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itsallabouthedetails · 1 month

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Can I Stay? (A Baekhyun Story) Part 22 [FINAL]

Pairing: You x Baekhyun

Rating: M

Word Count: 13.9k

Warnings: toilet humor. Over consumption of alcohol.

Author’s note: Thank you so so so so much for staying with me throughout this story! I can’t believe it’s over. I’ll cry forever.

A romance between two adults with an unspecified age difference between them, an English story that uses the word Noona for lack of another word in English that carries the same feeling, if you don’t like this, then don’t read this story.

Can I Stay? Masterlist

Tag: @his-mochi-cheeks

You stood before the mirror scrutinizing your own reflection for any obvious evidence of this forbidden act you’d just taken part in.

Somewhere within the stall, Baekhyun had been busy with cleaning up and putting himself back together; just as you had done moments earlier. You heard the soft grunts and slightly annoyed grumbles coming from behind that closed door, “—a bathroom — of all places — we aren’t kids hiding from our parents.”

“Uhh…” he called out in a low voice. “I gotta take a piss.” There was just a touch of a slur in his syllables, “you don't mind, do you?” His question was mostly mumbled, but you heard the clank as he lifted the toilet seat; not waiting for your response.

“I think we are well beyond that sort of modesty, Baekhyun.”

“Are we?” You heard the stream hit the water in the bowl. “At least we have that.”

You leaned in closer to the mirror and touched over the dark red spot on your neck; pulling your own hair over the skin in an attempt to hide it.

Whenever you moved, so did your hair and the hickey showed up again. You reached for your small bag, remembering the touch-up makeup you’d brought with you. You tried your best with it, but the spot he’d made with his teeth would be one of his more lasting works. You could practically see all of his frustration from this evening with the teeth marks he’d left in your skin.

The toilet flushed as the stall door pushed open and Baekhyun emerged still zipping up and fastening his belt buckle.

“You know, I have a key to the penthouse in my pocket right now but you wanted to fuck dirty in a satellite bathroom on the third floor.” You heard hints of sarcasm. He was washing his hands. He was lifting his collar and tying his necktie, looking into the mirror as he re-did everything your filthy rendezvous had undone. His fingers flew up to the top of his head and he coiffed his remarkably still perfectly styled brown hair.

You rested a hip against the bathroom countertop and leaned your head against the wall beside the light switch, feeling just a tad dizzy from the copious amounts of alcohol you still had in your system but doing your best to focus on the many clues about something this man was haphazardly tossing in your direction.

You were having a bit of trouble gauging his mood. He seemed to be acting just a little bit prickly. It didn't feel like he was just drunk, this was something else. Leftover frustrations from being teased all night perhaps? A side effect from the three-hour boner? Was this pampered prince too good for kinky bathroom sex? As far as bathrooms went, this was a pretty nice one. There were warmed, rolled-up hand towels in wooden trays from IKEA, tasteful art hung on the walls, and on the other end, faceted mirrors lined the wall there that had given you a multi-angle view of what you looked like being fucked by your secret boyfriend. There was some sort of a fragrance that was released on a timer up in the corner. You’d heard the device squirt at least once while you’d been in here and now it didn't even smell like sex anymore. And it wasn’t as if you’d dragged him in here. He walked over here himself. Hell, he probably sprinted.

You watched his pretty side profile in silence as he did things like run a fingertip over his eyelid; wiping something imaginary there, or run his hand below his pouty pink bottom lip all while looking into the mirror at his own stunning reflection.

His eyes were blinking and he was not making any grand gestures or rushed movements in your direction and after a few breaths in and out and after a few more, quite excessive smoothing motions with the palms of his hands over his already neatly tucked shirt, he moved again to tug at his belt buckle, then moved his fingertips toward his own necktie that he pulled with an artists precision into about as straight a line as humanly possible and you were watching him with a building sensation that this man was, very obviously bothered by something you had, or hadn’t done.

”Baekhyun?” you said with all of your remaining unasked questions flipping up the inflection at the end of his name.

He inhaled a breath and only looked into his own eyes, blinking them slowly once. Then twice. On this third blink his eyes opened and his eyelids fluttered just enough to show you how much he was holding himself in a carefully barely controlled state. He was deliberate with it — with making a point to avoid your eyes entirely.

This pretty man had settled himself into a fit.

You were sure it wasn’t the sex from earlier. The sex had been amazing. He had liked it, you were sure of it by his giddy excitement at having his very own sex tape saved into a secret, password protected folder in his phone. He’d even made it a point to disable any sort of cloud back-ups that might have inadvertently saved it anywhere else. He’d gone through big gestures of saving yours in the same way. Double locked and very strong password protected. Some acronym of some code sentence he’d made up on the spot and you hoped to God you’d both still be able to remember it when you sobered up.

No, no, this was something else; something you simply could not ignore and from beside him on the countertop you could see the occasional notification popping up on his cell phone screen. It had been placed on silent but it was very much alive and very active. From where you stood, you could see the occasional pop-up message telling him he had been receiving text messages and they seemed to come one after another in rapid succession. Some even at the same time.

You pushed away from the counter and took a few steps; feeling either too drunk or too entitled to look away from his phone screen and in the mirror you caught the movement of his eyes as he watched you approach his phone. It was very active. You saw names popping up again and again. Summaries of text messages filled with laughter and images displayed in tiny thumbnails.

“What is all that?” You peered down at it and heard a slow sigh come from deep within your boyfriend’s chest.

“Group chat,”he said as he reached a finger out and touched his phone screen, “the guys,” not bothering to move the phone away from you or conceal it in any way; instead, he was reaching out unlock it, to bring it to the forefront of your vision so show you everything and to bring all of this nonsense up for you to see. “They’re making jokes and memes…to tease me…about you.”

The chat moved quickly. Tons of laughter and childish ribbing at his expense. An occasional picture with words written on it. You saw an image of a weeping man pulled deep down into the throes of despair coupled with some words embedded in the picture about a high-five from the love of your life followed by more raucous laughter from several people who all talked at once. An occasional question directed right to Baekhyun asking about where he even disappeared to. Someone saying he was off crying in a corner. One more noticing that you had vanished as well and you crossed your arms over your chest knowing deep down that the longer you both stayed gone at the same time, the more suspicions amongst your friends and co-workers would grow.

There was no more delaying it. You both knew it. This desperate need you both had succumbed to had been temporarily satisfied and unless you wanted those suspicions to become rumors and those rumors to be backed up with coincidences or worse, facts you both needed to come up with your next move so you could rejoin the others at the party and it really needed to happen sooner rather than later.

Something about his quiet observation of your face and the way he kept his tongue motionless well inside of his closed up mouth despite the half blinking you saw in his eyes and the way his eyebrows twitched up on his forehead had you hesitating to say what really needed to be said.

We should get back to the party.

We’ve been gone for too long.

Someone might notice.

Someone might find out about us.

Instead of speaking you cleared your throat and grabbed your bag, taking one step away from where he stood; one step that brought you closer to the door and further from him.

He didn't say anything but his eyes watched you and oh there was a darkness that grew inside of them.

Why couldn't you just speak to him? Something shameful and dirty had a hold of your tongue and you could feel a growing guilty feeling beginning to take your mood with the words of your plan for escape sitting on the very tip of your tongue refusing to come out.

You couldn't just leave him here. After bringing him in here to fuck and then leaving him behind once you’d been satisfied. It felt so far beneath you to do; not to him. Not with that silent pout you saw on his face the further your feet moved you away from him, the more it grew.

You couldn't stand it.

You spun around, facing him once again and his eyes widened marginally when you took another step toward him, reaching your hand up to reach around his shoulder you placed a palm over the back of his neck, pulling him into you as you leaned into him.

You kissed him. You pressed your lips over his and you let your lips part into his mouth as you kissed him without any hesitations or reservations, you kissed him.

He kissed you. He pulled you into his mouth and took a step into you, molding himself into the feeling and the shape of all of you until both of his arms wrapped tightly around your waist and you were pulled into his chest; into his firmness; into his open mouth. Baekhyun kissed you back deeply and he kissed you back slowly.

All the while you hoped and wished that your lips and the warmth from your touch might soothe every worry that had tried to take hold inside of his bothered chest. You wished he could have been so easily soothed with a few kisses, a few touches, a few reassurances.

He pulled away from you first and with his lips pulled tightly in between his teeth he inhaled a slow breath well into his lungs through his nose.

His forehead rested against your own and his arms still tightly encircled your waist, holding you here with him for a few moments before the itchy question that had been bubbling beneath the surface of him finally broke free. You heard the inhale before he spoke.

“How much longer do I have to be your secret? I hate it so much.”

Of course this was it. You’d had a feeling this was coming. He’d given you hints that he didn't really enjoy all of the hiding and scheming to keep your many sins under wraps. Even his unrestrained delight to find out you’d so easily throw away years of your career just for the chance of staying with him forever had told you that this man was not the type willing to keep his love hidden for very much longer.

You moved your hands over the back of his neck, threading your fingertips into his hair and you closed your eyes, steadying the rush of nerves that spiked at the very thought of the others finding out about the two of you.

“Soon. We won’t have to hide for much longer. I promise,” you spoke through a whisper and you felt the tip of his nose brush over your cheekbone before his soft lips pressed kisses into the softness of your cheek.

“Just not…tonight. Not when we’ve both been drinking and we disappeared together for so long.” You felt the pull of his lips against your skin. It was a smile. You felt the wetness of his teeth as he smiled. “It would be so obvious what we’ve been doing,” you complained.

“Soon, when?” He asked with a whine. There was a playfulness in his words that wasn't there before; before you gave in and promised him this all would be over soon.

“Monday. Monday we can ride to work together and you can drop me off on your way up to your new office. We can even hold hands if you want to.”

”Super early on Monday morning before anyone else gets there?” There was a petulance in his voice as he continued the sulking act. He knew you well enough to know that you always arrived well before any others from your team and probably before anyone else on the entire floor did. Lately though, with him occupying your heart and your bed until the very last minute, you’d tended toward wandering in later and later.

“We could sleep in a little. Maybe stop for coffee first. We could be a little late.” The alcohol really seemed to be doing a number on you. As you daydreamed of what might possibly come on Monday morning you couldn't fight the giddy feeling building up inside of your chest. Baekhyun had pulled his face back so he could look into your eyes as you told him so many of the sweet promises he’d wanted to hear.

“What if I kiss you goodbye at your office door and leave you behind to answer all of their questions?” He was giggling. It felt manic. His kind of happiness was the most contagious kind. The trembling in his chest shook you and made your own laughter break free. This feeling was more than intoxication. It was a new kind of hopeful happiness that you wished would never end.

“Monday,” he said after a while and on his lips he wore the sweetest smile with his pretty pink lips pulled tight and his eyes curved. “It’s only four days. I can act pathetic and lonely and single for four more days. If that’s what I must do—”

His words were cut off by the steady hum of a phone on vibrate that was ringing. You heard the sound echoing out inside the tiny room and both of your heads turned toward the sound of the buzzing on top of the bathroom countertop. He dropped his hands from around you and reached for the phone holding it up to his face for a few milliseconds to read the name on the screen.

He was pressing something and holding it up to his ear as he angled his torso away from you, at the same time holding his index finger up to his lips to let you know that you should not speak if you wanted the secret of this relationship to remain intact.

“Yeah, what?” He said into the phone with a gruff, put-out tone. You could hear the sound of another voice on the line, a man who’s intonation sounded like he was asking a question. The casual, super familiar tone you heard from both men told you this was a close friend of his. The finger he shushed you with told you that it might be one of the close friends sitting out there at the tables near the dance floor. One of the members of the teasing group chat who hadn’t stopped flooding his phone with messages since you’d given him that co-worker worthy, platonic high five.

“I’m taking a shit, why? What do you want?” He angrily barked into the phone and you swallowed the surprised hiccup that caught you off guard with his insane choice of an excuse for his absence. You had to lay a hand over your mouth to keep yourself silent through the shock and you’d just barely moved fast enough, thankfully, to keep yourself from being heard by his caller.

Your eyes were wide on him and you felt it then, again, just as you had genuinely felt it while you watched him with that rowdy group of young men earlier. The sudden and genuine shock at this version of Baekhyun that you honestly had no idea even existed until you’d witnessed him interacting with his friends had you questioning everything you had thought about him until now.

He was listening to his friend talking; nodding his head every once in a while. Silently agreeing to something without using his words. Maybe he was too drunk to realize the person on the other end of the line couldn't actually see him.

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll be there in a few minutes.” Baekhyun had taken two steps further into the bathroom and pushed the bathroom stall door open. He noisily flushed the toilet and moved to the sink to turn on the faucet, pulling the phone down from his ear and waving it next to the sound of the running water for full effect.

He’d hung up the call and turned off the water before looking up into your surprised face with a passive expression on his face.

You watched him in silence for a few breaths before his eyes glanced emptily around the room a few times as if to question what your curious reaction was all about.

You shook your head back and forth before you spoke. “Who even are you?” Your brows were furrowed and you looked directly into his brown eyes as you asked the genuine question. You were honestly very curious about what sort of new surprises you would learn about this crazy man in the future.

You heard him scoff and he lifted his hands in front of him, palms up as his eyes looked between the two.

“I am a single, lonely, pathetic loser who has just given himself a killer fucking alibi for where he has been for the past half-hour.” He said this with his chin pointed toward his right hand. Clearly indicating the side he represented. When his focus shifted to the other hand which he held out in your direction he nodded in your direction before he spoke with a single lifted eyebrow above one eye.

“Where have you been for the past half-hour?”

This silly man believed himself to be too clever for his own good. You shrugged and scoffed with a quick and dismissive eye roll. You would show him how to craft a perfect alibi while also keeping your dignity intact.

“Darling, I am drunk and this place is huge. I got lost.” It sounded so simple because it was simple. It was also plausible, as out of character as your drunken behavior had already been so far… You pulled your cell phone out and opened the group chat with a few of your favorite coworkers and teammates and you quickly typed out a text message, ignoring any typos you saw your impaired fingers produce.

“I thought the [arty was on the 5th floor I’ve been up n down this hotel so many times. did they move the party????? someone help meee :(“

You showed him the message and nearly instantly, and as if on cue, the replies began to pour in.

“Omggggg ma’am lmao”

“lololol miss manager is lost”

“search party for mis manger nobody has any more fun till we find her”

“She’s so cute drunk”

“Third floor! We are on the third floor!!”

“Stay where you are I’ll come save you”

You looked up into Baekhyun’s shocked face and your lips pulled into a self satisfied smile.

“You are so cute drunk. Who is the one who said that? Is it a guy? Dani sounds like a guy.”

His pointy fingertip was touching your screen as he tried to scroll back up and get closer look at the names and pictures of the people in this group chat and you specifically did not dignify his silly questions with an answer. Instead you locked your phone and put it back inside of your bag; turning your back on him, you raised a hand to unlock the bathroom door.

You poked your head out first. The coast was clear and in the far off distance you could hear the thump thump thump of the party that was still going on. “You go right and I’ll go left?” you asked behind you.

Baekhyun’s head poked out beside you, just over your shoulder and he turned his head quickly to the right and to the left, scanning the area for witnesses. You had already done this part. He didn’t need to also do this part.

“If you go left, you’ll get even more lost.” He said in a serious voice and you felt him give you a solid push through the doorway at the same time as he reached down and grabbed ahold of your hand. He started walking toward the right, pulling you along with him.

“Baekhyun,” you whispered from behind him, wiggling your hand to try and get him to release the tight grip, “Baekhyun, I wasn’t really lost.”

You pulled back against him harder, and stopped your feet from moving forward, “Baekhyun, that was a lie, remember?” It took some urging but he eventually felt your resistance and turned back around to look at you. There was a sudden change in his face as he closed up his eyes and threw his head back. His lips pulled into a wide and beautiful smile and he had a moment of realization.

“Oh shit, that’s right,” he laughed hard and pulled his hand over his belly as he did it.

Oh no.

Ohhhh no.

This man was not in his right mind right now.

”Baekhyun,” you urged in a more serious tone, trying your best to keep all hints of amusement off of your face. You could feel your own smile fighting you. He was so drunk and he was so adorable, “Baekhyun, not tonight. Not tonight, okay? Monday. Remember?”

You pulled your hand out of his and he looked down at his own empty hand with a small frown before he nodded his head up and down twice.

“Not tonight,” he repeated, showing you that he was here now and he fully understood what you were telling him. Until his eyes found yours again and he inhaled a quick breath to speak again.

“Tonight!” he said excitedly and his lips were parted and your stomach dropped as you flattened your lips and closed your eyes in frustration.

“Not tonight.” You said feebly but he was excitedly tapping you on the arm. Clearly worked up enough about something to be having trouble getting the words out in order.

“No, no. I know. Not tonight for that. Not that, but tonight — tonight, my friends, the guys, my boys,” he was moving as he gestured with both hands as if they held onto something in the empty space in front of him, “and your girls,” he moved his hands to hold onto the emptiness on the other side, “my boys and your girls,” his face dropped and he lifted an eyebrow, “are having an after party tonight. Tonight, tonight.” He lifted a hand and pointed his finger downward.

Clearly his words weren’t fully cooperating with him and he’d resorted to using his hands and arms to pantomime his meaning. It worked though. You followed wherever his hands moved and you relaxed with the faith that he would behave himself just enough to keep things under wraps until Monday. He was also very excited about whatever he was trying his best to tell you about right now.

With one hand he reached out wide to the side and he closed his eyes up and shook his head. “After-party,” he said, “round two,” he lifted two fingers up with his eyes still closed.

”My party,” he placed his palm flat on his chest and swayed on his feet, “my going away party — Junmyeon said your girls told him. My boys have been invited. We are all going — tonight.”

“They are,” he lifted both hands and intertwined his fingers in front of his face, “they are all together now.”

After he finally got the entire message out he giggled quietly to himself.

“Woooo,” he breathed through his mouth, making a little sound as he did it, “I’m drunk — hitting me now. Fucking tequila.”

He smiled that breathtaking smile right at you before he turned and left. You noticed he took a right turn at one of the hallways ahead of you and you were thankful that in his drunken mind he knew the layout of this hotel enough to be able to find a different route back to the party.

You counted to twenty inside of your head before you took the first step and it only took you a few moments before someone grabbed you by the arm, linking a warm elbow within yours with a cheerful smile on her face. There was another girl on the other side, equally as warm. These were your people.

“We found her!” They both cheered in unison toward a much larger group of people who all lingered on the outskirts of the now, winding down party. “Round two! Round Two!” A noisy chorus rang out and you were not once let go of someone’s tight grip on you as you were steered quite deliberately out of this hotel ballroom, into an elevator that moved down to the street level and out of this building entirely.

From the murmuring around you, you gathered that Baekhyun’s cousin owned a swanky bar up the street; easily within walking distance. Spirits were high and the group of people was larger than you thought would be able to fit inside of a single bar. Worries were hushed and Baekhyun assured everyone that he texted his cousin and the bar was completely ours for the rest of the night. There would be food and alcohol and music and even, “An open mic should anyone wish to serenade someone special,” one of Baekhyun’s noisier friends said with a dramatic wink of his eye that earned him a hard smack on the back.

You had no idea who anyone was. There were just so many of them. You did hear someone calling one of them Junmyeon and you knew this had to be the one who had called Baekhyun earlier. There was also a Minseok who was shockingly pretty for a man, and Jongdae who was the loudest of all of them. If you had thought Baehyun’s best friend Chanyeol had been loud, apparently you just hadn’t heard Jongdae’s volume yet. There were some others who were much quieter, and one with striking, large, very expressive eyes who hadn’t said a single word since you’d seen him. He did give you a sweet smile and a little nod of his head which put you at ease. You were certain he was a delight on his own, but with this group, he probably just couldn't be bothered with competing against the other very loud, very chatty members of the group.

