Archive of Our Own

“To be running breathlessly, but not yet arrived, is itself delightful, a suspended moment of living hope.

— Anne Carson

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The first time that Yoongi ran away, the sky had cried for him. 

Wet, hot tears had streaked the panel of the window seat, knocking themselves into the tempered glass and clouding over the view of the tiny capillaries of Seoul’s lively streets that had become increasingly smaller as the plane gained altitude, until outside there was nothing but the darkened abyss that was only half a shade lighter than the void in Yoongi’s own heart.

The human heart was strange like that, in a sense. It was supposed to beat 100,000 times a day on average, in shades of sanguine and deep reds that flooded the body’s veins with a pulsation and validation that life existed and would continue to go on. It was supposed to be a place for people to move in to keep the rest of the body warm with their presence. Maybe that’s why it had chambers.

Yet, Yoongi had become convinced that if someone were to peer into the creaking rooms of his heart, they would see nothing but a settled dust and an aching gap where the hearth should be.

And maybe that’s why he keeps running. Part of him tells him that it’s the adrenaline that comes with packing all your stuff up in the middle of the night and slipping out the door and into the unknown, but a smaller part of him entertains the fleeting thought that maybe he’s looking for something else.

What? He thinks he has a feeling, but he can’t be sure. Something along the lines of a flickering flame that will stir in the depths of his aching heart, warming him for the first time in ages.

Here on the highway, though, there’s not a light in sight. The last one he had seen was some fifty kilometres ago, in the form of a starkly-lit gas station whose beacon had drawn Yoongi in, reminiscent of a lighthouse’s beacon guiding a lost sailor back to shore. 

Drunk off the fumes of his exhaust and the peppy scent of his citrus-scented air freshener, he had filled his tank up to the brim, itching fingers pressing the nozzle as his mind took him elsewhere. 

He observed as a minivan had rumbled up to the pump adjacent to Yoongi’s, and a mother had stepped out while clutching her crying child to her chest. Like clockwork, the woman had carefully leaned down to press a gentle kiss to the child’s forehead, using her spare hand to sweep away stray hairs and tuck them back behind the child’s ears. A faint 80s pop tune was crackling over her car speakers, breaking up now and then due to the waning distance between the gas station and the city’s satellite towers. 

As Yoongi leaned against the side of his truck as his tank slowly filled, he couldn’t help but wonder what this mother’s story was. Intimately, in some way, it was as if they were connected somehow — two strangers, severing their ties with the city in the background as they raced towards the moonlight in the foreground. 

He was curious about her; who she was, how she liked her coffee, and why she was twenty miles from home and a hundred from hope. 

He had fidgeted with the hem of his shirt, thoughts racing across his mind as he entertained the thought of closing the distance between them and striking up a conversation. 

Nothing romantic, just the silently loud comfort of knowing that there were others also fumbling their way through the night. 

Yet, a lingering inhibition had clawed its way into Yoongi’s throat, causing him to shove his hands into the pockets of his jeans. He had always been someone unsure of what to do or say around other people, hence why life in overpopulated city after overpopulated city had been so stifling. He didn’t know how this woman would react to him. 

Would she judge the choppy bangs he had impulsively cut in his kitchen sink one night? Would she express disdain at the way that his jeans hung on his hips at a slightly awkward angle, or would she take notice of how he slouched into his sweater like someone trying to shrink away from the weight of the world?

So with a full tank and a pack of menthol gum he’d grabbed from inside the station, Yoongi had cowered from the thought of conversation and slowly driven out instead, watching as the mother had quietly tucked her now-sleeping child back into his carseat. 

Yoongi briefly caught her eye as his truck made its way past the row of pumps and she had offered him a small smile, raising her fist in a gingerly motion — an act of solidarity that recognized that they were two lonesome strangers on the same road. 

With this, a pang of regret stirred in his heart, but he shoved it deep down as he revved his engine louder and forced himself to look forward.

Now back on the highway, Yoongi was cruising through the night like a knife through butter, feeling the wind weave itself through his hair as his truck sailed down the never ending stretch of asphalt. Unlike the time that he’d gotten onto that flight years ago, this time there was no destination in sight nor mind. This time, there was just the inky sky wrapping his truck in a soft embrace as he drove deeper into the night’s pulsing heart, veins full of a dusky breeze and the occasional burst of static over the radio.

