue when Yoongi swats it away.

"What're you doing?"

"Are you ill? Or have you suppressed everything?" Seokjin asks, all the lightheartedness in his tone gone. "I know this must be difficult for you, but it's been at least years. Aren't you at least a little bit over it by now? I know he's your stillborn dream, but—"

"Over what?"

"Aigo…" Seokjin leans backwards, taking Yoongi in more fully. "You really did suppress it, didn't you? How did you do it? Do they have some magical forgetfulness potions for scholars in the capital? Bring me some next time. I want to forget about this horrible zit I had on my face last month."

The thing is, Yoongi can usually tell when Seokjin is exaggerating. He can tell when he's being sarcastic—because he's bad at it—or when he's joking.

And right now, he's serious.

Yoongi's head spins. Scholars, capital, suppressing, someone being pregnant, Jimin's birthday, it's not spring, Jimin.

Jimin.

Wasn't he just with Jimin?

"Hyung!" Someone calls from the pavilion, and both the men turn.

Topknot, pale yellow robe. He doesn't look familiar right away.

Until he does.

Why is his hair up in a marital bun? Why does he waddle? Why does he hold his belly, like he's—

Yoongi takes a step back, gripping Seokjin's sleeve in search of balance. "What…"

"Whoa, whoa…" Seokjin takes hold of his arm. "Are you sure you're not ill? What's going on with you?"

Unable to take his eyes off Jimin, Yoongi’s chest hammers while his thoughts scatter, eyes stinging from not blinking.

This isn't real. It can't be. Jimin is not pregnant. He's not even married. All of this must most certainly only be a dream, and Yoongi knows exactly how to wake up: thinking his way out of it, simply by realising he's dreaming.

But it's not working. Jimin is still waddling across the path and Yoongi's memories of being here with Jimin in green keep slipping and flipping over.

"Tell me it's a joke."

"What's a joke, Yoongi-yah? Fuck, you're so pale."

"Hyung." Yoongi turns to Seokjin, voice iron cold and dead serious. "Tell me it's a fucking joke."

Seokjin stammers, and Yoongi might have the patience at literally any other moment, but Jimin is getting closer and closer and—

"Get me the fuck out of here, hyung. Please. This isn't right. It's not real, is it? Please…"

"Yoon, you're scaring me. What are you talking about?"

"Please, hyung, please," Yoongi begs, his throat locking up and sweat beading on his forehead. "Why's he pregnant? Who… Fuck, who did he marry?"

"Y-Yoon… You told me Jimin-ie and Seongmin-ie wrote to you, right? After you left? After you and Jimin—"

"Hyung?" Jimin's voice cuts in.

It cuts through everything. Through the sunlight and teal sky that's under Yoongi's feet, right through this nagging feeling of having lost half his heart somewhere between the sunset behind the gazebo and a pregnant Jimin.

He glows. Round belly and round, peachy cheeks. Healthy, cherry lips.

Seokjin's voice is a distant murmur in Yoongi's aura, and Jimin nods to whatever he's saying, but his eyes don't leave Yoongi's.

His eyes. Those dark, almond eyes that speak without words. Eyes that sparkle in any light or no light at all. Eyes that Yoongi has ignored ever since he slid him the jade stones.

The urge to look away is strong. The sight of all that he could have—and lost in a blink of an eye—simply burns and aches too much.

But he can't.

Because, for the first time, he can see.

For years and years, he's played the game all wrong, made all the wrong moves. Would he have won, if he had placed his stones differently?

"Jimin…"

Fog creeps in, thick and strong. All he can hear is the buzzing of voices and trees and the whooshing of blood, and something breathing right behind him.

He sinks, knees hitting the ground.

And then, there's nothing.