Swanky seemed like not a grand enough word to describe this place. The word “bar” was such a vast understatement it hardly even deserved to be used at all. This place was the highest of high end; the kind of place without a name on the door, without a listed phone number; with a strict clientele of only the city’s most elite visitors. You were sure most of the people who walked by that door on the street level had no idea what kind of beauty and opulence lay just inside. They would never know either.

The moment you stepped inside the fragrance, the lighting, the shimmer and glimmer and the air even, all enveloped your body entirely in what could only be described as the kind of warmth you feel coating your skin when you slip into a hot bathtub. It was like slipping out of your bra and restrictive loathing and slipping on a silk nightgown that expensive smooth fabric that glides against your skin.

You were all ushered toward a large table and one by one, people sat down. Baekhyun was sidetracked by a beautiful woman who pulled him in for a tight hug. She spoke to him in joyous up close whispers and he replied in kind with giggles and smiles, grabbing his hand and shaking it, giving him a sweet kiss on the cheek. You were unprepared to face the hot surge of jealousy you felt deep inside your chest and you had to look away from this exchange. You focused instead on keeping the sweet smile etched onto your face. Your hands were shaking and your feet moved as if the floor was covered in super glue, but you kept that smile up for long enough for you to find a spot to sit at the big table.

Your just clear enough mind fought very hard against your heart and pulled your legs to sit down in the empty seat between Sandi and Marci before you could linger too long on the empty one beside where Baekhyun was headed, on the opposite side of this enormous table.

You didn’t need to feel the warmth of his body beside you.

You didn’t need to be reminded of how good he smelled.

Dishes of food arrived and fresh drinks were passed around and the small waitstaff was overly attentive and polite. The delicious food did more for your mind than any fake smiles did. You could feel your blood clearing the more you ate and as the food went in, you kept your focus on the food in front of you, on the drinks in front of you, on the company of women that sat on either side of you for long enough to get a handle on it. For just long enough for you to trust yourself enough to look up and across that table at the pair of dark brown eyes that you could feel watching you at this very moment. As he ate, as he laughed, as he talked and joked, as he drank; those eyes always found you. You were right to put some distance between you both.

The air in the room shifted then as the hum of the A/C sounded out suddenly and you felt a slight chill in the air. It was probably because you were sobering up some and the heat from the liquor wasn’t warming you from the inside anymore but you could feel an alarming sensation from below your revealing dress as the chill puckered your skin.

Oh no. Your stickers were long gone. A weird self conscious thought invaded your mind and you pulled out your cell phone to send the quickest discrete text message to your boyfriend. You kept the phone below the table as you did it and you gave it a second before you saw his attention drawn to the phone in his pocket.

His hands moved below the table and you watched the tick of his pupils as he read your message. There was a quick movement of his thumbs and your phone vibrated once, telling you he had responded to your question. He did not look at you at all but was well into a long discussion with the men who sat around him.

“Can you tell that my stickers are gone?”

”yes.”

He answered you so very quickly. He didn't even look up to verify that he could actually see your ice cold nipples poking straight out, ruining the luxurious look of this dress. This wouldn’t do. You rose to your feet and excused yourself for the bathrooms; all the while crossing your arms over your chest as you rubbed hands over your bare forearms in some attempt to warm yourself up. You needed a first hand look in the mirror. Maybe someone had a suit jacket you could borrow. With all of these charming young men surely one of them could sacrifice theirs for a lady with a chill.

You had to walk past his end of the table to get to the bathrooms and you noticed he shifted his weight a bit as soon as you began moving; all while still not looking at you. He continued carrying on with his friends; laughing and joking as if you were of no interest to him at all. If only you could borrow a tiny bit of his self control right now, you might not have been watching him so intensely.

He stood up on his feet the moment you came right up to his side on your journey through the room.

In a swift motion, Baekhyun, stood on his legs and he removed his blue suit jacket, then he turned it around, leaned over to where you stood and placed it right over your shoulders as you walked by and the moment the warmth and the smell of him landed over your back, coating you entirely in the heat you’ve been craving since you walked into this bar, your feet stalled their forward motion and you actually froze in place.

Not him though, the action was smooth as hell. Just as fluidly as his initial surprising movement started, he continued the motion and spun back around in a circle, sitting down seamlessly, effortlessly, and very quickly as if he had never even gotten up in the first place.

But he did. He did get up. He did give you his warm jacket with all of his body heat and scent and he did it right here. He put it on you himself with his own two hands.

And everyone saw him do it.

He did that in this room full of people — people who had been drinking all night, people who knew the both of you, people who, at least half of which, knew of his intense crush on you. The room erupted into a drunken cacophony of hoots and hollers and you could feel the blood rushing straight up your neck and warming the skin of your cheeks.

“Shut up. She was just cold.” You heard his complaints clearly as he was obviously trying his best to quiet down the excitement he had just caused, “You guys are so dumb.”

You forced your feet to move. Gripping the lapel of his jacket tightly around your shoulders you took another step and then another, moving quickly away from the noise and chaos he had just caused, towards the sanctity of that bathroom that you so desperately needed right now.

After a few quiet moments your phone buzzed once.

“Sorry,” was all his text message read.

You opened it and read it but you did not reply. Instead you used the toilet, washed your hands, used your ice cold hands to cool the hot skin on your face as you gave yourself a quietly whispered little pep talk about what you should be doing with your eyes while you were out there. You decided that you would strike up an intense conversation with Sandi about her love life. You would be engrossed enough to hear about her escapades to keep your mind off of the handsome man who sat at the end of that table ignoring you while his very attractive “cousin” or whatever the hell she really was to him, giggled at his jokes and gave him free appetizers, and told him about a girl she was going to set him up on a blind date with and called him Sweetness in a saccharine tone. Did she think she was a southern debutante?

You derailed your own pep talk with the pain you felt in the palm of your hand. You were squeezing down so hard you saw little half moons pressed by your fingernails into your palm.

You took several deep calming breaths. You recognized that you were acting ridiculous. Self awareness is the first step to recovery. You reminded yourself of this mid-calming breath and when you emerged from that bathroom and stepped out into the hallway you noticed that much of that chaos and noise from earlier had settled down. You could hear voices, some excited shouting and some groaning and it sounded like the group had finished dinner and had moved on to some sort of game. Knowing this group, it was likely a drinking game; hence the over the top groaning and cheering.

A quick peek around the corner kept your feet from moving forward because Baekhyun’s chair was empty. Had he left for the bathrooms as well?

Your shameless curiosity drove your legs to move in the other direction because your ears picked up on a familiar voice, just off a corner from where you stood.

It was his voice for sure. He was chatting and there was a word attached to a statement in a woman’s voice that gripped you so tightly to hear it said out loud.

Fiancé

She said the word fiancé.

Only the word and its meaning was skewed and broken because she was speaking to him quite obviously, about someone other than you.

“I saw your fiancé the other day,” she said. You felt a spindly pins and needles sensation slipping up the back of your spine.

He responded in a low voice. You couldn't make out what he said. It was some sort of low, rough tone.

“Oh really? That’s not what I heard.” She replied in a cocky, confident tone and you heard him clear his throat. Was that a nervous, caught sort of throat clearing? Was it annoyed or denial? Your lungs burned and you felt as if there wasn’t enough air to clear the anxious buzzing happening inside of your skull.

Fiancé? You felt a dizzy, sinking feeling inside.

Had Baekhyun been engaged to marry someone? Someone he loved, maybe? You could not help the way your neck craned to get closer and the few steps you took as you closed your eyes, begging to be able to hear what he was saying to her. The sounds of his clear yet quiet voice, at last, broke through the noise.

“last year — bullshit — excuse for a mother — my life is mine — can think whatever they want — drove me to a point — almost gave up — ”

You only got bits of it but from the little you had to work with you could tell right away and with the realization came an instant shame that covered from the over of your head down straight into your chest. This wasn’t something he had chosen. It wasn’t something he wanted any part of. Someone had been forcing him into it. And at some point last year, during his lowest point it seemed, fueled by some personal crisis, triggered and hopeless, desperately awful in every way — he called it all off.

Something so huge had happened in his life during that time and you had no idea about any of it.

You felt an acrid taste in the back of your throat. You took a step back and away from this and quickekend your steps further once you were sure you were out of earshot.

This isn't something you wanted to overhear about him like a sneaky jealous girlfriend who just couldn't stand the idea that every single bit of his mind was occupied only with you. You pulled the suit coat tighter around your shoulders as you moved. You felt dirty and unworthy of the sweet warmth he had given you as you did it. It was an awful feeling; knowing you had overheard something like that; something he likely didn’t want you to know about.

You wanted him to tell you all about his past, no matter how painful it was, but with his own two lips. You wanted him to share his past pain with you just as you would share your own past with him; but only when you both were ready for it and only on each other's terms.

Your stomach ached with the idea of leaving this to fester. Leaving this guilty feeling to sit inside of you without speaking to him about it; without apologize to him for your blatant jealous, shameful eavesdropping.

You had found a small nook just off of that hallway and you stood there chewing on your thumb nail and you waited.

It didn't take very long before you saw the first glimpse of him. He wa heading back to the table and you reached a hand out, touching his arm from where you were hidden inside of your little hole. He actually flinched and yelped out in surprise when you touched him.

“Jesus,” he was holding his chest as he whispered.

“Can I talk to you for a second? Just for a minute, please.” You recognized the serious tone on your own voice and it had you cringing for how ridiculously bad you felt about this. His face shifted instantly. He was overcome with a look of genuine concern and worry and he nodded his head, looked once behind him and made a motion with his hand toward another area of the bar. It was a space just off the kitchens where he led you to and once you followed him back there you found him leaning against the wall with his arms folded over his own chest in a fully protective stance. His eyes were full of worry and you realized that your choice of words, the ‘can we talk’ thing must have sent a jolt of panic through him; as it would have sent through you.

The second you came close enough for his whispered words to reach your ears you saw the small step he took in your direction. He lifted a trembling hand to reach out toward you and on his lips was the beginning of a pleading apology.

“I’m sorry about the jacket — ” he began. You lifted a hand and shook your head to cut him off.

“This isn’t about anything you did. I owe you an apology and I need to say it now or it’s going to destroy me from the inside.”

Your quick words closed up his mouth and his shoulders sagged as he his face ticked to the side in confusion. His didn’t speak but his eyebrows furrowed and you caught the stuttered breath that caught halfway inside his throat as he tried to breath through it.

“I overheard your conversation just now with your cousin. It was not my place to hear it. I was dealing with some imaginary jealousy about how friendly and how familiar you were with her and I heard you two talking and before I could stop myself, I was listening to what you both spoke about. I’m so sorry I did that. It was awful of me to do. I feel as if… that was your private … life .. and if the tables were turned and you had done what I did, I might be upset about it. I’m so sorry, Baekhyun.”

He was motionless throughout your entire confession and apology and when you were done speaking you inhaled a deep breath and held it as you anxiously watched his face for any signs of what he was thinking about what you had done.

You saw a wave of motion move through him and he turned away from you for a moment as his hand ran over the length of his face. When he angled himself back in your direction his brown eyes sat heavy and deep within your own and he looked at you with a pull of his chin upward.

Before he spoke he licked his lips and his face twisted into the smallest grimace.

“You didn’t need to ever tell me that you heard that—” He started speaking. A clear upward inflection in his words that signaled very plainly that he wasn’t finished speaking with this one phrase. You couldn’t help yourself though.

Your nerves had your hands shaking and your voice trembling. “It was wrong of me to list—” you interrupted him but as soon as your words left your lips he raised a hand to stop you from speaking. You knew you were wrong. You knew you were moving out of turn and his quick hand and with the tight way he closed his eyes, instantly stopped your silly tongue from moving any further.

“Stop, please—“ he begged quietly and you bit down on your lips to keep yourself better behaved.

“You— didn’t need to tell me this…you could have gone the rest of our lives never mentioning that you knew this until one day it came up and I told you — I told you how painful it was, how hard it was for me at the time and you could have just pretended not to know and acted so surprised to hear that yes, I was being forced to marry someone I don’t know, against my will, my entire life and future being stolen from me because of disgusting greed and how very fucking close I came to not even existing at all anymore because of that pain—”

“I would have told you about this. Absolutely, and without a doubt, I would have told you everything, but you — you — instead you — instead you have given me honesty. You chose, for me, to be so very gracious and beautifully true to me and save me the years of the indignity of believing something about you that isn’t true.”

“Do you realize how insanely unparalleled you are? Do you have any idea how high of a standard you set?”

“How can I ever compare to you? I think I would have listened and I wouldn’t have even felt guilty about it. I wouldn’t have told you I heard anything. I don’t feel like I deserve you at all, but goddammit I love you so much I feel like I’m going to cry.”

His heavy words pulled your arms down from your chest and they hung lifelessly by your side. You felt pulled in every way, down into this carpeting that covered the floor below your feet. You had to close your eyes and drop your face and you slumped and sagged deep on the inside under the immense weight of all of this.

“You don't have to be so quick to forgive me,” you whispered and you heard the movement in front of you when he took a step. You noticed the shadow of his arms moving around you a second before you felt the warmth of his embrace as he circled himself around you, pulling your shoulders inward with the pressure of his hug; he pulled you firmly into his chest; tucking his face into your hair just over your shoulder and the breathe he inhaled from here trembled and shook.

“There is no part of my life that I want to keep private from you,” he spoke directly into your ear and you stumbled backward with the force of this embrace. “Let’s just think of this as a fortuitous event. Now I don't have to lie to you or come up with some stupid excuse for why I’m too much of a coward to answer my mother’s phone calls.”

“I don't think that’s cowardice, Baekhyun. You don't want to be hurt. Anyone would avoid pain if they can help it.” You could feel the relaxation in his limbs as he loosened the tight hold he had on you. You used this opportunity to lift a hand and lightly tap along his arm, urging him to let you go. The crisis had passed and you were lucid enough to know that this sort of embrace was definitely not something co-workers did, no matter how much they had had to drink that night.

The food you’d both had earlier had really done some wonders for your resolve and self control because he let you go quietly and took a step back, leaning against the wall with his arms firmly crossed but much lower over his chest this time.

This time, it wasn’t to protect his heart from whatever potentially damaging word you might need to tell him. Now he took on a much more relaxed posture that looked almost too casual. He had a slight grin on his lips and his eyes had a bit of mischief that always, always put you on some level of alert. You knew this look. It was never good news.

“So you were jealous,” he said with a little head shake, “of my cousin?” With the second part of his question he sneered and lifted both of his eyebrows with a forced look of disapproval but just enough self serving amusement for you to understand that he was more much more flattered than creeped out by your ill-placed jealousy.

You rolled your eyes and you were certain much of the disgust he should have felt when he thought about a close relative was displayed all over your face. Why did he look so amused by you?

“She’s very touchy — calls you Sweetness — ugh, kisses you on the cheek and hugs you so tight with her,” you motioned with your hands over your own chest, “body pressed all up against you. I couldn't tell if she was actually a close family friend that you just called a cousin who obviously wants to sleep with you, or a real, honest-to-god first cousin.” A new thought occurred and you inhaled to keep going, “ugh, or like one of those fourth cousins, twice removed; the ones that you're legally allowed to marry and make babies with even if it is technically still gross.”

His eyes narrowed, with that smile still firmly planted in place on his lips and he looked up and away from your face. He was silent for a few seconds too long and his eyes trailed up over the top of your head. He was doing some intense thinking. Some genome math. Some heavy generational calculating. You did not like the looks of this.

“Actually, I think she might be like a third cousin, now that you put it that way. Pretty sure, legally, we would be allowed to get married and make tons of babies. The genes are technically far enough apart. It would still be kinda weird though... I mean, for me. I don't know how she would feel about it.”

A sound broke free from deep within your chest. It was a disgusted grunt and you threw your head back and released it from deep within you as you turned around; giving your back to him so you could walk away from this ridiculous man. You ignored the teasing little ‘he-he-hes’ that broke free from his mouth. You were done. You were finished with this conversation, if he was going to admit out loud that technically she wasn’t even close enough of a cousin to be illegal to marry — and how dare he one-up on your reasonable and vague number of babies by making it “tons of babies” — you didn’t want to hear any more. Not only was your jealousy justified, but this man was gross. Not legally gross, but technically gross.

You were walking away. You could hear him calling after you as you did it.

“But hey, I’m young and single right? I’m single and lonely and pathetic for the next four days, right?” The sassy, sarcastically delivered quip stopped you in your tracks and you instantly turned back around, took three quick steps toward him so you could look right into his face. Just so you could see the look in his eyes as he dared to say such a thing. He seemed to physically recoil to see you return so suddenly.

You did not say anything; all you did was look at him but it seemed to elicit a strong reaction from him. His jaw snapped shut and his laughing, teasing expression shifted and turned extremely grave and serious with your unexpected and sudden return.

“I’m sorry. I was kidding. It was a joke.” He said the moment he was able to inhale a breath to speak, he gasped again, “joke — j-joke. Please don't hurt me.” He whispered nervously and you balked at the suggestion that you would dare resort to violence. All you could do was shake your head in disbelief. All you could do was lay a hand over your chest at the audacity of this man and after a few moments of neither of you moving, you simply turned and walked away.

You returned to your seat at the table alone; although, still wearing his blue coat. The color complimented the shimmering sparkle of your pretty dress perfectly and it was warm and it smelled like him. You wiggled into your seat and Sandi and Marci each handed you a drink. One had beer and the other was smaller and had liquor. Were you really up to another round of this?

It didn’t really seem much up to you because another game was starting and you were up. This game was two truths and a lie. If your falsehood was sniffed out you had to drink and if you were safe with your lying skills the rest of the group had to drink. It was pretty cutthroat and the choice of the lie had to be unanimous and made within a 30 second timer. Phones were forbidden, even though these lies and truths were so personal there was no way someone would be able to google for an answer. Still, you were up first and you pondered for a few moments before you spoke. You picked something very safe. ‘I have never been on a rollercoaster. I am in my 30s. My first pet was a fish.’ Nothing risky and nothing incriminating but strangely enough the two options outside of your age had started quite the heated discussion. You smiled cryptically as even Baekhyun seemed genuinely torn between the rollercoaster and the fish option and when the timer on someone’s phone rang out the group scrambled and chose the roller coaster as your lie.

You shrugged and told them your first pet was a puppy and everyone groaned and drank their shots.

The game was fun and the further it progressed the more intense the discussions grew. There was analyzing from all perspectives and the truths and lies grew bolder and harder to believe.

The drinks were being thrown back at record speed and soon enough you felt the familiar buzz of the alcohol coursing through your system. Jongdae’s lie had been that he didn’t know how to tie shoes and there was much shouting as all of the men around him pointed out his perfectly tied shoelaces. Someone else mentioned how they saw him personally tying his daughter’s shoes the other day at the park and he was easily snuffed out. Baekhyun was up next and he lifted his finger to his lips in thought for a moment before he spoke out.

“I have a diplomatic passport. I own the hotel we were just at. I am in love with someone from work.”

The gasps were loud and came from all sides of the table at his scandalous words. Each one seemingly of equal intensity and you did you best to keep your expression neutral as you lifted your beer and took the smallest sip. The bottle in front of your mouth hid the tiny smile you had there and the discussion around the table seemed to be truly torn. All of the men believed the lie was about the hotel. There was much discussion about how much Baekhyun had to travel in his life and how that hotel had no mention of the Byun name on it. The men never even once questioned the phrase about Baekhyun’s work crush.