To Yoongi, there was something freeing about simply floating through time and space, with his foot to the pedal but not tethered to the ground. It felt like waltzing through infinity, where he wasn’t bound to one place or the next. He could simply keep himself in this state forever. Yet, at the same time,  the term “existing” as in the art of being and “living” were two different things; without a doubt, Yoongi existed . He had blood in his veins and a heart that beat, and he could open and close his eyes in a languid blink to take in the bleak world around him. 

But living? That was something much more difficult to explain. Everyone had a different explanation of what it meant, based on their own experiences. To some, living meant a good career and sense of stability. To others, it meant the ability to walk through the doors of their home to be greeted with a warm smile and even warmer arms. 

Yet, when the term crosses his mind, Yoongi draws a blank that crackles like the static, slightly louder than the snap of the gum he’s pulling across the roof of his mouth. As he picks up speed, the minty flavour starts to wane, coaxing him to pull over and spit the wad onto the pavement of the highway. Maybe this was his way of making his mark on the world; a way to say that he, Min Yoongi, an old soul trapped in the woes of being twenty-eight years young, had once been here. 

Yoongi snaps a picture of the splattered gum wad on his cellphone, tucking the device back into his pocket as he wraps his sweater closer to his chest and hauls himself back into the driver’s seat. Hitting the acceleration, the truck inches forward until it finds itself back onto the road. 

Fidgeting with the wheel, he lets it slip between his fingers, somewhat like the midnight minutes that would slowly tick into morning memories. 

Swallowing hard, Yoongi pulls the neckline of his sweater away from his neck, suddenly feeling uncomfortable in the driver’s seat. Outside, the stars twinkle in the night sky at a level that would’ve been unheard of in Seoul’s city smog. They’re just one more indicator of how far Yoongi’s managed to come. 

He admires the bright balls of light as his truck continues along the road. He wonders which of these stars are Polaris, and if what they say is true. About how the North Star is supposed to guide you home. 

Wherever that may be, or become.

The blazing intensity of the stars doesn’t seem to wane as Yoongi drives further, only becoming more evident and causing the former to squint against the glare on his windshield. Blinking slowly, he soon realizes that the source of light isn’t from the sky, but rather from the soft, flickering neon beckon of a diner sign on the side of the highway that illuminates a modest-looking brick building behind it. 

It feels almost sublime, Yoongi thinks. To see a diner in the middle of quite literally nowhere, with no signs on the road to indicate its presence. 

Normally, Yoongi wouldn’t feel all that compelled to find himself in slightly eerie places like this. But running away wasn’t normal, and neither was anything that came with it.

And with that, Yoongi finds his truck in the highway’s exit lane, cruising north towards the diner’s siren-like glow, which seems to warm the already balmy summer air.

Pulling into the parking lot, Yoongi’s hands clench the wheel, but they relax once he hears the jingle of the diner’s front door and the subsequent crackle of an old pop tune floats out into the night breeze. Uncannily enough, it sounds almost exactly like the song that had been playing over the car radio of the lady at the gas station, with that telltale synth that seems to syncopate with the curious pitter-patter fanning itself over Yoongi’s ribs.

Putting his truck into park, Yoongi lifts the hand brake and waits for the satisfying click as his wheels lock into place, rendering his runaway medium motionless. Popping the door open, he hops out of the driver’s seat, keys clanging against themselves as he clips them to his belt and shuffles to the front door of the diner, the soles of his shoes dragging against the asphalt. 

Yoongi hesitates for a split second with his hand hovering in the air before rolling his shoulders and pushing his body into the double doors, which swing open with utmost ease —  feather light and betraying their heavy, industrial look. 

Inside, Yoongi’s breath hitches as his eyes dart around the fluorescent setting. Although he had never been here before, there’s something about the checkered floors and vinyl booths that evoke a sense of universal nostalgia. As if Yoongi were reminiscing over something that he hadn’t even experienced.

The clang of coins being fed into a jukebox takes Yoongi out of his thoughts, focusing his attention onto the brassy exterior of the music player, as well a set of crooked fingers that seem to be currently playing a game of eenie-meenie with the jukebox’s buttons. One button wins over the other and a rich jazz tune floods the diner as the figure hovering near the machine backs away.

It’s a bit of a strange selection for the atmosphere, but it’s also not jarring. In some way, the velvety baritone of the song coats the diner in an eclectic glow, causing the surface of the cup on the table nearby to ripple. 

Yoongi’s taken aback when the scent of coffee suddenly becomes overwhelmingly close, looking down to see that same set of crooked fingers wrapped around a porcelain mug extended right under Yoongi’s nose. The steam curls up and gently caresses his face, as if welcoming him home from a long night of traveling, and it's through the silver slivers that he catches a glimpse of the face of the jukebox stranger. 

Warm. That’s Yoongi’s initial thought. The other man’s face radiates warmth, from his pouty smile, to the glimmer in his eyes that seem to twinkle in tandem with the brass of the jazz flowing around them.

“Cream or sugar? Maybe both?” Before Yoongi can react, the man reaches out and grabs Yoongi’s fidgeting hands, wrapping them around the mug and stepping back, an amused expression waxed across his lips. “It’s on the house.” 

Blinking slowly, Yoongi hesitantly lifts the drink to his lips, visibly relaxing as the familiar bitterness creeps onto this tongue. 

“No...but thank you.”

The stranger laughs at this, leaning against the bar behind him. “Of course. If you’re feeling really grateful, though, you can choose the next song on the jukebox. It takes coins, love, and sometimes hopes and dreams.”

Baffled, Yoongi takes another sip of his coffee before speaking. “You work here and you pay to listen to music?” Scrunching his nose, Yoongi sets the mug down as he turns to the other man, coffee almost as pungent as the confusion on his tongue. “Don’t you guys have an aux cord?” 

He regrets asking the question the moment it leaves his lips, afraid to gauge the stranger’s reaction. However, the awkwardness that he braces himself for never comes, because the other man only grins as he shakes his head. It doesn’t feel malicious in any way; there’s an almost playful quality to the way that the man’s hair falls over his smiling eyes.

“We do, but what’s the fun in that?” Shrugging, the man regards Yoongi with an amused look. “I like this so much better. Putting money into a jukebox feels like throwing coins into a fountain and making a wish, and every time those wishes are made, you also get a pretty song.” Folding himself onto a barstool, the stranger swings out his legs and props his face against one hand, the other hand patting the stool next to him.

Yoongi takes the cue and carefully slides onto the stool, taking note of their reflections in the large windowpane. The night is still bleak as ever outside, the inky sky juxtaposed with the neon glow of the diner. In the glass, Yoongi can see that he’s practically drowning in his sweater — but so is the other man. The latter must’ve had his sleeves rolled up not long ago, but his clothes were slowly betraying him, unrolling themselves and forcing him to cup his coffee between two paw-like cuts of cloth. It brings a smile to Yoongi’s lips, which part themselves to sip his own drink as the jazz tune that the stranger had picked tapers to a faltering stop, soaking the diner in a humming silence.

“Well,” the man says, dabbing at the corner of his plush lips with a napkin. “It’s your turn. Go on. Make a wish.”

A wish. That was a concept that was both frighteningly familiar yet far away, dormantly suspended in the gaps between his ideals and reality. 

According to the kind of films that he had consumed like wildfire as a kid, he had been taught to think that a wish was something that was intimately connected to the heart, in the sense that the heart was always wishing. With every pump of blood that it sent surging through the body, it was making a wish — to stay alive and to carry on. 

But people with empty hearts like Yoongi often wondered where these wishes were supposed to come from, and if wishing hard enough would be able to stir a long-buried hope from layers of ash. 

Maybe. Maybe not. Ash was smokey and charred, but coins were different. Despite being well travelled, they were often shiny, and Yoongi could often see his own waned expression on their surfaces. As he digs through his pockets, he’s caught off guard by the clattering of several dimes on the bar in front of him, falling out of the stranger’s palms. 

“This one’s on me. Think of it as a beginner's initiation.” Beaming, the stranger pushes the coins towards Yoongi. “In exchange for just one thing.”

There’s a glint of silver that flashes across Yoongi’s eyes as a dime is tossed in the air, reflecting the diner’s neon glow as it lands back into the man’s palm with comfortable ease, causing the latter to shoot a lopsided grin at Yoongi. “Introduce yourself to me.”