The women on the other hand seemed to fixate on this one. ‘I’ve never seen him interact with anyone except for Sunny, who he was training so he had to interact with her, and Miss Manager. Who else would it possibly be? He’s just too busy with actual work to be in love with someone. Unless he just never said anything and kept it to himself. I wonder who it is.’

Eventually the men were louder and pushier made their decision stick; doubting Baekhyun’s ownership of the hotel and you had to smile widely simply because you could not stand knowing exactly which was the lie and being powerless to say anything out loud about it. You simply sat here with your beer in your hand, relishing in his little confession hidden within this game.

They were all wrong. You had to take a shot as well and his eyes were on you as you did it. Those lovely eyes shot tiny little hearts in your direction and you hardly even felt the burn of the strong liquor going down your throat.

“The diplomatic passport?” Junmyeon asked Baekhyun noisily, demanding answers and Baekhyun just smiled and looked down into his drink.

“Wait, so you own the hotel? No way.” Marci asked him across the table and Baekhyun nodded his head once and lifted the beer to his lips.

“I don't believe it. They’re all lies. He’s lying about all of them.” Her tone was petulant; made sulkier sounding with the amount of alcohol she had consumed and he leaned over toward Marci with his own cell phone in his hand.

“Marci, look up the number of the hotel. You can watch me type it.”

Marci took the challenge personally and began reading numbers out loud which Baekhyun carefully typed into his phone. On the last number the entry changed to a saved phone number with the name of the hotel and he placed the call on speaker so everyone could hear. The phone rang exactly once before a polite voice answered.

“Mr. Byun, What can we do for you tonight?”

”Sooyoung, can you let me know how many empty rooms we have left tonight? My friends need somewhere to crash after the party. Do we have enough for,” he lifted his hands and counted each head at the table. You ignored it when he skipped you and you hoped to God these drunk people weren’t paying enough attention to notice that neither you, nor he got counted. “Ten more?” He said after counting. A typing sound echoed over the stunned and silenced group and after a few moments the woman returned to the line. “We have enough, Mr. Byun. I will get them ready for your friends. I’ll place the room keys under your name at the front desk, sir.”

He thanked the woman and the table erupted in more of that familiar chaos of cheers and applause. You noticed that Junmyeon (I am a Gemini. I love rabbits. My blood type is A), the man who sat right beside Baekhyun had a puzzled look on his face and he lifted a hand to count the heads at this table, coming back not quite with the same number as Baekhyun had counted and puzzling over it while looking down at his own finger.

“Wait a minute,” Marci called out noisily. “If you own the hotel, and you don't have a diplomatic passport,” she gasped out loud and covered her mouth with wide eyes as the pieces slowly began to fall into place for her, “then who are you in love with from work?”

The attention of the girls was back on Baekhyun, but suddenly the group of men all jeered in her direction, clearly covering for him. “Hey, don't ask that,” someone said admonishingly. “A man’s gotta have some secrets,” someone else said.

“I thought it was pretty obvious already,” Kyungsoo, the quiet man with the big eyes abruptly spoke out in a smooth and low voice that could not have been more unexpected seeing as how he hadn’t said anything at all since his round of two truths and a lie (I like cooking. I have three dogs. I own six pairs of the exact same pants.)

“Let’s play truth or dare then,” Marci spoke up, quite put out with being told to zip it by this group of pushy men when she was clearly way too invested in this love story to let it go. If there was one thing you knew about Marci it was that she loved the gossip. All gossip. Any gossip. She was a sucker for it all. She was in this for the drama.

The of girls all cheered and you braced for the possibility of having to drink a lot more alcohol if you ended up being dared to do anything too risky, or possibly anything at all involving Baekhyun.

The next game was up. Minseok emptied his beer bottle and placed it on its side in the middle of the table and gave it a good spin. Sure this game wasn’t spin the bottle, but everyone liked the randomness of selecting the next victim in this way. As if pulled by some sort of act of fate the first spin landed on you. All at once, everyone’s face turned to look at you expectantly.

“Umm…truth, I guess.” You said, fully prepared to lie through your teeth if you had to.

”Do you know who he is in love with?” Marci wasted no time at all and the entire table erupted in rabid laughter. The laughter from the men’s side of the table was more intense than anything you’d heard from the group yet.

You steeled yourself; put on your best poker face, the one you used during business meetings and negotiations and you shrugged your shoulders with a slightly disappointed frown.

”I do not,” you said. The disappointed groans from all around were intense. Baekhyun’s eyes never left your face, not even for one second and you reached forward and grabbed the bottle to spin.

Tonight was not your night. The bottle landed on Baekhyun.

The noise was deafening and Baekhyun sat there with his eyes closed up tight in defeat with the smallest tense smile on his face.

“Truth or dare, Assistant Byun.” You said. You knew it was your part to ask, being the last one to spin the bottle.

“Truth,” he said, opening his eyes to look into your face.

Your mouth felt too dry and you sipped a little of your beer as you pondered the kind of question you could ask him that would satisfy this insane group of people but wouldn’t give anything away.

“Ask him who he loves. Do it. Do it,” Marci, Sunny, Dani, everyone was begging you to do it. The pressure you felt in this very moment was astounding. You had to inhale a slow and careful breath just to be able to stand this. The only silent one was Sandi beside you and you looked toward her just as she looked away from you.

You received her message. You figure this one out. I’m out of ideas, she said to you with her avoidance. The woman wouldn't even look at you. She was suddenly extremely interested in something she pretended to notice on the drink menu on the table in front of her.

“Umm…Assistant Byun, do you want to tell us who you are in love with?” It was a dirty manager trick. You technically didn’t ask him to answer the question. Anyone who heard this question would see your good intentions as you presented them. You could play ignorance quite easily for the mistake with your words and Baekhyun lifted a single eyebrow and smiled easily. God, he was a pretty man.

“Not really,” he said, clearly answering the question with honesty and satisfying the measure of the truth aspect of the game while still revealing absolutely nothing, thanks to your creative evasion.

The entire table moaned and groaned out loud. Some shouted in your direction, telling you to ask more directly next time and you laughed and gave your easy apologies to satiate this group of absolute drunken maniacs.

Whenever Baekhyun or any of his boys remained in charge of the line of questioning, things went pretty smoothly. They really were a good group of friends who had his back. The first real bit of trouble came when Marci had the spin and her bottle landed on Junmyeon who sat chewing on his fingernails beside a glaring Baekhyun.

“Truth,” she shouted ravenously, “or dare.” She added as an afterthought. She was trying to influence his decision and as his lips formed the letter D you actually heard her growling in his direction.

He caved so easily. A timid, “Truth?” Came from his lips and Marci pounced instantly.

“Who is Baekhyun in love with? I know you know.” Baekhyun was moving fast. He had his hands on the trembling man. The entirety of his side of the table filled with men were holding in their laughter, holding their bellies that hurt from laughing so much, and many of them braced for something to happen. Every single one of them had clearly had too much to drink by now. They would all suffer dearly for the over indulgence tomorrow, but tonight was just too much fun to stop now.

Junmyeon’s eyes went wide with terror and Baekhyun had lifted a hand to lay over the back of Junmyeon’s neck. You thought he might even be gripping tightly into his neck where no one could see.

”You’re thirsty, aren’t you.” Baekhyun lifted a shot of liquor up to Junmyeon’s lips and Junmyeon nodded his head and quickly and quietly swallowed the alcohol that Baekhyun poured into his mouth.

Beside them both, Jongdae was down on the floor laughing and wheezing through the tears that fell from his eyes.

You couldn't help your own laughter. The evening had progressed to such a point and so many near disaster moments had been carefully avoided you found yourself laughing just as much as the rest of them. Your cheeks were sore and your belly was sore and Junmyeon was spinning now. His bottle landed on Marci and everyone screamed out loud in agony recognizing that the cycle was never ending.

Marci was too determined, as were the other girls who had joined in this quest to uncover Baekhyun’s truth even if they had to sell their souls to do it. Theories began to be thrown around. It had to be someone here. Otherwise those men wouldn't have been so protective of Baekhyun and his secret. The girls were on fire; eyeing everyone else suspiciously on your side of the table and the next major crisis hit when Sunny’s spin landed on the aloof and very exhausted Kyungsoo. He had already had so much to drink and you could see the fatigue with all of this on his face.

In his best attempt at it, he picked dare.

“I dare you to whisper into my ear, the name of the person Baekhyun is in love with.”

The table had gone silent. These men knew the threat that they suddenly faced and Baekhyun’s eyes watched his friend with genuine worry. He blinked quickly and you heard the smallest plea, “Kyungsoo,” he said quietly.

You had some sort of an idea about this man. If anyone could stand up to Baekhyun and the rest of these men, it was probably Kyungsoo. He had a quiet sort of authority that you didn’t think many people would question. It wasn’t that he was unkind toward his friend. The man simply had a definite limit and had clearly reached it.

”I can’t drink anymore Baekhyun,” His words were very slurred and slowed down. The man stood up and rounded the table to where Sunny sat with an elated smile wide on her face and you watched with your heart in your throat as a whispered exchange happened between the two of them.

Kyungsoo then stood up straight and simply walked back to his seat and sat down.

Sunny though. Sunny’s hands flew up to her mouth to cover her surprised gasp and her wide eyes flew around the table as her entire face turned pink with excitement.

On both of her sides the girls were tapping her, and begging to be let in on the secret. It really did seem as if they knew something concrete with how very stunned they all looked once they had learned of the secret name.

Across the table, Baekhyun stared ahead of himself without any focus.

Everyone was very drunk already. Maybe no one would remember any of this tomorrow.

The group of men had all gone silent and after a few moments of whispering between the girls that pointedly did not land into your ears, a strange silence fell over the room.

“Well?” you said rather unceremoniously and abruptly. You couldn't stand this anymore. The cat was clearly out of the bag and you needed to know exactly what Kyungsoo had told Sunny and what had that girl all flushed and bashful about. You needed to know what you were working with to know how to act about it.

You needed either some damage control, or some denial to be happening right now but none of them were telling you anything. They just looked into each other’s faces and down at the table in front of them.

Your question was ignored. It was very unlike them, but they did it.

It was Kyungsoo’s spin and he grabbed the bottle and gave it a good go. You watched that stupid thing come to a stop pointed right at you and you lifted your eyes to look at the man.

“Truth,” you said before he had a chance to ask. As soon as you spoke, he did too.

“How do you feel about Baekhyun?” When the man said he was tired, he really meant it. He wasted no time. You felt the heat of everyone’s eyes on your face and the longer you sat here with this question hanging in the air above your head the less you really cared that much about what you chose to do. You avoided all of their eyes as you deliberated.

If you answered truthfully, well…

If you drank to avoid the question, well…

You weren’t much for bravery. You grabbed your shot glass and downed the liquor. The moment the glass touched your lips the table exploded. Someone was shaking Baekhyun by the shoulders, pulling him violently back and forth and you could see the laughter on his face.

“She didn’t answer it!” someone shouted excitedly.

“That could also mean she hates him and is just too nice to say it!” someone else shouted with the exact same level of enthusiasm.

You truly began to feel a lot of the same fatigue that Kyungsoo had been complaining about. His head was down on the table now and his eyes were closed. You couldn't be sure he hadn’t passed out right here at the table.

It was your spin and you gave it a good go. It landed on Marci and she looked into your face with her lips pulled up tight in surprise. She gave you the tiniest hiccup as a response and you looked into her face; suddenly very, very tired of playing this game.

“Truth or dare?” You said to her. Her choice did not matter. You would get it out of her either way.

She picked dare and you shrugged, “I dare you to tell me who he is in love with. You can whisper it into my ear if you want.”

Marci looked nervously around the room. No one seemed to have any suggestions or offer her any help and so she just swallowed nervously and leaned into you.

You heard her small inhale up close to your ear before she whispered, “Baekhyun is in love with you.”

The sensation of hearing this whispered into your ear at a time like this, while being closely observed by every single person at this table who knew what you had just been told was like an out-of-body experience.

You were floating up above your body. You could see the top of your head, you watched the nervous way you reached out for your beer and lifted it to take a big drink of it. You could see yourself fidgeting with the napkin underneath the beer, tearing it into tiny pieces with your fingertips and rolling the bits into little logs that you dropped onto the table cloth. This whole setting was a mess and you had been the one to make the mess. Across the table, you saw Baekhyun as he sat there completely motionless with arms crossed tightly over his chest, his posture sagging low in his seat and his eyes watching your face intently. It didn't look like he was breathing.

The entire bar was so quiet you could have whispered and every single person at this table would have heard you.

You inhaled a breath and blinked slowly, pulling your eyes up to look into Baekhyun’s across this table. You still did not feel like you were inside of your own body; making these choices; saying these words. You were not involved in this anymore. This woman who wore your face and sat here in your spot was inhaling to speak and opening her mouth as she prepared her voice to say something.

“Byun Baekhyun,” you said. Ten stunned faces turned away from you and looked at Baekhyun.

“Yes ma’am?” He answered through clenched teeth.

Tiny gasps peppered throughout the group. It was like a tennis match, they were looking at you again. Faces were covered with hands; gaping mouths were hanging open; someone was making a wild whimpering sound and smacking someone next to them in excitement.

“I don't think it’s her turn to ask. Marci is the one who has to spin next.”

“Oh my God, shut the fuck up. Let her speak.”

“What the fuck is happening right now.”

“I am going to pee my pants.”

“Yes ma’am. He said, yes ma’am.”

“She said his fucking name. Let them speak.”

The rules no longer seemed to matter anymore.

Kyungsoo had lifted his head from the table and was watching you too.

“Are you in love with me?” You looked into his brown eyes, doing your very best to keep the tremble out of your hands. You had to shake your head a little bit to clear some of the heavy nerves that suddenly made your mouth go dry and Baekhyun did not answer your question right away.

”I thought you said not tonight.” His muttered response was cryptic and vague enough to bring more confused faces back to watch you for your answer. He was right. You had been the one to make this rule and you were the first one to break it. You’d always been very good at breaking all of your own stupid rules when it came to him.

“Baekhyun, are you in love with me?” The attention was back on him and he lifted both of his hands and rubbed them roughly over the length of his face.

Someone beside him poked him lightly on the arm, whispering something encouraging in his ear. Answer her. Tell her. Say it.

His eyes were closed.

When he inhaled to speak, a single earth-shattering word rang out.

“Yes,” he said.

He spoke it so softly; pulling his eyes back up, opening them and letting them land squarely inside of your eyes. He left the word to linger on his open mouth for a moment before he inhaled another half breath; just enough air for him to speak again.

“Yes, I am. I love you. Desperately.”

No one was moving. No one was breathing. Mouths and eyes hung wide open.

“Holy shit,” someone whispered under their breath. “This is insane,” someone else whispered to the person at their side.

The silence was going on for too long and someone cleared their throat. You hadn’t responded with any words to Baekhyun’s answer to your question and after much too long of everyone sitting shell-shocked it was Kyungsoo who moved first. He reached forward and spun the bottle in the middle of the table and twelve sets of eyes stared down at the spinning thing until it came to a clumsy meandering stop pointed directly at the man who had just shocked the entire room with his love confession to you.

“Baekhyun, I dare you to kiss her.”

The once silent table erupted in commotion again. There was an excited energy surging through every single person at this table and you had to close your eyes to block out the pinkness you saw in his cheeks as his friends all tugged at his sleeve, shook his shoulders, sent urging words deep into his ears with such intense insistence that he finally sighed out loud and asked his friends a simple question.

“Should I?”

Baekhyun was pushing himself away from his seat at the table. He was standing up on his two wobbling legs and he took several large steps in your direction.

Your eyes were wide as you watched him. You felt too surprised to do anything other than watch to see what he would actually do.

You hadn’t expected the speed with which he reached your side and you felt so caught off guard with his sudden close proximity that you stood up the moment he came up to you.

It all happened so quickly. You had stood to face the man who marched up to you and you gasped when you felt his arm slip around the back of your waist. He pulled you into him and you stumbled enough for his coat to fall off of your shoulders and pool down at your feet.

Your balance felt unsteady. You reached for his waist out of habit, out of that familiarity with the shape of this man and the way he fit so perfectly with your body. You wrapped your arms around his waist at the same moment as he reached up with his other hand and cradled your face in the palm of his hand and his eyes were down on your lips.

He leaned into you then. He kissed you. Right here with everyone watching.

He pressed his soft lips into yours and the gasps of shock from all around were drowned out by the loud pounding of your heartbeat inside of your ear drums. He tilted his head into you. You pulled his lips in between yours and you felt the soft wetness of his tongue as he slipped it along the surface of your teeth, biting down lightly on your bottom lip as he pulled away slightly, only to come back into you; deeper this time. Hungrier and more demanding. Definitely not something two people kissing for the very first time did. Definitely not the kind of kiss for a room full of witnesses.

Oh, you felt ablaze with this. You’d forgotten every single rule you’d ever fooled yourself into believing you could follow.

When at last Baekhyun pulled his mouth off of yours, you felt the trembling inside of your chest at this brazen act. Your hands felt shaky, your legs felt like you might drop at any second. You felt your breathing too heavy to settle easily and he rested his forehead over yours as he breathed just as heavily.

Your hand had wandered and you dropped your fingers from where they had threaded into his hair at the nape of his neck. With your bodies pressed up against each other’s and his heavy breaths fanning over your wet lips he opened his eyes and looked into yours and your lips pulled into the smallest smile. This kiss felt like the beginning of something. You felt an overwhelming relief surging through your chest and you watched his own smile slowly manifesting on his face. You leaned into him, placing the smallest kiss on that pretty smile of his. The man giggled softly when you did it.

“Jesus Christ.”

“Byun Baekhyun, you goddamn—”

“The son of a bitch did it.”

“He did it”

“A long time ago from the looks of it”

You had to turn your head away from them all; covering your mouth with a trembling hand you moved and you felt curious movement from his fingertips along your right hand that now hung limp by your waist.

He was lifting your hand. He was pulling at your ring finger there and you turned to look at his actions as he very steadily and carefully removed the diamond engagement ring you’d been wearing on the wrong hand all night.

He held it up in between his thumb and index finger and peered through the hole of the ring before he turned to you with his empty hand raised, palm up asking for you to give him your left hand.

You were out of any bit of resistance. You laughed and lifted your left hand and placed it carefully inside of his and he slipped the ring onto the ring finger of your left hand with the widest, cheekiest, most breathtakingly beautiful smile you’d ever seen.

You responded to that smile with a hopeless laugh of your own and you felt him lifting your left hand up in the air.

“What?!” their voices all shouted.

“They’re getting married?!”

“What is happening?”

“Oh my god I can't believe this”

”You’ve got to be kidding me. Since when???”

”Are you telling me we didn’t know anything about this?”

Chairs had fallen to the floor. Drinks were spilled and dripped messily all over the table and the floor. People were on their feet shouting. Some were screaming. Some were laughing and clapping. First in confusion, then in understanding and acceptance and the place was a thunderstorm of so much commotion that even the staff and chefs had come out from the kitchen to gawk at the strange occurrence that was happening out in their dining room.

“For the record, I knew.” Sandi raised a hand at last and the reactions were mixed. Some demanded to know how she would have dared to keep this big a secret for so long. Others were simply flabbergasted that such a big thing could have happened right under their noses.

Baekhyun was giggling. The unparalleled joy you saw in his face matched the elation you felt inside of your body as you laughed with him. Doing your best to answer whatever questions you could answer as tactfully and respectfully as possible and after much of the chaos and drama had subsided enough for you to manage to get a word in you raised your voice, calling all of their attention again.

“By the way,” you began with a smile as you turned to look into his joyful face.

Your next words sent them into a wild round of cheers and applause.

“You are all invited to the wedding.”

The End.

Thank you for reading. I love you all!

Can I Stay? Masterlist

#Aaaawww #The ending is perfect #Finally it's out in the open ❤️#So happy for them #Thank you for writing this #You made me swoon and giggle and grin widely #Sigh #(And I love your humor!!!)

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itsallabouthedetails · 2 months

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by the time i've figured out what it's worth | myg

(or, sometimes you go through hell, and sometimes you make it to the other side.)

✤ PAIRING musician!yoongi x f. reader ✤ SUMMARY you used to find comfort in it—listening to those old songs. the shy sounds of falling in love, the tinkling of a ring in a dish, the inevitable crash and burn. all those songs aren’t so comforting anymore, when you’d do anything to keep him and yoongi’s got one foot out the door. ✤ GENRE est. relationship, marriage au | angst, smut, fluff ✤ RATING explicit. minors dni. ✤ WARNINGS this fic deals with a lot of unhappy topics: mental health, self-worth, divorce, the general demise of a relationship & marriage, counseling & therapy—therefore, there are moments of heavy-ish angst. there are moments where this couple is not all that nice to each other. there are arguments and resolutions. so, it's heavy but they get through it (aka there is a happy ending). american setting, yoongi is a solo artist, everyone pls pray for marriage counselor kim namjoon, seokjin is once again the fic's mvp, swearing, alcohol, recreational drug use (weed/edibles), one quick reference to c*vid, emotional hurt/comfort, miscommunication, two knuckleheads engaging in knucklehead behavior, lots of repetition and space metaphors. this is basically "what would happen if yoongi wrote tiny vessels about his wife: the fic," so do with that what you will. ✤ SMUT WARNINGS oral sex (both receiving), fingering, very slight dom yoongi, dirty talk, unprotected vaginal sex, multiple orgasms, angst and crying during sex, hands on throat but no choking, fingers in mouth bc it's me. i think that's it. the smut is mostly tame. ✤ WORDCOUNT 20k ✤ LISTEN TO all of transatlanticism by death cab for cutie, especially "tiny vessels." all the lyrics used throughout the fic are from this album, so it'd help contextualize a lot! also "monday morning," "stay young go dancing," and "you are a tourist." ✤ WRITTEN FOR the composition of the century collab. thank you to isi (@raplinesmoon), ryen (@kithtaehyung), and mars (@joheunsaram) for letting me participate. ♡ ✤ THANK YOU to jess (@the-boy-meets-evil) and bee (@hot-soop) for being my betas. this was a labor of love and a big ask, so i appreciate the both of you very much. ✤ AUTHOR'S NOTE hi! thank you for checking out my fic. before you read, i just want to overemphasize that this is a pretty angsty piece at times. a lot of it is very personal, and therefore i understand if it's not your cup of tea! if you do read it, i hope you enjoy it and find something human here. relationships are messy because humans are messy, and sometimes both the easiest and most difficult thing you can ever do is love another person.

so this is the new year, and i have no resolutions / or self-assigned penance for problems with easy solutions.

There’s a woman on the television trying to sell you a recliner.

Yoongi isn’t paying attention. He’d downed two glasses of whiskey and said he had something to work on, and he’s here, just like you’d asked, but the distance between the two of you feels insurmountable. Your ninth New Year’s Eve together, and all you’ve got to show for it is a crumbling foundation, a pair of headphones shoved over his ears, a woman on the television trying to sell you a recliner. Some home shopping channel, because you couldn’t bear to see anyone else having a good time. Selfish. Fucking selfish, and you wonder if Yoongi would be on your end of the couch if you weren’t.

What does it matter. You’d be here either way, because you’ve made peace with knowing there are things that are built to last and things like what you and Yoongi have: things that make you hesitant, things that make you yearn, things that sit in your stomach all wrong, taste caustic on your tongue.

It’s logical, then, that you just need something to do. A distraction. You push yourself up from the couch with a sigh, joints cracking, and you feel old. Exhausted, more like; something bone-deep and not easily cured. You pass through the dining room on the way to the kitchen, and all those wedding photos taunt you. Happier times, the two of you smiling into a kiss, Yoongi’s hands on your waist, fingers tangled in chiffon.

You wonder which one of you will stay here after it all goes to shit.

Him, if you were a betting man.

You scrub at the dishes in the sink until your hands are nearly cracked from the scalding water. Yellow gloves sit unused on the counter—sometimes you want the burn because pain is familiar, and a physical pain is easier to solve than your failing marriage. So you scrub away the remnants of a dinner that found you and Yoongi eating in silence. Nothing to say to one another after another year gone by. Not much to look back on fondly. And then you scrub some more, like you could get rid of all the scabs inside of you just as easily.

Some things circle the drain and wash away. Others stain.

You already know which one Yoongi is.

From the living room, the muted sounds of a countdown. Palpable excitement you should be able to feel, but find only numbness instead. Yoongi must have changed the channel. There’s a supercut playing in your head, all the past celebrations. All the parties the two of you have gone to, the years spent alone but together. All the people you’ve kissed in front of. All the quiet, private ways Yoongi used to tell you he loved you. When was the last time? What does it matter. There’s seven seconds until the new year and Yoongi hasn’t come looking for you, so what does it fucking matter.

Fireworks explode outside. A sob wracks your body as you crumble to the floor. There’s a small puddle of dishwater that seeps into the hemline of your shirt. Yoongi hasn’t come looking for you and he can’t hear you, so there’s no one to witness your breakdown but the fucking dishes in the sink. Yoongi had chosen the countertops.

You’re going to miss this place when it’s no longer your home.

instincts are misleading / you shouldn't think what you're feeling / they don't tell you what you know you should want.

Kim Namjoon wouldn’t have been your first choice, if you’d had the luxury of choice.

You like him enough, though. Wicked smart, patient to a fault, pragmatic when it’s required. There’s not much more you could ask for in a marriage counselor besides not needing one at all, but that hadn’t been in the cards. The first time you and Yoongi had met him, you’d cracked a joke that hadn’t landed. The embarrassment of it still stings, made worse by the discomfort of the couch in his office.

“How are things?” he asks. He always dresses impeccably. Today he’s in a sage green sweater and tan trousers that must’ve cost a fortune to get tailored. Even his notebook is genuine leather; sometimes it squeaks when he jots down notes too fast, friction against the fabric of his clothing.

Yoongi is quiet. If you’re embarrassed over a joke, he’s embarrassed over everything else. At least you’re willing to work on things. Getting Yoongi to do anything these days is akin to pulling teeth, and you’ve got a mouth full of blood. “Fine,” Yoongi answers, eyes locked downward. Namjoon’s office has hardwood floors. Tigerwood, he’d said once. Yoongi had complimented them. That had stung, too.

Wicked smart. Namjoon turns to you, glasses slipping a little down his nose. “Would you agree with that?”

You wouldn’t, but the urge to make this easy on Yoongi is hard to fight off. Everything is hard. It’d taken him twenty minutes past midnight to come find you in the kitchen all those weeks ago, chest still heaving, eyes swollen. He’d been distraught, tried to kiss your tears away, apologized over and over like they were the only words he knew. Things aren’t fine, but at least you’ve been willing to fight, and the cost of that persistence feels like the weight of the world.

“No,” you admit, and Namjoon just nods. Writes something down. You don’t have the courage to look at Yoongi. Sometimes it’s easier to let go of a dying thing.

“Okay. How were the holidays?”

It’s hard to breathe around the lump in your throat. All you want to do is hold Yoongi’s hand, scream at him, shake him and ask why he’s doing this to you. Why he’s giving up. Why you aren’t worth more effort—not worth it anymore, when you used to be. If he doesn’t love you anymore you’ve already said you’ll go, and he begs you not to, says he’ll do better, he’s sorry, please don’t.

“They were hard,” you answer, and Yoongi nods his agreement in your peripheral. “We didn’t exchange gifts this year. First time ever.”

“And why is that?”

Yoongi stays quiet. Like pulling teeth, you think, and there’s a flashbang of anger, resentment. Sometimes you want to hurt him. Sometimes you want to make him feel as awful as you do, want him to suffer, want him to atone. It isn’t fair, the things you think, and all you want to do is love your husband without guilt, without wondering if there’s someone out there who’d appreciate it more. Still, you’ve got a nasty streak, and you can’t help but press on the bruise. “Because I knew I’d be the only one.”

“Can you expand on that?”

You shrug. Pick at invisible dirt beneath your nails. “Yoongi said he’d be busy this year. I know what that means.”

“That’s not—” Yoongi sighs, cuts himself off. Runs his hands over his face, sick of this same argument. “Baby, that isn’t fair. I asked you if you wanted to do gifts this year and you said no.”

The laugh that bubbles out of you is derisive, cruel. You’re sick of the same arguments, too. Sick of feeling stuck, some helpless animal in a glue trap. Sick of this office, with Namjoon’s priceless art that doesn’t mean a fucking thing to you; the tigerwood floors that got nicer words out of Yoongi than you have in months; the low thrum of the baseboard heat. Sick of asking Yoongi what you can do, what you can change to make this work, and getting nothing besides a self-deprecating sigh.

Yoongi loves you. Doesn’t want to hurt you. Doesn’t want you to put those kinds of burdens on your shoulders, but taking on all that water himself does nothing but make the both of you sink.

He’ll write about it, though. That’s the thing. Yoongi will write about it, and it used to bring you comfort—listening to those old songs, an aural timeline of your and Yoongi’s relationship. The shy sounds of falling in love, the tinkling of a ring in a dish, the inevitable crash and burn. All those songs aren’t so comforting anymore, when you’d do anything to keep him and Yoongi’s got one foot out the door.

“Because I listened to the song,” you say, and it should feel relieving, should alleviate some of that weight you’ve been carrying around. Instead, you just feel guilty, confessing to some cardinal sin. Yoongi goes stock-still, doesn’t dare to breathe, spine straighter than it’s been in years, and all you feel is guilt.

Namjoon quirks an eyebrow. “The song?”

this is the moment that you know that you told her that you loved her, but you don't / you touch her skin and then you think that she is beautiful but she don't mean a thing to me.

“It wasn’t meant to be about you,” Yoongi says, and his words are pleading, like if he uses the right inflections he can get you to understand. “It was just—shit, I don’t know, I just. I was just writing. I needed to do something with the way I was feeling.” His words take on more panic the longer you’re quiet, and by the end there’s a dazed look in his eyes. They’re taking on water, too. “Baby, please. Did you really think—”

This isn’t the kind of argument meant for an audience, and you’d said as much in therapy. Told Namjoon you’d like to discuss it with Yoongi in private and maybe you could all hash it out during your next session, because you knew this would happen. Knew you’d break down, knew you’d be embarrassed. How do you say your husband wrote a song about not loving you anymore and make it out still feeling whole? How do you swallow all that anger and remember all that bullshit Namjoon had taught you about how to communicate? Your stupid fucking “I” statements.

“Silver Lake?” you retort, resentment burning in your veins. “That wasn’t supposed to be about me? What, are you fucking someone else out there?”

Your husband looks like you’ve slapped him, and sometimes you want to. Sometimes you want to opt out of this life—where they’re just words to Yoongi, but a little too biographical to you. Because you’re not the only one who listens. Yoongi writes these songs and people listen to them and they think, isn’t he married. They think, did he really write a song like this about his wife. They think, that’s a little fucked up. Because they’re just words to Yoongi, and the rest of the world doesn’t know. They’re not in on the joke, and neither are you.

There are few words you can use to explain your hurt. How you’ve sat with that song these past few weeks, scouring each line for something to tell you it hurts now, but it’s going to be okay. Always coming up empty. Those lines you’ve fixated on, refused to let go of—

So when you ask, "Is something wrong?" I think, "You're damn right there is, but we can't talk about it now.”

—because that’s how it is, how it goes.

“This is my fucking life, Yoongi.” There’s only heat where there used to be patience. “You write these songs and you don’t spare a single thought for how they might affect me. You write these songs instead of talking to me, and I’m supposed to know how to fix everything, right? Aren’t I? You can’t even tell me how to fix this fucking marriage, but you’ll write a song about how I don’t mean a goddamn thing to you.”

There are tears rolling down your face. You hadn’t realized you started crying, but everything feels wet, feels wrong. Feels like you’re occupying a body that isn’t yours. You’re having this argument in someone else’s bedroom. You’re watching someone else’s marriage fall apart. Someone else’s life. “Either help me fix this and put in the work or let me go.” Everything boils over eventually. There’s only so much you can stave off before the inevitable, and now it’s come for you. “Please.” You choke on a sob. “Yoongi, please, I’m so tired.”

And Yoongi—Yoongi’s got a lot of nervous habits. Little things he does when the anxiety gets to be too much, and there’s one you share, one of those couple things where you pick up one another’s mannerisms, ways of speaking, specific inflections. Yoongi fidgets with his wedding band, pushes it up to that knobby fourth knuckle with his thumb, twirls it around.

Usually, when he pushes it far enough, there’s a strip of even paler skin. A place the sun hasn’t touched; a place that bears proof that Yoongi is yours. Yoongi pushes his wedding band with his thumb and that strip of skin matches the rest, and it strikes someplace deep that’s irrational and unfair. Because it makes sense that there isn’t a discrepancy, that everything is uniform. It makes sense, but everything is so fragile that the thought comes unbidden. Maybe there’s no discrepancy because Yoongi isn’t wearing it. Maybe there’s no discrepancy because Yoongi has let go without letting go, and there’s nothing to salvage, no point in begging, in putting the gun in his hand and forcing him to make the decision. It all tastes sour, tastes like your tongue has crumbled to ash, but—

“I’m not letting you go,” Yoongi responds, words just as waterlogged as yours. “I can’t. I won’t.”

“But you want to,” you say, and it sounds like a conclusion but you mean it like a question. A plea. Perhaps that’s the crux of it: you just can’t say what you mean. Sometimes Yoongi’s honesty feels like a brand, a permanent reminder of everything he’s ever felt that you’re forced to carry, but at least there’s honor in that. At least Yoongi doesn’t talk in fucking riddles.

He shakes his head. “No.” At least there’s conviction in his words. “No, I don’t. This is just—it’s hard right now, okay. It’s hard and it fucking sucks, and I don’t know why, but I’m not—” He sucks in a breath. Sometimes Yoongi can’t say what he means, either.

“Just say it, Yoongi.” So, you prod. Sometimes you find the most mottled bruise on his body and you press on it, because when you love someone the way you love Yoongi, you also know all the ways to hurt them. Sometimes you hurt Yoongi when you mean to hurt yourself because it feels the same.

“What do you want me to say,” he answers, defeated and raw. “Tell me what you want me to say, because if I didn’t know better, it’d sound like you wanted me to leave. It sounds like you want that but you want me to be the bad guy. You want me to pull the trigger.”

You don’t. You know that for certain, just by the way it feels excruciating to merely think about. What would your life even look like without Yoongi? What would it be? But you’re still that caged animal. Still resentful of Yoongi’s composure, because you can fall apart at a moment’s notice and Yoongi is always calm, prepared; always the last building standing in a hurricane.

“I don’t want that,” you say, borrowing a bit of your husband’s honesty, his fortitude, “but I need you to know that’s where we’re at. I need you to be able to say it, instead of treating it like it’s some impossible thing—“

“It is,” Yoongi argues, brows pinched, lips pouted. “Baby, what are you saying? It is. Why wouldn’t it be? That’s what you want?”

“You don’t write songs like you did about someone you’re not planning on leaving, Yoongi. I don’t know how you don’t understand that. I don’t—how can you think it’s impossible? You think I’ve just been doing all of this for fun? The therapy, the crying? You think I haven’t already—” Mourned the end of my marriage, you want to say, but you can’t. You need to be realistic. You need to say what you mean, and even if it’s true—even if you’ve mentally divided up everything in this house, thehouse itself—it doesn’t do you any good to create new wounds when both of you are already beaten and battered.

“You’re my fucking wife,” comes Yoongi’s response, and the way he says it feels dirty. Yoongi calls you his wife the way lesser men would use a slur, and sometimes Yoongi is composed but sometimes he’s angry. Sometimes he’s so angry the world becomes too small to contain him. “I’m not gonna—you’ve already what? Given up? Checked out? It’s not fair, this thing you do. Decide how things are gonna play out before they even happen. It’s fucking bullshit. You’re my fucking wife, and the least you could do is give me a little credit—”

“Oh, that’s rich.”

Yoongi’s pupils blow wide. Sometimes you think they’re the darkest thing in the universe. Vantablack. “Yeah, it is. It is fucking rich.”

“At least I’m trying! At least I’m doing something, not just writing little fucking songs about how much I don’t care about you.”

Yoongi slams the door behind him.

For the first time, you wonder if he’s coming back.

i am waiting for that sense of relief / i am waiting for you to flee the scene / as if you held in your hand the smoking gun / and on the floor lay the one you said you loved.

You feel him before you hear him, and he doesn’t wake you up.

It’s dark. Probably sometime between one and two, judging by the pillar of moonlight creeping in through the curtains. Yoongi is quiet as he moves around the bedroom, still so considerate even now, and you just watch. Jeans removed one leg at a time, hung neatly in the closet; socks removed one by one, into the hamper; flannel unbuttoned with calloused fingers, dropped on the floor. He’ll pick it up tomorrow, just like he always does. Down to just a t-shirt, neckline loose and stretched from overwear, and black briefs.

Moonlight suits him, you think. (You’ve always thought.) Casts silver shadows on his skin, fills in the contours, lends credence to the thought that Yoongi is something ethereal, someone wasting his time on earth.

He’s down to a t-shirt and briefs, and he hesitates. Takes a step toward the bed and thinks better of it. Doesn’t know what to do in this liminal space, in this liminal period of time. There’s only two ways to go, and Yoongi will either leave or he’ll stay, and right now he doesn’t know which one it’s going to be.

“Yoongi,” you say, and you try to make the decision for him. “You’re home?”

You see him swallow, watch his shoulders slump. “Yeah,” he says, and it’s quiet like the nighttime. You’re in the middle of the city and this moment is so quiet. “I’m—did I wake you? I’m sorry, I just—”

“No,” you answer. You don’t want to fight. “You’re fine. Do you—are you coming to bed?”

He nods. Seems to fold in on himself just a little more. “Yeah. Yeah, just have to brush my teeth.”

There’s the padding of feet on hardwood. Something that sounds like a stubbed toe. A loud curse. The flick of the bathroom light, the faucet, spit. The padding of feet on hardwood, then the bedroom rug. The depression of the mattress, his phone plugged in and discarded carelessly on his nightstand. An exhale, like he’s finally home after a long day.

Does Yoongi still consider you his home?

“I’m sorry,” you say. Still quiet, just like the nighttime. “I don’t want to fight with you.”

You hear Yoongi swallow again. Smell just the faintest hint of alcohol. “No one’s fighting, baby,” he answers. Woven into his words is a softness you don’t deserve. “We can talk about it in the morning.”

“Can we talk about it now?”

Yoongi suits the moonlight, but so do you. It makes you brave. Sometimes things are easier to say in these in-between spaces: love and heartbreak, midnight and morning. Sometimes the sun is too reflective, and sometimes it burns.

“Do you want to?” You nod, even though instinct tells you to shirk away and take it back. A small piece of honesty to work yourself up to something bigger, more consequential. “Okay.”

Sometimes you get what you want and aren’t sure what to do with it, so you roll onto your side, the one facing your husband, and suck in a breath. Hold it. Count to five. Let it go. Yoongi reserves all his patience for you, always. “I’m really scared, Yoongi.”

His sigh is fractured, watery. “Me too,” he admits. “There’s a lot I want to say and I just—I don’t know how. Which makes it worse, I know, and then I don’t know how to fix it.”

Is that why… “The song?”

Yoongi nods. “I needed to get it out. Like, some call of the void shit, you know? Put those big fears into words in a way that—it doesn’t make sense, looking back, because I thought it was just an outlet. Just, write this hypothetical song about the collapse of our relationship because it fucking terrified me and then let it go. Like how sometimes Namjoon tells us to write letters to each other and burn them.” He fists the duvet. Moonlight gleams off his wedding band. “I’m sorry. I need you to know it wasn’t real… like that.”

“Okay.”

“I—you were right. About the other thing. About me not being able to say it.”

“Can you now?”

Yoongi shakes his head. “I don’t think I can. Makes it real.”

“You also can’t stand in a burning house and pretend it’s not on fire.”

That gets a laugh out of him. Sardonic, a little self-deprecating, but it’s there. “Is that where you’re at? With me.” He makes a sound that’s a lot like a whimper. “Divorce.”

“I don’t want to be,” you answer. Another small truth leading up to a bigger one. “I’m trying not to be.”

“But you are.”

Shakily, you nod. “Yeah, I am. Things just aren’t… they’re not working, even though I’m trying, and I just.” Yoongi’s hand finds yours. It’s sweat-slick and cold. “Sometimes I think it’d be the kind thing to do. Put us both out of our misery.”

“Relationship euthanasia.”

“Yeah, kind of. It’s funny, you know. My vet always used to say you’d know it’s time when there’s more bad days than good, so I guess that really is the best way to put it.”

“What would that even look like?”

You want to say you don’t know. That you haven’t thought about it. Is this the call of the void again or is this for real? But the twilight makes you honest, so you tell the truth. “I would leave,” you say. “I wouldn’t be able to stay here, and I couldn’t ask you to go. It’s always been more your space than mine.”

Yoongi hums an agreement. Not cruel, it just makes sense. “I’m not tied to this place,” you continue. “This city. This state. I’m not sure I’d be able to stay, knowing you’re still here in a house that used to be ours without me in it. But sometimes I’m scared I wouldn’t be able to leave, either.”

“You could,” Yoongi answers. When you look up, he’s crying. Cheeks streaked with tears, eyes swollen. “You can do anything, you know? You’re so much stronger than me. You could do the hard thing and be okay. It’s part of the reason I’ve been so scared to have this conversation. You might leave, and you’d be okay, and I wouldn’t.”

“Yoongi...”

“I know you’re tired,” he says, voice laying his own exhaustion bare, “but I want you to be happy. So I will—I’ll let you go, if it’s what you want.” He’s crying harder now, staccato sobs wracking his body, making him smaller. “I don’t want to,” he whispers. “I don’t think I can, but I will. For you. If it’s what you need. If it’ll make you happy.”

You can’t stand it. “Yoongi, no.” You’re on your haunches, wiping furiously at his cheeks, thumbing beneath his eyes. “Being apart from you would never make me happy.”

You’re in his lap. He’s still too anxious to reach out and touch, maybe still a little scorned, and his hands lay at his sides. Twist into the duvet again. You want them on you. You always want Yoongi on you. “Tell me how to fix this,” he begs. “Tell me and I’ll do it, I promise, baby, please just tell me. I can’t—I don’t want to—”

“Yoongi.” He looks up, meets your eye. Moonlight suits him. “Something has to change, and you know that as well as I do. We can’t keep going like this, but just—just meet me in the middle, okay? Help me. Let’s start there.”

“Okay,” comes his automatic response. He’d agree to anything right now. Take any lifeline. And then the words sink in, and the sobs taper off but he’s still got the shakes, so you hold him. Wrap him in your arms and just let him breathe. “Okay,” he repeats. Measured. Considered.

Still standing, even after a hurricane.

i need you so much closer, so come on.

Morning comes, and with it—tenderness.

Also the mug of coffee on your nightstand, Yoongi’s hand splayed on the swell of your hip, the warmth that seeps into your skin. He’s typing away on his phone with the other, and he abandons it to pull you closer when you stir.

“Morning,” you murmur. Yoongi’s reply rumbles against your back.

“S’the afternoon, baby.”

Your laugh is abrupt, soft. Dissipates into the air as quickly as it’d arrived. “Okay. Good afternoon, then.”

Yoongi shuffles closer, adjusts so he’s pressed fully against your back. The hand that was on your hip moves beneath the hemline of your shirt. Explores the soft skin of your stomach, thumbs at the valleys between each rib. Yoongi’s touch is always laced with soft confidence; now, he still knows the way, still has the map memorized, but he’s reluctant.

You place your hand over his, move it higher. His thumb grazes the bottom swell of your breast and he sighs, presses impossibly closer still. “I love you,” he says quietly, like a secret. “Want you to know that.”

“I do,” you answer. He sighs again at your affirmation—more of an exhale, all relief—and drops his head to the crook of your neck. Presses a kiss there. The heat of him is almost disorienting, especially after being deprived of it for so long. “Haven’t been this close to you in months.”

He nips at your ear with his teeth. “I’ll make it up to you,” he says, and something stirs low in your belly. “Take a shower with me. I still smell like the bar.”

You snort. “Very sexy. Top tier dirty talk.”

He presses another kiss beneath your ear. “Please?”

“Let me drink some coffee first. I’m barely awake.” When you roll onto your side, Yoongi looks small, on the verge of dejection. Soft. You can’t help but smile. Can’t help but reach out to smooth the furrow between his brows, kiss away his pout. “I’ll be there, I promise. Give me five minutes.”

He wants to push it, you can tell, but he just says okay, baby. Presses one final kiss to your forehead before he’s gone, before the sound of bare feet on hardwood returns, before you hear the shower turn on, Yoongi’s low hum as he patters around and talks to himself.

You sit up and take stock. Your eyes are sore, head feels like it’s been split in two, but your heart feels… lighter. Scabbed over. Another battle fought and won, and even though the war isn’t over, you feel cautiously optimistic. Better than you have in a while, and you’re smiling when you press the coffee mug to your lips. Still warm, so Yoongi hasn’t been awake much longer than you. You wonder how many cups he’s already had, if he drank them black.

Half your cup is gone before Yoongi starts yelling from the en suite, complaining loudly that he’s cold and lonely, to hurry up. That he’s going to use all the hot water out of spite, but what if it gets too hot, what if he perishes in here and you have to live the rest of your life overcome with guilt. If it’s too hot, wouldn’t I perish too? you call back. Yoongi’s responding silence is so loud, but you fill it with a wild cackle.

“I’m gonna use all the nice shampoo!” he yells, but you’re already in the bathroom.

“And you’re gonna pay to replace it,” you retort, and he’s so caught off-guard that you’re there that he screams, drops a bottle on his foot, screams again. Up and off goes your t-shirt—Yoongi’s; smells like him and not a bar—and then you’re peeling off your underwear, tossing everything in the hamper. Into the shower. You reach out and touch Yoongi just so he knows you’re there even though he already does, but you press a kiss between his shoulder blades all the same. “You okay?”

“Fine,” he grumbles, all embarrassment.

Yoongi had insisted on a large shower. Something big enough for the both of you to fit in, and he’d blushed furiously when talking about it, but it was never anything sexual. You’d tried shower sex once, back in that shitty Silver Lake apartment, and never bothered again. But Yoongi craved the intimacy of showering together, the vulnerability, and over time you found it almost lonesome to shower by yourself.

So when he says, “Come here,” there’s enough space to maneuver beneath the spray, warm and not perishable-hot, and stand beside him. Enough space for Yoongi to rake his hands through your hair, get the strands wet; enough space to reach back for the nice shampoo he didn’t use all of; enough space for him to lather it in his hands and massage it into your scalp. A practiced song and dance. Something Yoongi could never forget the steps of.

Rinsed out, down the drain. Yoongi works in the conditioner next, brushes it through with his fingers, presses a kiss to your shoulder. “I was talking to Jin,” he says, and your mind is blank for a second. Then—when you woke up and he was on his phone. “About the cabin.”

“The one in Oakhurst?”

Yoongi nods. Turns you around so your back is to the spray, facing him. Lets the water rinse the conditioner away, too, before he’s placing a hand beneath your chin, tilting your face up. “Would you wanna go? Just us?”

“How long?”

A thumb settles in the contour of your cheek. Third finger traces the bridge of your nose. “However long you want. I—I don’t have anything, for a while. Could you work from there?”

You nod, a little delirious on how gentle Yoongi’s being with you. “Ye-yeah. Should be fine.”

You suck in a breath, shuddering as Yoongi brushes your rib cage when he reaches for the loofah. “D’you—” A pause. Time for you to swallow that familiar lump in your throat, keep from crying. “D’you think it’ll help?”

He pauses. Nods, so minutely you almost miss it. “I don’t know,” he admits, “but I want to try.”

“Me too.”

“Okay.” Presses his lips to yours. “However long you want, then.”

After he’s scrubbed the scars from your skin, the sadness, he wraps you in a warm towel. Stands behind you and wraps his arms around you as you both brush your teeth. Presses a kiss to your temple. Watches, so fond it makes you ache, as you dry your hair. Cracks little jokes about each product you use, says surely you don’t need all that, and you swat at him because you do. Because he uses just as many as you do, and sometimes uses yours. Tenderly takes the lotion from your hands and rubs it into your skin. His hands are firm when they run over your calves, your thighs, and your moan is quiet but it’s there, and you watch, mouth open, as Yoongi’s eyes flutter shut. As he takes a second to collect himself, breathe through it.

He just hasn’t heard that sound in a while, is all.

“Can I make it up to you now?” The words are spoken into your skin, pressed into the ditch of your knee, all warm breath skirting along your skin. “Show you how much I missed you? How much I love you?”

Goosebumps erupt all over. Dazed, you nod, and instead of words, you can feel the way Yoongi smirks. “Gonna take my time with you,” he promises. “Gonna take you apart. Would you like that, baby? Want me to take you apart?”

You meet your own eyes in the mirror, quick to forget where you are when Yoongi’s like this. You already look picked apart. Glassy eyes, mouth parted. The towel slips in your slackened grip and you dare another glance in the mirror, already knowing you’ll find Yoongi’s hungry gaze staring back, at full height.

“Look at you,” he chides, tone husky, and it’s not a shock that your husband wants you, that you’re both desirable and desired, but Yoongi is usually so unshakeable. Stable. Seeing him so affected from so little has you lightheaded, has your thighs clamping together unconsciously. “No.” Words firm. “Don’t hide from me.”

You reach back, still staring into the mirror, eyes still locked with Yoongi’s. Your hands tangle in his hair. Dark, longer than it’s been in so long, soft when you pull on it a little. Yoongi groans, buries his face in your neck, nips at the skin there. Through half-lidded eyes you watch as his hands roam your body. Feel the way he grows hard against the small of your back. Briefly, you think you might want it like this. Might want Yoongi to hike up the towel, bend you over the counter.

(Impersonal, because that’s what you’ve grown used to.)

But your hand finds his, slow their travel, lace your fingers together. “Not here.” He bites at your skin again and your whole body flushes when he begins to suck a bruise into your neck. “Yoo—Yoongi. No-not here.”

The bites slowly melt into something taunting, almost cruel. “You sound a little needy, baby.”

“I am.” You’re not embarrassed to admit it. It’s been so long you’re nearly aching with want, and you know Yoongi, know the kind of lover he is. The want is so strong you’re trembling with it. “Yoongi, please.”

Your words are hushed, meant only for the sanctity of this moment. Yoongi looks up long enough to catch your eye—long enough for the corners of his lips to pull into a smirk, to squeeze your hand tighter. “You don’t want it like this?” he asks, even though he knows your answer. But he still makes a show of it. Uses his free hand to grip the edge of your towel, drag it up and over your ass. Pauses to knead the flesh there before planting his hand in the center of your back and bending you over the counter. “Bet I could take you just like this, couldn’t I? Bet I’d just slide right in.”

The whine that escapes you is honestly pathetic, but you’re already so wound up, coiled tight, that you’re long past the point of caring. And you wonder, briefly, why you should care at all; why you care about the sounds you make, the way your body looks, when it’s Yoongi. When it’s your husband and not some random hookup. It’s that thought—this is my husband, my husband, my husband—that has your toes curling against the cold tile. It’s seeing the glint of his wedding band in the mirror.

“Do it here.” Your voice betrays your desperation. “Just—fuck, Yoongi, do it here, I don’t care.”

It’s maddening, the fact that he hasn’t even touched you yet. Not properly. But that’s the thing about space: sometimes it isn’t. Sometimes it’s a dying star, a supernova explosion, and you know what comes after. A black hole. Endless, inescapable, dark dark dark. That’s where the two of you are. That’s what all of this is, just a perpetual pull towards Yoongi, fated. Perhaps nothing more than gravity, but you let it reel you in nonetheless.

If the two of you are fated to go out the same way, the same dying star, you’ll go willingly.

“I’ll give it to you how you wan’ it,” Yoongi slurs. Leaves wet, open-mouthed kisses across your neck. “Get on the bed, baby, I’ll give you whatever you want.”

He’s on you before you even have a chance to drop the towel. Drapes his body over yours and presses you into the mattress, wraps one hand around your throat just to keep you there. Like you might leave. Like you might decide you don’t want this, don’t want him. As if you could. “Tell me what else you want,” he says, words unstable and wavering. He’s so fucking hard.

“Your mouth.”

He cock twitches at your words, your direction, and he smiles down at you in a way that makes you feel like you’re burning. “Yeah? That’s what you want?” A switch flips when you nod, chest heaving. Yoongi gets so serious, laser-focused, and it’s overwhelming when it’s pointed at you. You reach out, trace two fingers over his cheekbones just to make sure he’s real, and Yoongi captures them, presses a kiss to the center of your palm.

He’s not so gentle after that.

Yoongi moves slowly, intentionally, and you feel like prey, all part of the show. He trails his tongue down the column of your throat, the space between your breasts, your stomach. Spreads your legs and settles between them, places them over his shoulders. Stares. You can only imagine what you must look like: how wet, how open. His breath is so warm against you when he speaks. “You have to come on my tongue before you can have my cock.” He presses his thumb against your clit and circles slowly, and you can’t remember the last time he touched you like this. “Do you understand, baby?” A few months at least, maybe longer.

You nod. You’d agree to anything to feel Yoongi’s mouth on you, and he knows this, laughs before he leans in to lick a fat stripe against your slit. It’s instinct, the way your hands fly to his hair, trying to pull him closer. Having him here isn’t enough; you need to be consumed by him, need him to ruin you from the inside out, even though he already has. It’s also instinct, the way you know you belong to him, the way everyone who might come after him will pale in comparison.

As diligently as ever, Yoongi works you over. Eats you out so sloppily you can feel it pooling between your legs, seeping into the sheets below you, and the way he’s moaning around you makes you writhe. Has you gripping at the duvet, his hair, his hand. Has you rolling your hips against his face, groaning when Yoongi just takes it. When he says like that, yeah, so fucking hot, baby, love when you use me. When he reaches up to shove two fingers in your mouth and gives you no warning before he presses them inside.

“Fuck, fuck—”

Embarrassing, the way you can hear yourself, the way you can hear every wet pass of Yoongi’s tongue. Embarrassing that he’s only had his mouth on you for a few minutes and you’re already teetering on the edge. Embarrassing how hard Yoongi has to grip your hips to keep you where he wants you. Embarrassing that you welcome the bruises, want to be marked by him. “Are you close?” You think you nod. It’s hard to do much of anything when Yoongi crooks his fingers, presses firmly against your g-spot. “Is my beautiful girl gonna come from my fucking fingers? My mouth?”

(You are beautiful, but you don’t mean a thing to me.)

You try not to go there. You squeeze your eyes shut and try not to think about the words in that song, try to remember that’s all they are. If Yoongi had meant to hurt you, though, he’d hit his mark. Just words, you remind yourself, but they take you out of your body completely.

And it’s a funny thing, this almost-grief, because you’re hurting so badly it feels like you’re drowning, but with the pain comes guilt. What do you do when the person who cut you is the only one who can bandage it? What do you do with this pain when you want to talk it to death, make sense of it, but you don’t want to make Yoongi feel worse?

You hide—hide the pain, hide yourself.

You’ve gotten good at it over the last few months, too much practice, so you let Yoongi suction his lips around your clit and get you off just the way he said he would. You let him kiss you after, taste yourself on his tongue, and you think, This is what you deserve, I hope you taste like me forever, I hope it never washes away. You tug your lip between your teeth when you push him away and reach for his cock. Spit into your hand and say something dirty as you jerk him off, and Yoongi falls for it. Moans brokenly and thrusts into your hand, gets greedy just the way you had before reality humbled you.

“Ba-baby,” he whines, rutting a little harder, a little faster. Everyone gets selfish eventually. “Gotta fuck you.”

It should feel satisfying, seeing him desperate like this, seeing firsthand how badly he wants you, the fucked-out look on his face, but it all rings hollow. So you finish the show—push two fingers into yourself and coat Yoongi’s cock once more with your own slick—and roll over onto your stomach, arch your back the way you know he likes, and beg him to fuck you.

Yoongi falls for it. Yoongi pushes inside and groans, and you moan because you should and not because it’ll cover the sound of your sobs. Yoongi rolls his hips and lets whatever he thinks come out of his mouth, all filth, and it should do something for you but instead you’re wondering what he’d say to someone else. Would he fuck someone else like this? Would he be as desperate for it?

Eventually you forget to keep moaning but you don’t stop crying. You wonder if it should feel cathartic or if it’ll just feel like this forever. You think about New Year’s Eve and crying alone in the kitchen, how Yoongi hadn’t known. You think, I’m scared I could eventually hate him. I’m scared that line gets blurrier everyday.

“Baby?” Yoongi realizes this time.

You think, Another dying star.

“Did I hurt you?”

You think, Maybe I’ve already burned up. Maybe this is all that’s left.

“Baby, talk to me, please—”

You think, How many holes can you patch before it all sinks anyway?

“I’m sorry—”

You think, I’m scared of how much I want to hurt you. I’m scared I’m going to be angry forever.

Yoongi turns you gently onto your back. Takes a long, hard look at the tears rolling down your cheeks. Seems to commit them to memory. Starts crying, too, and it’s nothing more than vindication that doesn’t feel satisfying. Everything just tastes like ash: remnants of the supernova, the crash and burn, a thousand cuts.

Yoongi loves you. “Keep going,” you say, because you both need it. Not every problem can be fucked through, but you think this one can. “Please, keep going.”

Yoongi hesitates. Must find whatever he’s looking for as he stares down at you before he nods minutely and pushes back in. This is not the way you thought you’d heal, but there is only one way this is going to end, so you might as well. The first time was always going to be the hardest.

“I love you,” Yoongi says, and it’s raw. It’s real, the way he drops his head to the crook of your neck and cries. The way he finds your hand and laces your fingers together. His wedding band is cool against your skin. “I fucking love you. I’ll love you for the rest of my fucking life, you know that?”

He’s got something to prove. Wants to fuck devotion into you, wants to promise you impossible things. You wrap your legs around his waist and whimper, ask him to fuck you harder, but he doesn’t. Fucks you steady. “We’re gonna go to that cabin,” he rasps. “We’re gonna figure this out, and we’re gonna do all those things we talked about years ago. I’m gonna fuck you in every room in that place, just like this. I’m gonna make sure you know—even if you leave, you’re gonna know how much I love you.”

He’s going to be the end of you. “Yoongi.” He already is.

He moves your hand to your clit, tells you to make yourself come. Tells you he wants to see it. Fucks into you just a little faster, a little deeper, and you can feel the coil tightening again. Another supernova, you think as your body surrenders and shudders, and buries himself to the hilt and comes with you.

Sometimes space is a dying star, and sometimes it’s salvation.

and when i see you, i really see you upside down / but my brain knows better. it picks you up and turns you around.

There had been a time, years ago, when you and Yoongi would sit at your cramped kitchen table and pluck scraps of paper out of a bowl.

A lot had been left to chance back then. Probably too much, in hindsight, but that’s just the way life was. Carefree, a summer breeze, blissfully naive. The two of you were young and love-drunk and warm from the sun. Yoongi had worked endlessly—gigs for shit pay in shittier bars, overnights in his studio, fingers calloused from guitar strings and networking—to put a ring on your finger, nothing certain except how he felt about you, and that had been enough.

It’d gone like—

(“What’d you write on that one?” you ask, trying to peek over the bowl between you to see. Yoongi laughs, swats your hand away, says oh my god, go away, you’ll see if you pick it. “You’re no fun.”

Yoongi rolls his eyes. “Yeah, I’m no fun because I don’t want to spoil a surprise.”

“But you know what’s on all of mine!” you argue, and you feel more in love with Yoongi than ever, picking a place out of a bowl, leaving things to fate.

It’s your pout that does it. You jut out your bottom lip and turn on the puppy dog eyes, and Yoongi folds like a bad hand. Yah, yah, don’t do that! he says, laughing harder than before, covering his eyes with those calloused hands. There are so many stories in those hands.

So Yoongi laughs and unfolds his scrap of paper and pushes it in your direction. Refuses to meet your eye as you read it over, and you can’t figure out why he’s embarrassed of it. “Jin’s cabin? It’s up in Oakhurst, right? That’s only a five hour drive.”

“For a honeymoon, though?” Yoongi’s question is quiet, small. Still embarrassed. “Isn’t it kind of lame?”

“No, it’s not lame. You’ve wanted to go to Yosemite forever.”

“Yeah, I’ve wanted to go. And it’s mostly just for Horsetail Fall—”

You pinch the bridge of your nose, sighing dramatically. “Yoongi. Put it in the bowl.”

“But—”

“Put it in the bowl.”

A flush creeps up his neck but he listens nonetheless, re-crumpling the paper and tossing it into the bowl. You’ll be picking soon, and you know the odds are slim, but you put a silent hope into the universe for Jin’s little cabin in Oakhurst to be the one, to be able to do this one thing for Yoongi when he’s been working himself to the bone to do so much for you.)

—and it hadn’t worked out, that cabin trip. The two of you had gone to Italy, Yoongi having been the one to pull it, and you rented scooters and ate gelato and soaked in the coastline. You’d dragged Yoongi on a tour of the catacombs and he spent hours at the Roman Forum, reading all the plaques and taking it all in.

You hadn’t felt like you’d missed out. Time hadn’t been wasted, and you still look back fondly at those pictures—the one of Yoongi with powdered sugar on his nose from too much sfogliatella, the two of you at Lake Como, you with all the stray cats at the Gatti di Roma, one in your lap, all gray, that you said had looked like Yoongi.

But, going to that little cabin in Oakhurst now, it feels a little like redemption. It feels like the universe is handing you the keys on a silver platter, saying, it’s okay to do it again; even if you got it right the first time, who says you can only do it once. So you take a day off for the drive and your boss gives you the week; you pack as many clothes as you can fit in your suitcase; you set an alarm for seven o’clock and try to stay grounded.

First, though, you have to survive Namjoon.

“How are things?” he asks, folding one endlessly long leg over the other.

Beside you, Yoongi radiates nervous energy. Jittery but not anxious. The kind of pent-up energy a runner might have: in position, awaiting the gunfire before a race. Composed to a fault, it’s not often you see him like this. Maybe right before an album drop or a big show, but never in marriage counseling.

So it doesn’t feel like a lie or lip service when you say, “Better,” and Namjoon and Yoongi both swallow down the same kind of smile.

“And why is that?”

“We’re going on a trip,” Yoongi says, and this surprises you, too. Protective, fiercely private Yoongi. “To, um. A friend’s place. Up in Oakhurst.”

Namjoon looks excited. “Near Yosemite,” he says. Not a question. “Is this a getaway or just a change of scenery?”

You look at Yoongi; Yoongi looks at you. “I’ll have to work some of the time, so I guess it’s a little bit of both,” you answer, “but it feels… good, exciting. I’m looking forward to it.”

“Yeah?”

You’re fidgeting, digging imaginary dirt from beneath your nails again as your cheeks warm. “Yeah. I know Yoongi has wanted to go for a long time, so I’m excited for that. I think… I think it’s important for him to do something like that, right now. Something big, you know? Or, something that feels big, I guess. I think it’ll be good for him, and—”

“It’ll be good for us.” Yoongi’s correction is gentle, dandelion-soft. He can’t look you in the eye as he says it, but he doesn’t need to. His neck is flushed and Namjoon’s expressive enough for all three of you. “Anything that’s good for me is good for us.”

If you’re stunned, Namjoon is shell shocked. It lasts all of five seconds before he’s coughing to cover his grin, jotting down notes like a mad professor, and it’s a little tooreminiscent of the way your parents had pushed you out the front door on your prom night—that same brand of giddy excitement, like they knew something you didn’t. But, Namjoon is a professional before anything else, so he simply asks, “How long are you going?”

“TBD,” Yoongi answers again.

“You’re able to take the time off?”

Right back to earth. Another sore point, because sometimes, like now, it’s easy to forget who you’re married to; easy to forget when you’re the pinnacle of American suburbia—standard nine-to-five, family health insurance plan, a maxed-out Roth IRA—and Yoongi is anything but. It’s easy to forget when your lives are so different. When Yoongi’s got songs and albums to write, for himself and everyone else, and shows and tours to plan, for himself and when someone else needs him as a fill-in, and you’re gearing up for another half-year spent alone at home.

Sure, it sucks sometimes, but getting to watch Yoongi live out his dreams tampers down all that negativity. When it’s two a.m. in Los Angeles but midday where he is and he sends you pictures of whatever he’s doing, what he’s eating, candids of his tourmates, all the sights and sounds. Yoongi’s doing exactly what he’s always wanted, what he’s meant to, and it’s okay.

What’s good for him is good for you, after all.

“I, uh—” He pauses, rubs at the back of his neck. The flush is still there. “I put a pause on the stand-in work for the rest of the year. Told everyone I wanted to focus on writing and producing and… stuff. Everything else. Getting my shit together.” You can hear it when he swallows, can see the slight tremor of his hands. Yoongi has never done well when he’s not working himself to the bone—when he has too much free time to spend in his own head. “And I can do that from anywhere, so.”

Namjoon catches your eye over the rim of his glasses. Seems to ask a question you’re not sure the answer to so you just stare back, and then his attention turns back to Yoongi. “When you say ‘stuff,’ what do you mean?”

“Well, I wound up here, didn’t I?”

From anyone else, it would sound snappy and bitter, but from Yoongi it’s just… self-deprecating, wounded, like it’s nothing more than a personal failure. Like Yoongi is the only reason the two of you are in marriage counseling and not a million little things the two of you have done. “We,” you correct, dandelion-soft just like Yoongi had been, and his head turns toward you so sharply you worry his neck is going to snap. “Don’t do that, Yoongi.”

He’s stock-still, back uncharacteristically ramrod straight, jaw dropped slightly. “Don’t take on the full burden of this. We wound up here. It’s okay to say that.”

Namjoon tries so hard to hide another smile that his dimples look more like craters.

i roll the window down and then begin to breathe in / the darkest country road and the strong scent of evergreen.

“Hi.”

Yoongi is slouched in the doorway of your office, beanie pulled down low. Strands of curls stick out of the bottom and you shoot him a smile, distracted from your task of packing up your work equipment. “Hi. What’s up?”

“Are you all packed?”

You shrug. “Just about. I don’t really have that much stuff. Just my laptop and some files.” You eye him skeptically, already sensing where this is going. “Are you?”

Your husband pouts, and it’s such a pathetic expression that you swear you can feel your heart grow three sizes. “In my defense—”

“Oh my god.” You try to look stern, but a laugh bubbles out of you anyway. “Why do you always do this?”

“I don’t like packing,” he whines. “And I need help.”

“With what?”

“Some of my production stuff.” He pouts deeper, sends you an impressive pair of puppy dog eyes. “Please help me. You’re my only hope.”

“How much are you bringing?”

“Not that much,” he answers in a way that sounds like a promise. “I wanted to bring the Yamaha because the cabin has that screened in porch and I think the acoustics could be really interesting in there, but it’s really heavy—”

You sigh. Look down at your laptop and stack of paperwork and wireless mouse and sigh again, then nod your agreement, because it’s not the first time you’ve helped Yoongi lug his gear in and out of your place and it won’t be the last. You’ve all but perfected it by now.

The car looks more like you’re moving than going on a trip. Your neighbor’s such a shithead you’re surprised he hasn’t poked his head out by now and asked when the house is getting listed so he can buy it and flip it for three times the price. Another brainless capitalist shill, Yoongi always says, and you laugh to yourself as you force another duffel bag of god-knows-what into the trunk. And we’re his neighbors, so what does that say about us? you always reply.

It takes the better part of twenty minutes, but then it’s done and you’re left with sore arms and a sweaty brow. Yoongi looks like the weight of the world’s been lifted from his shoulders rather than his hefty digital piano, and the thankful smile he shoots at you is worth any price.

“Do you need help with anything?” he asks, and you shake your head.

“No,” you respond, picking up the stack of files only to drop them back down on your desk. “It’s really just my laptop and this stuff. I’m fine; go do whatever it is you’ve got left to do. I’ll take care of it.”

There’s a look Yoongi gets when he’s laser-focused. Intense, unmistakeable, intimidating, especially when it’s trained on you. That’s how he’s looking at you now: looking at the sheen of sweat on your skin, the way your tongue runs along your bottom lip, your mussed-up hair. Both of you know exactly what he wants, and it drives you a little crazy when he’s shameless like this. When he’s not shy about looking, about wanting.

So Yoongi bends you over your desk and fucks you right there, right in your office in front of the street-side window. It’s hazy and primal but he takes his time, does and says exactly what he wants, has you a trembling, incoherent mess in record time, and it works. You come so hard you don’t think about the song, you don’t cry, and those threads of optimism start weaving something you can hold in your hands.

—

“Shut it off,” Yoongi slurs, voice deep and raspy from sleep.

You snort, turning off your alarm, seven a.m. sharp, and roll over to press a kiss to his forehead. “Wake up, sleepyhead, I got breakfast.”

He opens one eye, looks at you questioningly with it, blinks in confusion. “How long have you been up?”

“A while. Now, come on, I ordered your favorite.”

That piques his attention. “The breakfast sandwich?” You nod. “And the little strudels?” You nod again. “Coffee, too?”

You grab the plastic cup and shake it, rattling the ice. “One large iced Americano, at the ready. I even got you one of those bottled horchata cold brews for the road, even though you swear you don’t like them.”

“They’re too sweet,” Yoongi answers. It might be early, but apparently not early enough to not lie right through his teeth.

You glare. “You steal mine every time I order one.”

“That’s not true,” he grumbles, accusations forgotten as he spots the greasy takeout bag. “I should brush my teeth first,” he whines, looking agonized. “I should, right?”

“Says who?”

“I don’t know. The universe or whatever.”

You laugh. Watch, fond, as he drags himself out of bed and into the bathroom. Watch, even more fond, as he returns with a little toothpaste on the corner of his mouth that you thumb away. Watch, hopelessly and forever endeared, as he buries himself back under the duvet, pulls it up and over his nose. You can see the way he’s pouting from his eyes alone, and he starts whining about the cold, how early it is, how the only thing that’ll cure him is a kiss.

Which you give. Freely, without thought.

(And the two of you barely make it to Santa Clarita before Yoongi cracks open the cold brew he didn’t want. Doesn’t say a word about it being too sweet, just sits quietly in the passenger seat, half asleep, as he scrolls through his playlists. Queues up something soft, easy to listen to, and talks your ear off about Jeff Beck when one of his songs comes on.

Beck’s Bolero, which is not as soft and easy as the songs that played before it, but it makes Yoongi’s eyes light up. Has him seemingly speaking in tongues as he spits guitar terms to you, half of Jeff Beck’s life story interwoven with endless praise and awe, all the while he drinks his horchata cold brew and doesn’t say a word about it being too sweet.

You want to listen to him for the rest of your life.)

—

Oakhurst is small.

Only two traffic lights before you reach the road Seokjin’s cabin is on—a sharp right turn off the main highway, an acute angle, a steep decline. You’re glad you’re doing this in early March and not the dead of winter. Doubly glad you’d ignored the judgmental stare Yoongi had given you at the car dealership when you’d insisted on an SUV, all-wheel-drive.

You’d know the cabin was Jin’s even without an address. Baby blue exterior, pink front door. Blends in but still manages to stick out, much like the man himself. More like a bungalow, maybe. Looks, from the outside, like the kind of place that might be good for starting over. Someplace small and unassuming—someplace with a screened-in porch with two rocking chairs. A place where you can drink coffee. Decompress from the city. A place where the only thing you know is Yoongi, so he’s your focus.

A place that makes you smile.

You kill the engine. Just sit in the silence for a moment, hesitant to wake up Yoongi. Unsure, honestly, how he’d slept through the last leg of the trip, all the hairpin turns and uneven roads, but you close the car door gently and punch in the lock code for the house and lug in everything except Yoongi’s gear and let him sleep. Then, when he stirs awake, looking confused and a little lost, you press a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth and gesture theatrically at the baby blue bungalow with the pink door and say, “Surprise! We’re here!” even though it’s not a surprise.

Yoongi laughs anyway.

There isn’t much to unpack, nor is there much space to put it. Only a closet in each of the bedrooms, so you dump everything out of your suitcase and thread your clothes through velvet hangers. Laugh at the thought of Yoongi doing no such thing—of Yoongi living out of his luggage for the next couple weeks, everything wrinkled and looking lived-in.

He comes and finds you, places a hand on your hip as he asks for the car keys, says he’s going to the store. Seokjin had stocked the pantry, but he wants to get fresh stuff, and you know that means he’s going to come back with more coffee than groceries. So you just nod, say okay, ask if he’d like you to unpack and put away his clothes. His nose scrunches; you hide your smile and leave it alone.

When he’s gone, you crack a window in the living room to air out the lingering emptiness. Suck in a mouthful of fresh air that seems to sting your lungs, all evergreen. There’s still so much to do, and you should probably stretch your legs after so long in the car, but the temptation to sink into the couch is strong. Seokjin’s got a soft blanket thrown over the back that you arrange over your legs, and then you’re asleep, some stupid paranormal show playing on the television to greet Yoongi whenever he gets back.

You dream of forgiveness, endless sprawling mountains, and the smell of coffee.

the rhythm of my footsteps crossing flatlands to your door / have been silenced forevermore. and the distance is quite simply much too far for me to row. it seems farther than ever before.

There’s a dive bar up the highway that does karaoke on Friday nights. You crack a joke about going.

“Fat chance,” Yoongi answers. He’s driving this time, and his hands are gripping the steering wheel so tight his knuckles have gone purple-white.

It shouldn’t mean anything. It doesn’t. Yoongi isn’t a dive bar karaoke kind of guy anymore. Left those days back in college, where you were suffering through your economics courses at USC and barely had two nickels to rub together. Yoongi would play open mics during the week just to cover the bus fare for the two of you to go into Koreatown on Fridays—enough to cover a noraebang for an hour, just to sing some girl group song horribly off-pitch just to make you laugh.

So it shouldn’t sting when Yoongi scoffs and says fat chance about singing karaoke at the dive bar when you drive past it, because Yoongi isn’t a dive bar karaoke kind of guy anymore. Now he’s the kind of guy who gets up on a stage and sings songs to thousands of people. They don’t laugh; they take pictures and videos and sing along to words he wrote, so it shouldn’t sting, and you try not to let it.

Instead, you focus on the blur of scenery: all the greens and browns; whites and deep grays from all the trees that have burned; the blue of the endless sky; the color of the asphalt, the edge of the world, like you could tip right over and disappear, nothing beyond the margins. Yoongi drives the thirty minutes to the park and it doesn’t sting, and you wonder if it’s just because it doesn’t or if it’s because you’re numb.

—

Yosemite is hard to put into words.

You feel small, wrapped in the expanse of the mountains, in this ancient nature that has existed long before you and will persist long after you’re gone. Maybe insignificant is a better word for it, because there’s so much to see—so much that’s known and unknown—and it feels like counting grains of sand. Feels like you could never possibly catch up.

So you sit on the ledge of an overlook and just exist. You don’t watch Yoongi take pictures on an old point and shoot, the one he’d ordered from Japan, because this is just for you. Whatever happens between you and Yoongi, these memories will only belong to you, and you don’t want to override something that’s happy with something that could eventually be sad.

The two of you get back in the car. The drive to Yosemite Village is slow, made even slower when you pass a bunch of cars pulled over. There, about thirty feet from the road, is a baby bear and a crowd. There’s a woman standing too close in order to take a picture and ten more people screaming at her for it. Yoongi looks awestruck when you catch his eye.

“I’ve never seen a bear before,” he says, and you nod. Neither have you.

Maybe you were a little stung before, about the karaoke, even though it’s stupid. But the fact that you and Yoongi have been together for so long and still manage to see new things together eases it a little. Plants a tiny, hopeful little seed.

All you have to do is water it.

—

The weather in the village is bitter cold.

Both of you are wrapped up tight, only your noses peeking out from between the layers of your scarves, tinged pink. Yoongi had wanted to go to Mirror Lake; didn’t seem at all deterred when he found out the shuttles were only doing basic routes so the two of you would have to follow the trail from the shuttle stop. Just under two miles. Hadn’t seemed so bad at the time, but now your lungs ache.

Snow and ice cover most of the lake. It isn’t as reflective as it’s known for, but you’re glad to experience it nonetheless. The sand crunches beneath your boots as you look for a log to sit on, the chill seeping through your clothing as you rummage through your backpack for a protein bar. Yoongi’s off taking pictures again, and it’s another moment you’re content to sit in the quiet.

Gives you time to take stock, figure out how you’re feeling. Instinct wants to say better, but you know it’s wishful thinking. Immature. The tendrils of hurt are still wrapped around your heart, and it’s only been a few days. Not enough time to hack them away. But you’re… at ease. For the first time in a while, it feels like you can breathe, and doing so doesn’t make you feel heavy, doesn’t weigh you down with guilt. Things might not be okay right now, not all the way, but you think your compass is finally pointed in the right direction.

Your husband joins you once he’s done. Doesn’t say anything, just sits beside you on the log and accepts when you offer him half of your protein bar. He’s got a nervous energy about him, like there’s something he wants to say but can’t figure out how to, and that feels familiar. That feels like the status quo. Two people who love each other but can’t figure out how to talk to one another.

So you say, “It’s gorgeous here,” and hope it’s enough. You’re not going to push him if he doesn’t want to talk, but it feels necessary to extend an olive branch. It feels necessary to try.

“It is,” Yoongi agrees. Rubs his hands together. Watches his breath dissipate in front of him. “It feels different.”

“What do you mean?”

A bird lands on a branch in front of you. Orange chest, vibrant blue on top; striking against the dreary backdrop of winter. You watch as it ruffles its feathers, shakes off the snow, and Yoongi cocks his head to the side. A guy who knows a little about a lot, full of knowledge, so you aren’t surprised when he says, “That’s a western bluebird.”

You hum an acknowledgment, because you know what it means to see a bluebird. You know the symbolism, but it feels a little too heavy to bear right now. “Pretty.”

“Yeah.” Then he’s sucking in a breath. Says, “There’s a ramen spot in Mariposa, if you’d wanna go there for dinner.”

It’s not what you were expecting him to say, but you nod anyway. “Sure. Whatever you want.”

Yoongi finally turns to you, then. Raises an eyebrow in question. “But is it what you want?”

“It’s just dinner,” you shrug. “Something warm will be nice after this.”

That nervous energy amplifies. Turns all those words clearly biting at the back of his teeth into a tangible thing. “Something warm—yeah, okay. Sounds good. They have matcha cheesecake.” He smiles, like he doesn’t want to but can’t help himself. “Seemed like something you’d like.”

Two things strike you, then: that your husband is always centering you in his world, even when the two of you are like this, and how badly it hurts that you can’t seem to talk to one another. Because you aren’t taking pictures with him because they might turn out sad, and Yoongi is choosing restaurants because they have matcha cheesecake.

And to hell with that, you think. Yoongi is your husband, and if you can’t talk to him then who can you talk to? So you sigh, say, “Look at me, Yoongi,” and you know there’s a fragment of surprise evident on your face when he listens. You know there’s a fragment of sadness on yours when you take in how exhausted he looks. Almost defeated. “Why can’t we seem to talk to one another?”

It must be what he was working up the courage to say, because his shoulders sag immediately. “I don’t know,” he admits. “I’m trying, but it’s just… I don’t know. Sometimes I’m scared I’m gonna say the wrong thing and that’s gonna be it.”

Your brows pinch. “Okay,” you say, because sometimes you aren’t easy to talk to. Sometimes you take things too personally, sort of revel in the hurt. You understand hesitation. “I… want to fix that. I don’t want you to feel like you can’t talk to me.”

Yoongi nods. “Yeah,” he eventually answers. “I do, too. We’re not really gonna fix anything unless we can talk to each other.”

“Yeah, true.” The bluebird chirps from its spot in the tree. Stares down at the two of you with these jerky little tilts of its head. “Do you think that’s our problem? How it got… like this.”

“I don’t know, baby,” he says again, and you immediately want to push back on it. I don’t know doesn’t tell you anything. Doesn’t tell you how to fix it, how not to let it get this bad again. But then he says, “It could’ve been anything, you know? A million things. I think—I know that doesn’t help you, but for me, it’s less important how and why we got here because that’s… gone. I can’t change it, and the more I dwell on it the more I spiral, so I’m trying not to do that.”

A stuttered exhale. “I haven’t felt present in a long time and I guess it just compounded. Like, once I realized something was wrong, it felt like I’d left it too long to try and do something about it. I knew you were hurt, and instead of trying to fix it, I’d just think, of course you hurt her, because you’re good at that.”

“That’s what you think?”

“Sometimes.” You reach over and take his hand, barely able to slot your fingers together with the thickness of your gloves. “I know I explained it to you before, but the song… it wasn’t honesty, it was self-destruction. Because I thought if all I do is hurt you, then you should be with someone who doesn’t do that. Someone who knows what they have and is able to hang onto it.” He hangs his head, guilt-stricken. “I don’t know why I wrote it. Call of the void shit, I guess, like I told you. I knew the whole time it was a bad idea. I just thought… maybe you’d hear it and do what I couldn’t.”

“Leave?”

He laughs, all derision. “Yeah. Stupid, isn’t it? I’m scared to death that you’ll leave me, so I tried to speed up the process.”

You sit with his words for a minute. “I don’t think it’s stupid, Yoongi. Can I tell you what I think? I think you feel like you deserve to be a little sad, like some kind of artist’s curse. I think you think you need to feel tortured in order to create, and I think you’ve appointed yourself the arbiter of my happiness, so you see me being human as a failure on your part. And I think I made a very smart choice when I was twenty-one years old, because I think you’ve taken my heart and kept it safe all these years.

“It… does matter to me, how we got here,” you continue, “because if I don’t know why, I’m scared it’ll happen again. But you told me I need to give you more credit, and that goes both ways. I know I can be a bastard, so I’m going to be selfish and ask for patience, and I’m going to give you the same. Just… please believe me when I say I’m not going anywhere. Not as long as we’re both gonna try to fix this.”

Yoongi stays quiet. Sticks out his pinky, and you hook yours around it.

(You know what it means to see a bluebird. Remember reading about it once, back when you were desperate to find meaning in everything. Right after a time of tremendous difficulty, the bluebird comes to bring good fortune in all things such as love, healing, and happiness.)

and together there in a shroud of frost, the mountain air / began to pass through every pane of weathered glass / and i held you closer than anyone would ever get.

Yoongi’s birthday is soon.

Four days, to be exact. The two of you will be celebrating in Jin’s cabin in Oakhurst, surrounded by nature and a town still foreign to you, Yoongi’s music gear scattered all around like a treasure hunt. Follow the cables until you find him, hunched in front of a glowing computer screen, massive headphones shoved over his ears as he gets absorbed into his own world, strumming his guitar all the while.

You think thirty will look good on him.

The weather’s still mild, still colder than you’re used to, but the breeze feels nice when you open the small windows in the kitchen and let it blow through. It feels nice when you run to the grocery store and stand in the foreign aisles, staring at all the ingredients you’ll need to bake a cake. You haven’t done it in ages; since Yoongi’s twenty-sixth, you think. Almond with chantilly cream. It had taken you ages because the cream kept splitting, and you insisted on meticulously arranging little strawberry slices between the layers, but Yoongi had loved it so much it hadn’t felt like work at all.

So you grab what you need and some things you don’t and you feel as light as the breeze on the drive back to the cabin. You make a last-second decision to stop at the donut shop because it closes in the afternoon and you never catch it when it’s open. Two blueberry old fashioneds, a large Americano for Yoongi, and a mocha iced coffee for yourself. Six dollars, and the woman behind the counter is kind.

“What’s that?” Yoongi asks when you place the coffee and donut on his makeshift desk. The headphones are looped around his neck.

You click your tongue, all sugar. “What does it look like?”

“This looks like a donut and an Americano. What’s in the bag, though?”

“I went to the grocery store.”

“For what?” he pouts. “I was just there!”

That pout fades when you press a kiss to the top of his head. “Don’t pout. I picked up stuff for your birthday cake.”

“My birth—” he begins, seemingly offended by the mere thought of his birthday and that it might be soon, and then he looks at the date on his computer and mumbles an, oh shit. “You’re baking me a cake?”

“Yeah, I thought it’d be nice.”

He tries to peer into the bag. “What kind?” You swat him away.

“It’s a surprise,” you deadpan.

“But I saw strawberries in there.”

“No you didn’t. Now, eat your donut and get back to work.”

Yoongi pouts again. Really exaggerates it. “I’m really stuck on this bit. I might need a kiss for good luck.”

As you press a kiss to his lips, you think you might give him whatever he wants.

—

Yoongi spends the morning of his birthday tucked in bed.

You spend the morning of Yoongi’s birthday beneath the duvet, hands roaming every inch of your husband’s body. Thumbs digging into the muscles of his calves, sore from the overuse they’ve suffered the last few days. Nails grazing the sensitive skin of his biceps, his stomach, the insides of his thighs. Lips pressing open-mouthed kisses to his forehead, his temple, his neck, down his chest, the jut of both hip bones. And then, once he’s whining and writhing and just on the verge of begging, you spend the morning of Yoongi’s birthday making him come with your mouth.

He spends the early afternoon in his makeshift studio with a cup of coffee. Answers a couple emails. Calls his parents. Messes around on Cubase. Fixes the two of you a quick lunch and says he might want to wander around town for a little bit. Check out the antique store down the street, maybe spend a few hours in the park with his guitar, get some fresh air. Thirty feels weird, he says, and you’re anchored to your laptop at the small dining room table, so you just say okay, I’ll see you later for dinner. There’s a crooked smile on Yoongi’s face as he hikes the gig bag over his shoulder, and then he’s gone.

You: He just left. Coast is clear.

Seokjin: Thank fuck, I’ve been sitting at this Starbucks for 500 hours

You: No you haven’t

Seokjin: 499 hours*

When he arrives, Seokjin blows right by you and locks himself in the bathroom. You know I refuse to use public restrooms, he says after, slinging his arm around your shoulders. He’s not a hugger, so it’s the closest you’re going to get to one.

“My car reeks of kimchi and soup,” he says, dropping a bag of groceries in front of the refrigerator. “Won’t be able to get that smell out for weeks, probably.”

“Thank you for your sacrifice,” you intone. “You’re a god amongst men, Kim Seokjin.”

It’d been your idea. Wanted Yoongi to ring in his thirtieth birthday surrounded by as much love as possible, and a cabin-bungalow nearly five hours away from home wasn’t especially opulent. Not to mention Yoongi had been on tour the last two years—spent twenty-eight and nine in grimy venues in Texas and Birmingham, respectively—and the less said about 2020 the better.

So Seokjin had fucked off from his cushy job for the day and made the drive from San Francisco. Made the miyeokguk and myeongnan-jeot himself, and had whined when you told him you already bought the ingredients for a cake because I was gonna pick up mujigae-tteok, to which you replied, pick it up anyway.

Now he’s standing in the small kitchen of his own small bungalow, and you’ve got a one-thirty meeting so you can’t help, but he’s determined to make gyeran mari anyway, even if it inconveniences you. “Maybe I should make it closer to when he’ll be back?”

“Up to you,” you shrug. “You could also stand on the side of the road and resell all those eggs for ten times the price.”

He just sends you A Look.

—

You watch through the small window above the kitchen sink as Yoongi returns just after six, cheeks pink from the wind, arms full of goodies.

“Hey,” he says, kicking his boots off on the porch, “is that—”

“SURPRISE!”

Seokjin’s scream is so shrill you think you black out for a second. Nearly topple over from your spot in front of the island, frosting knife poised to strike. Yoongi’s still out on the porch, and there’s a terrible crash that can only be him startling and knocking into one of the rocking chairs. He’ll appear any second now, brows pinched, and go is that Seokjin? and once he confirms it is, in fact, Seokjin, he’ll start yell—

“Jesus Christ,” he grumbles, appearing in the doorway. Brows pinched. “I was gonna ask if that’s Seokjin’s car outside, but now I don’t fucking need to.”

Seokjin tuts, ladles another bowl full of miyeokguk. “Is that any way to speak to your elders? Now, get in here and sit down. It’s not breakfast, but it’ll have to do.”

Yoongi grumbles the entire time, but you see the way the flush deepens on his cheeks. The way he’s pleased to be fussed over, to have you and Seokjin in the same room as him. Pleased to be celebrating thirty surrounded by people who love him, people he loves in turn.

“Did you call your mother?” Seokjin asks, setting the bowl in front of him. He jokingly tucks a napkin into the front of Yoongi’s shirt.

“Of course I called my mother.” Yoongi rolls his eyes. “Are you stupid? It’s not my first day being Korean.”

“That’s correct! It’s your 10,950th day being Korean.”

“How did you—”

“I knew you would say that so I looked up how many days are in thirty years. Now, is your lovely wife done with the cake?”

You are, just about. Just a few more slices of strawberry to place on top, and you take a step back once you do so. Admire your hard work. Send up a quick thanks that the cream hadn’t split this time. Seokjin and Yoongi are still bickering—

(“Did you make the miyeokguk last night?”

“I’m offended, Yoongi. Of course I made it last night, the broth needs time to develop! It’s not my first day being Korean, either!”

“No, it’s your ten billionth, you decrepit bitch.”)

—and your heart feels full. Content. You see Yoongi laughing, all gums, and feel untethered. Like any second now your ribs are going to crack apart and give way, let your heart tumble right out of your body. Because it belongs next to Yoongi, always. Because it wants to be next to Yoongi.

So you finish the cake and set it aside. Sit down at the place Seokjin set for you, right next to your husband, whose hand immediately goes to your knee; who immediately turns and smiles at you, even though Seokjin is still squawking in the background. Yah, Yoongi, compliment the soup! Tell me how good it is! Yoongi doesn’t, because he’s still smiling, can’t look away from you, and you swear you can hear a fissure forming, except this one doesn’t hurt.

This one doesn’t hurt at all.

—

Yoongi is sufficiently drunk by nine.

That traitorous combination of alcohol and sugar. A shot of soju, a bite of cake, some mujigae-tteok. Seokjin’s endless chatter as background noise. Yoongi’s hand still on your knee, warm warm warm. Liquor loosens him up a little, has him bashful, chin tucked to his chest, when he offhandedly mentions Namjoon and Seokjin says who’s this Namjoon, and Yoongi says he’s our marriage counselor. Seokjin looks to you, then. Connects some dots.

Says, “Ah, Yoongi, did you eat your tteokguk on Seollal? No? See, this is why things are hard right now, because you didn’t eat your tteokguk. It’s good luck, that’s why you eat it,” because it’s easiest to get through to Yoongi, to let him know he’s okay, when you’re scolding him a little. When you treat it kind of like a joke. No big deal.

And Seokjin follows that up with, “How are you settling in here?” when what he really wants to know is are things better, are the two of you doing okay. Yoongi grumbles again, barely coherent at his current level of inebriation, and Seokjin says, “Ah, I bet not well, huh? There’s just the one Starbucks, can’t find your bougie pour-over, LA coffee here, can you? Do they even have oat milk? Are you—”

“It’s still California,” Yoongi argues, “there’s fucking oat milk everywhere. Hey, hyung, did you—did you know there’s, like, the tree nut milk orchard near here? Not far. Close by. I could drive to see the al-almonds.”

“Tree nut milk,” Seokjin deadpans. “You know, Yoongi, I did not know that. Why don’t you tell me all about it.”

—

By eleven, Seokjin is passed out on the couch.

By eleven-ten, Yoongi has convinced you to lay in the grass with him. A minute later he’s staring up at the sky, making wishes on superstitions. His breath vaporizes in the cold, and he’s not wearing a jacket, but he’s still flushed from the alcohol, feels invincible.

“Think the edible’s hitting me.” He laughs, short and raspy, and he doesn’t seem to care that the grass is wet with dew. Doesn’t care that it’s in his hair, seeping through his clothes. “What’s your favorite one of those?”

He’s pointing at the stars, wants to know your favorite constellation. All of them, you want to say, following his line of sight. Because they’re all different. All meaningful in different ways. All have their own story. Instead, you roll your head to the side, take in Yoongi’s profile. Say, “You’re my favorite,” and laugh at how flustered he gets, laugh at his gravelly protests.

“Yah, you can-can’t say that,” he whines. “That’s so greasy, you can’t say that, it doesn’t count. Give me a real ans—”

“Then why are you smiling?” You laugh as he grows even more thunderstruck, completely caught-out, and it’s nearing midnight but it does nothing to hide the blush creeping down his neck, tingeing the tips of his ears. “You’re so red. That’s exactly what you wanted me to say, you absolute—”

“Real answer, please.”

You decide to take pity on him. Poor thing, can barely look you in the eye because of one terrible pick-up line. “Fine. Pisces.”

His responding groan is so loud you have to slap your hand over his mouth. The grass is so cold but Yoongi’s laughter, the way his shoulders shake with it, makes you warm. “You’re just saying that,” he says once you remove your hand.

“Am not. Ask me why.”

“Okay. Why?”

“Because you’re a Pisces, first of all—”

“Oh my god, here we fuckin’ go—”

“—but I just like the myth. Aphrodite and Eros transformed themselves into fish to escape Typhon, and tied themselves together with rope so they wouldn’t lose one another.” You sigh, watch your breath dissipate into the dark. “I don’t know. I like to think… I don’t believe in soulmates, but I like to think some people are meant to tie themselves together. Some people aren’t meant to be apart.”

There’s a quiet little oh, and then there’s silence. Just the distant sounds of the highway, a dog howling, and, if you listen closely enough, Seokjin’s snoring from inside. Yoongi finds your hand, brings it to his mouth to press a kiss to the back of it, and he’s oddly quiet. Contemplative, maybe. Usually gets a couple drinks in him and starts talking your ear off, but this is nice, too. It’s nice to just exist in the silence alongside someone else.

“Do you know the myth about Eurydice and Orpheus?” he finally asks, and you nod, suddenly understanding why Yoongi doesn’t care that his hair is wet. So inconsequential to this moment where you can exist in the silence alongside someone else. “I was thinking about it today.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I think… I think I’d fuck it up. I think I’d look back. And I think you wouldn’t.” He sighs, and the weight of the world expels alongside it. “What you said about Aphrodite and Eros, that some people are meant to be tied together—if I couldn’t hear you, or touch you… That’s what you are for me, you know? An anchor. The first time I read it, it made me so fuckin’ angry, like why can’t this guy just listen, if he loves her that much wouldn’t he listen, but… I dunno. I think I get it.

“I’m so scared all the time that one day I’m gonna look back and you won’t be there anymore. What would I even do? Baby, what would I do? Sometimes I’m fuckin’ terrified that I don’t think I could have that kind of faith in anything, and I’m finally gonna make it to the end of this cave and they’re gonna lay all my betrayals at my feet.”

Midnight finds you still staring up at the sky, hair wet, breath tangible, wondering how you can be both an anchor and an albatross.

—

(In the morning, Seokjin makes tteokguk and ladles extra into Yoongi’s bowl.)

i'm reaching for the phone to call at 7:03, and on your machine / i slur a plea for you to come home, but i know it's too late / and i should have given you a reason to stay.

The thing about grief is that it’s indiscriminate.

Because it has no context. Grief doesn’t know that things are better, doesn’t know that the two of you have stuck to your appointments with Namjoon and are able to talk honestly; doesn’t know that laughing feels lighter, easier; doesn’t know that guilt isn’t weighing you down as heavy. So it feels a lot like treading water, and sometimes you’re able to float and sometimes you slip beneath the waves, struggle to breathe.

And it’s stupid, you think, that you can disappear too far into your mind to the place where everything feels bad. Where progress is meaningless. Where there’s still you and Yoongi and a crumbling marriage. Where the only words ringing in your ears aren’t I love you, but you are beautiful but you don't mean a thing to me. Just like last time. Regression.

There are only so many distractions. Work helps, because you can’t focus on how shitty you feel—how scared you are—when your boss is on your ass about deadlines. The antique store in town helps, too, though you must’ve worn a pattern into the floors by now, but you can’t help it. It’s nice to hear the stones crunching under the tires when you pull into the parking lot; nice to laugh at the giant Sasquatch outside and greet them like a friend; nostalgic to breathe in the scent of old stuff—belongings that were once well-loved, now free to be loved by someone else.

Grief doesn’t care that you’re sad and Yoongi has that spark in his eyes.

But Yoongi is smart. Wickedly perceptive. Knows there’s something bothering you long before you gather the courage to say it, because it feels wrong to dim that spark, take it away, so he lets you sit with it. Lets you take your time, and that endless patience just makes you feel worse. Makes you think, he deserves better. Makes you think, what’s the point of any of this. Makes you angry, because things aren’t fixed but they’re better, and why can’t everything hurt all at once instead of incrementally.

And, just like always, you can only tread water for so long, stave off the inevitable.

Because Yoongi’s giving you time but when you feel like this, everything reads like an attack. Feels like disregard and indifference. What you want is unfair, and you know it, because you want Yoongi to be able to reach into your mind and see everything that’s turned necrotic. You want him to know how to fix it without having to talk about it, because talking about it makes you feel guilty. How many times can you press your fingers into the same wound and be shocked when they come out bloody?

So it isn’t fair and it’s also hard. Words bite at the back of your teeth, because this is your husband—if you can’t talk to him, what are you even doing? Namjoon would laugh. The one that’s equal parts patient and exasperated, like he can’t believe someone like you exists even though he’s seen some shit. Worse shit than you and Yoongi have, that’s for sure, so it should be reassuring.

(Everything reads like an attack.)

“Hey,” Yoongi says, hip resting against the counter, towel thrown over his shoulder. (These things always happen in a kitchen.) “You okay?”

How doubly unfair is it that your first instinct is to lie? To say yeah, I’m fine—not to be deceptive, but because you’re sure with enough time you can make it true, foolishly certain you can either bury it or delude yourself. But Yoongi is looking at you like a caged animal; like he, too, is foolishly certain of foolish things. Yoongi is looking at you like he knows this is it. Like this is where you say I’m sorry, this just isn’t working, we were stupid to think it would even though we’re trying. Like this is where you take off your wedding band and place it calmly in his hand. No dramatics, just resignation.

So you don’t lie. You can’t. Instead, you say, “Yeah, I think… I think it’s just been a little hard lately.”

Yoongi tries to lie, too. Tries to hide how relieved his exhale is, but the smile peeks through, the flush on his cheeks. Can’t hide that he’s pleased because all those nightmares he’d conjured in his head aren’t coming true.

“I should’ve said something earlier,” you say, because it’s something that’s true, “I’m sorry. I just—I don’t want you to feel bad, you know? I don’t want to keep rehashing things.”

He closes the distance. Wraps you in his arms, all warmth. Presses a kiss to the top of your head. “It’s okay. I know it’s hard to talk about these things sometimes. I just wanted to make sure we’re okay.”

“Yeah. Yeah, Yoongi, I think we will be.”

(Something that’s true.)

it felt just like falling in love again. and it felt just like falling in love again.

On Friday, the two of you go to the bar for karaoke night.

As he’s buttoning his shirt, Yoongi says do you think they’ll have Epik High? and you can’t help the ugly laugh that tumbles out of you even though it’s not really funny. Because no, this two stoplight town won’t have Epik High, but it’s the kind of thing you laugh at when you’re feeling terribly fond, horribly endeared—it’s the kind of thing you laugh at when you’re riding the high of going through hell and making it to the other side.

It’s the kind of thing you laugh at instead of detailing every reason you’re in love with him.

So you do your hair and makeup nice. Barely make it out the door, because Yoongi stumbles into the bathroom to fix his hair and put on cologne and stops dead in his tracks when he sees you. Mutters a goddamn under his breath before he’s all over you. Kisses pressed to the nape of your neck, hips pressing you against the counter. The right side of painful.

You manage to pry him off of you long enough to shove him out the door, thighs just a little bruised, Yoongi’s lips a little too red. He’s still all over you at the bar. Still rests a possessive hand at the small of your back, still presses a kiss to your cheek every time he gets up to order another round of drinks, still whines and pretends to drag his feet when the house music plays and you pull him onto the dancefloor.

Someone sings “Fly Me to the Moon” by Frank Sinatra. It’s off-key and a little grating and Yoongi’s got wing sauce smeared on his cheek, but he still mouths the words to you. You are all I long for. All I worship and adore. You know you look lovestruck, and you think it’s a shame there’s barely anyone in this bar to witness it. What you and Yoongi have—it should be seen. It should be screamed from rooftops.

When the two of you go back to the bungalow, you split a bottle of red wine and sit on the living room floor. Yoongi has his guitar in his lap, barely able to play the chords properly, but he serenades you anyway. Does a better rendition of Fly Me to the Moon than the guy at the bar just because it’s his, and he’s singing it for you. He sweeps the blankets from the back of the couch onto the floor and fucks you slow. Holds your hand and kisses you until you’re breathless. (You already were.)

The rest of the weekend is spent similarly. Yoongi can’t keep his hands to himself, fucks you in nearly every room of Seokjin’s little house in Oakhurst, and presses praise into your skin like a brand. Sits on the living room floor again as you cook dinner, back ramrod straight against the couch; has a spliff stuck between his lips as he jots down words into a notebook. Looks up and over at you every now and then, cheeks reddening each time you catch him staring. You, too, refuse to smile until you’ve turned back around.

On Sunday night, Yoongi ducks out to go to the drug store and returns with an armful of bath bombs. Looks like he looted a bank, but he asks do you want to use the lavender one in that soft, shy voice, and you wouldn’t be able to say no to him even if you wanted to, so you don’t. You sink into the warm water, let the lilac swirl around you, make you soft, and you feel safe here with your back pressed to Yoongi’s chest. With his legs caging you in. With his words in your ear and his lips pressed to the top of your head, fingers dancing along your ribs, clearing the cobwebs from in between.

Monday comes before you’re ready. Insistent, inevitable—the sunlight streams in, wakes you slowly. Yoongi’s arm is thrown over your middle, both of you still lavender-soft, and he groans when you stir, buries his face in your neck. Everything is warm. A blissful little cocoon, made even more so when Yoongi pulls himself out of bed, makes a pot of coffee, returns with your mug steaming hot. He sets it on your nightstand, doesn’t want to risk burning you by handing it off, and tilts your chin up to press a quick kiss to your lips.

You’ve got a nine-thirty meeting, so you tangle your legs together and drink it as fast you can. Shameless, Yoongi watches as you undress—watches as the sun paints you in golden light, watches as you pull his t-shirt up and over your head, watches as your shoulder blades move beneath your skin. It’s the t-shirt that fucks him up the most, has him a little hard in his briefs. One of his tour shirts, the last one he’d gone on before the two of you got married. Says, a little awed, “I’d follow you anywhere,” and he doesn’t elaborate but somehow you know exactly what he means.

And he stays in the bedroom when you log on for your meeting. Listens to you talk to your team, your laugh soft and bright, and feels entirely dumbstruck. Feels overwhelmed, wonders how his body can possibly contain so much affection. Wonders, briefly, where it goes when everything hurts. If it’s just in a reserve, because Yoongi has loved you as long as he’s known you, and he’s not sure it’s ever felt like this; ever hit him this hard.

So, he locks himself in the second bedroom until the late afternoon. Pours over his notebooks, strums every chord he knows until he finds the right one. Jots down words he scribbles over and jots down more. Writes until the calluses on his fingers turn to blisters, writes until the words all blend together, until there’s something singular instead of tendrils. Yoongi writes until there’s something he can feel proud of; something that might feel a lot like redemption.

[interlude: monday morning]

(You listen to it far later. Back in your home that isn’t the apartment in Silver Lake but contains just as much love—perhaps more now than before you left; certainly more patience, more hope, more resilience. And as you take in Yoongi’s words, wrapped in their metaphors and their honesty, you cry again, but this time it’s quiet rather than heaving.

This time Yoongi is singing love, keep your arms around me.)

looking upwards, i strain my eyes and try / to tell the difference between shooting stars and satellites from the passenger seat as you are driving me home.

“Should we go home soon?”

It’s a Saturday morning, and you and Yoongi are on the porch. The air is crisp and cool, makes your coffee a tolerable temperature, and it’s early enough that the world is largely still asleep. There’s no polluted noise, just the rustling of the grass that’s now a little overgrown and the one neighbor from down the road who always wakes up early to run. He must hear your muted voices, because he waves as he passes by.

Home. Back to Los Angeles. Back to your two-storey home with the awful neighbor who doesn’t wake up early to run and never waves to you. Back to the chaos you know. Back to a home that hasn’t felt much like one lately, but one that can be repaired, just like everything else. A home that’s got enough love stored between its walls that you aren’t worried.

But it’s still daunting, somehow. Things feel solid here, like a houseplant sprouting new life—resilient, but a little fragile, too. So you’re scared to burst the bubble and doubly scared of what that hesitation means. “I don’t know,” you say. “What do you think?”

“I don’t know, either,” Yoongi answers. Takes another sip of his coffee, rocks a little in the chair. He’s got his knees pulled up to his chest. Looks impossibly small, especially in his oversized pajamas and the even larger hoodie he’d thrown over them. “It’s nice here.”

It is, in more ways than one. “Yeah, I’m gonna miss it.”

Yoongi hums. “Maybe I’ll just buy it from Seokjin.” Words muffled by the rim of his mug, like he’s trying to hide them from you.

Doesn’t work. Instead, you turn to him, eyebrow quirked. “Oh, really?”

He shrugs, like it’s no big deal. “Gotta do something with all this money, hm?” Then he sighs, picks at imaginary lint on his pants. “You like it here, though, right? Not saying I am, but—”

“Oh no,” you interject, voice at least fifty decibels higher. “I know you, Yoongi! You wouldn’t be asking me any of this unless you already had some half-baked plan in the works—”

“Yah! It’s at least seventy-five percent baked!”

You laugh, the sound the loudest thing for miles. “Yeah, okay. How much did you offer him for it? You spend all my money?”

“Your—that’s not funny.” He pouts. “I didn’t spend all of it.”

“Just seventy-five percent?”

“I’ll have you know I am a very successful musician. I could buy you ten of these cabins if I wanted to.”

You drop your mouth open in mock-affront. “And yet I have zero cabins, so what does that say about the state of your priorities?”

“Not this shit again—”

“I think it’s more of a bungalow, anyway.”

“Yeah, Seokjin said the same thing. Was really offended that I offered to buy his cabin.” A pause. A small lift at the corners of his mouth. “Still offered to sell it to me, though.”

You can’t help the smile that splits your face. “And I’m sure you said yes, of course.”

“I’ve grown very attached to those blueberry donuts.”

“Uh-huh.”

“...And it’s been good for us. We’re happy here. Happier.”

“Yeah, we are. You just needed some fresh air.”

Yoongi’s cheeks tinge pink. “Yah, knock it off! You’re making me sound like a tuberculosis patient. Like I just needed a trip to the seaside to heal.”

“I’m just stating facts, Yoongi. You’re a little studio hermit, barely witnessing the light of day. I bet you got one lungful of this mountain air and almost keeled over.”

“You’re a pain in my ass,” he accuses, “I’m revoking my offer.”

“That you extended with my money.”

“Yeah, exactly.”

—

Saying goodbye is hard.

As you load the last of your belongings into the car, it feels like you’re leaving behind a friend. You know you’ll be back (because Yoongi actually did offer to buy the cabin-bungalow and Seokjin seems keen, but whether that’s because he actually wants to offload it into the two of you or because he wants to salvage your marriage any way he can, you can’t be sure), but tears prick at the corners of your eyes anyway. Because you were desperate when you arrived, and now you aren’t. You were scared and lacking direction, and now you have another place to rest when you get tired.

Yoongi joins you at the car, his guitar bag slung over his shoulder. Just stares at the little blue bungalow with the pink door and doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t have to. Whatever he’s thinking, you know he’s saying it in his head in that fond tone of his. The one that’s bordering on thankful, and you are, too.

On the way home, Yoongi drives and treats you to (read: makes you suffer through) John Denver karaoke. Sings “Take Me Home, Country Roads” the way he used to sing girl group songs at the noraebang. Holds your hand the entire way, and the two of you stop at some hole in the wall for lunch, still a few hours from the city. He orders a beer—some disgusting IPA you know he only drinks to seem distinguished, even though this is the same guy you watched do keg stands in college for free Natty Light—to get out of driving the rest of the way and it’s your turn to call him a pain in the ass.

But he’s quiet in the passenger seat, and it’s not from the alcohol. He’s typing intermittently on his phone, pink tongue darting out from between his lips when he gets especially focused. “I think I got something,” he says eventually. “If I read it to you, will you tell me if it sounds alright?”

“I majored in economics,” you say, because you always do. It’s been your go-to since the first time he asked, all the way back in your junior year.

He laughs anyway. “Perfect, then you can tell me if this shit is gonna make me any money,” he answers with a wry smile, because he always does. “I’ve had this stuck in my head for days.”

You nod. You listen.

“And if you feel just like a tourist in the city you were born, then it’s time to go. And you find your destination with so many different places to call home.”

You wonder how Yoongi is always able to put to paper all the feelings you’ve got locked up tight. You wonder how Yoongi always makes Los Angeles seem less daunting.

there'd be no distance that could hold us back. so this is the new year.

It’s the thirtieth of December.

Your shithead, capitalist shill of a neighbor doesn’t wave when you and Yoongi pack up the car this time, either, just watches from his front porch. You can feel his brooding; worse ever since Yoongi had offhandedly mentioned buying a place up near Yosemite. Got a really good deal from a friend, he’d said, just when we need to get away, you know how it is, and that had your neighbor’s jaw clenching, nodding in faux politeness. Even illuminated by the golden ambiance of icicle lights, he still manages to look like a dickhead.

Good riddance.

“Ready?” Yoongi asks, catching the keys with one hand when you toss them to him.

You nod. Then you fold yourself into the passenger seat and reach for his hand.

—

Oakhurst is still small, but it’s made room for you, now.

There’s still only two traffic lights before you reach the road your cabin is on—a sharp right turn off the main highway, an acute angle, a steep decline. It doesn’t matter what time of year you make the trip, because the uneven, precipitous little road always makes your stomach drop, but it’s home now. Another physical one, because you and Yoongi have worked hard over the last year to make as many as possible.

(And, even still, the strongest home you’ve made is Us. What the two of you have is something still standing long after the storm. Something that has persevered and stood tall, even when the foundation was shaking. Even when you wanted to tear it down. Even when it seemed beyond repair.)

“Home sweet home,” Yoongi jokes as he kills the engine, and you laugh because his tone is flat and dry. Belies his excitement, his insistence on digging out an old box of Christmas lights from the attic and bringing it with you. That he has this whole plan to spend New Year’s Eve decorating, bringing life to this little blue bungalow with the pink door.

“It is pretty sweet,” you agree, and just like before, you neatly unpack your stuff and thread your clothes through velvet hangers and Yoongi abandons his suitcase in a corner of his studio.

—

There’s a woman on the television with rosy cheeks and a drink in hand. She isn’t trying to sell you anything.

She’s lovely and very drunk and even more beautiful when she laughs, teeth perfectly straight and blindingly white. She’s prattling off questions to some celebrity, rapid fire, and they’re trying their best to keep up but it’s hopeless. Eventually they, too, just smile into the camera.

Yoongi’s in the kitchen fixing drinks. Expensive champagne flutes filled with inexpensive champagne, a pair of raspberries tossed into each one as a garnish. Your husband doesn’t even like raspberries, but he’d wanted to feel fancy, so you don’t bother questioning it. You know what it means—wants a do-over of last year. Wants this year to be what the last should’ve been, because this year the two of you will be sitting on the same side of the couch, drinking cheap champagne from Vons out of expensive glassware.

A gift from Seokjin, because he’s a bastard. A housewarming gift for a house you’d bought from him.

There’s still an hour before the countdown. There’s still an empty pot on the stove that used to be full of tteokguk. It’s a different New Year, not Seollal, but Yoongi had wanted to make it anyway. Cracked a joke about not wanting to risk it, so he’s going to eat as much tteokguk as possible, that he might need the luck, you never know. I didn’t eat any last year and still bought a second house, he’d said. Imagine how powerful I’ll be if I eat ten bowls of this.

Your husband is always powerful, but you hadn’t pointed that out. Hadn’t pointed out that the only reason the two of you could afford a second house was because Seokjin gave you a steep pity discount, either. Sometimes it’s just nice to believe in luck, on top of all the other things you already have to believe in.

(Like each other.)

There’s still an hour, and Yoongi hands over a flute of champagne and sinks into the couch beside you. You forget about the woman on TV, but you don’t forget about—“You know, I distinctly remember you making me a promise before we came up here last year.”

Yoongi quirks an eyebrow. “Yeah? Did I make good on it?”

“For the most part,” you answer. “Like, eighty percent.”

Yoongi snorts. “Refresh my memory.”

You set your glass on the coffee table. Angle yourself so you can swing a thigh over Yoongi’s lap to straddle him, earning you another quirked eyebrow. “I distinctly remember you promising to fuck me in every room of this house.”

His own glass abandoned, Yoongi settles one hand on your hip, the other on your thigh. “Surely I already did,” he answers, words spoken into the crook of your neck, goosebumps rising along your skin. “No way I would’ve been able to keep my hands off you.”

Warm lips press against your neck. Kiss their way to your jawline to the corner of your mouth. “Do you remember me fucking you on this couch? On the floor? You remember how hard you came that time?”

Your hips start to grind, seeking friction. This time, the cool metal of Yoongi’s wedding band against your flushed skin doesn’t shock you. Just feels like another home. His hands slipping beneath the fabric of your shirt feel like home. His tongue licking into your mouth tastes like home. When he pulls away to say, “I know you remember the time in the kitchen, the way I fucked your mouth,” you lose all concept of home entirely.

Home is just Yoongi. Everything is Yoongi.

“I fucked you in that bed so many times. Against the bathroom sink. Always so good for me.” He’s thumbing over a nipple, embarrassingly hardened from the husk of his voice, the way his cock is filling out in his joggers. “Where’d we miss, baby?”

You swallow. Know it’s audible even over the sound of the television. People are cheering, but you aren’t turning around to look, because what could they possibly have to cheer for when they don’t have Yoongi? When Yoongi only looks at you like this—like he’s already a little crazed, a little fucked up?

“The st-studio,” you choke out. Dizzy, dizzy, dizzy. Not a drop of champagne made it past your lips and still the world spins.

You can feel Yoongi’s smirk against the column of your throat. Hate what it does to you, because Yoongi could talk you off a ledge when he’s like this. “Ah, you’re right.” Fingers trail along the hem of your pants, toying with you. “Is that what you want? You wanna ride me in my chair? You want it fucking dirty like that, my sweats barely pulled down, like you’re fucking desperate for it?”

You are, and you do.

So that’s how Yoongi fucks you. Gives you exactly what you want: sits in his oversized chair, pulls you into his lap. Sweats pushed down only as far as he needs to fish his cock out, slick it up, and then he’s pushing inside of you. Groans loud, tells you how tight you are, how wet and warm. And it’s stupid, because your husband is fucking your brains out, but there’s a little window in his studio, just above his desk.

Through it, you can see the Christmas lights the two of you spent the afternoon putting up.

You can hear Yoongi’s grumbling in your head, all his shouting when he thought he was going to fall off the ladder even though you were holding it steady. Cursed about not having enough zip ties. Cursed about one lightbulb being burnt out. Cursed when the extension cord wasn’t long enough. Only stopped cursing when you shut him up with a kiss.

You come hard. Yoongi makes good on his promise.

Another home.

—

(From the living room, the muted sounds of a countdown. Palpable excitement you’re finally able to feel, last year’s numbness long gone and replaced with endless warmth. Yoongi only leaves to grab a warm washcloth from the bathroom, and then he’s cleaning you up and pressing his lips back to your kiss-reddened mouth. There’s a supercut playing in your head, all the past celebrations. All the parties the two of you have gone to, the years spent alone but together. All the people you’ve kissed in front of. All the quiet, private ways Yoongi used to tell you he loved you. When was the last time? Just minutes ago. There’s seven seconds until the new year and Yoongi is right beside you.

Fireworks explode outside. You cry this year, too, but they’re happy tears. They’re tears that serve as proof you survived, that you went through hell and made it to the other side. Yoongi sheds a few of his own. Laughs, almost disbelieving, as he tells you he loves you. Smiles, certainly disbelieving, when you repeat it.

You’re going to miss this place when you leave, but there’s a ring on your finger and a man beside you that tells you home can be anywhere, be anything. Tells you that sometimes you’ll have to fight for it, but it’ll always be there so long as you choose to.)

if you've made it this far, i'd like to say thank you again for reading this. as i said, this fic is deeply personal to me, and i hope you find something relatable in it as well.

i know people don't always love to read the members in westernized settings, and i completely understand. i chose oakhurst/yosemite because it's where i went for my own honeymoon, and, well, personal.

i'd love to hear your thoughts! feedback and reblogs are always appreciated. ♡

#This hurts so good

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