“Like my name?” Yoongi frowns, as the stranger tuts. 

“No. Well, you can start there.” 

With a mischievous glint in his eyes, the other man continues. “And while you’re at it, you can also explain why you’re the first non-tourist I’ve ever seen to step foot into an American-style diner on the Korean roadside in the middle of the night.”

Fidgeting with the hem of his sweater, Yoongi purses his lips in thought. “My name is Min Yoongi. I’m twenty-eight years old. I work... worked for an accounting firm. Um.” Yoongi knocks back the rest of his coffee, wincing at the heat that burns at the back of his throat. “And I’m running away.

There’s a silence that hangs between them for a beat before Yoongi slices through it, the squeak of vinyl unsticking itself from his jeans as he excuses himself from the diner’s bar, taking a handful of coins into his palms as he shuffles towards the jukebox. 

Yoongi can feel the other man’s curious gaze boring into the back of his head as he hunches over and deliberates his song options. 

An old song from his childhood catches Yoongi’s eye, and he draws in a deep inhale as he starts to feed the first coin into the machine. The song hasn’t even begun to play yet, but there’s a nostalgic excitement that starts to creep up on Yoongi. It was a song that his mom would sometimes play around the house, flowing out of VHS tapes that later gave way to boomboxes and eventually a pair of speakers that Yoongi had triumphantly dug out from a yard sale and paid for with his very first paycheque.

Among that paycheque had also been a myriad of coins, which Yoongi had held close to his chest for when he felt that he’d need them. That day had come sooner than he had expected at the time, on the very same day that he’d taken home those speakers. With his newfound treasure neatly sitting on the side of the local park’s basketball court, Yoongi had been enjoying shooting hoops by himself, focusing on the layup and honing his technique until the ball had rolled off the court. 

Chasing after it, Yoongi had watched as groups of friends and sets of lovers had all blended into one another as he ran past. Not everyone was holding hands, but they didn’t have to. The sound of joint laughter was enough to connect them, illuminated by the setting sun and the reflections of the pink horizon in the coins that they were tossing into the park’s fountain.

That day, Yoongi had kicked the ball to a standstill and stood in front of that same fountain, cognizant of how it seemed to tower over him and how if he were to fall in, he would likely drown. 

Taking a coin out of his shirt pocket, Yoongi had squeezed his eyes shut, heart yearning that this fountain would somehow grant him a fraction of the happiness and connection that everyone else around him in the park seemed to have. And with that, Yoongi had whipped the coin into the base of the fountain, opening his eyes and realizing that he hadn’t checked to see where it had landed. 

He thinks about this as he brandishes another coin from the diner employee, the cool sensation of the silver bringing him back to the present day. Shutting his eyes tightly, he lets the beginning buds of a wish start to bloom within the cage of his chest. He’s not even entirely sure what he’s wishing for, but all he knows is that there’s a foreign feeling of hope that seems to buzz in the air around him. Quiet yet electrifying, it centers on the back of his neck, on the spot where Yoongi can feel the stranger still looking at him.  

Here in the diner, there’s no soft pink horizon or pockets of laughter. But there’s the bright neon signs that juxtapose the bleak night outside and there’s a balminess that permeates the air, enveloping Yoongi in a comfort that he’s not sure stems from the coffee or the kind man who had given it to him. 

Pressing a soft kiss to the dime pinched between his fingers, Yoongi slots it into the jukebox, waiting for the telltale bassline of his selected song to kick in. Holding his breath, he listens as the gears in the machine turn, soon relieving him of his wait and pumping out a tune that mirrors Yoongi’s rapid heartbeat. Just like that, nostalgia blankets him and holds him close, warm like the blush that fans itself over Yoongi’s cheeks when he feels someone tap him on the back, pulling him out of the dreamy escape of his childhood and back into the four walls of the diner.

“Ten."

Turning around, Yoongi finds himself face to face with the stranger, the other man languidly propped against the side of the jukebox as he holds his mug in one hand and all of Yoongi's interest in the other.

"I was ten years old when I first heard this song," the man elaborates, lips turning upwards as he sighs in content. The neon lighting illuminates the deep smile lines that decorate his eyes, highlighting how much he must've laughed already within a life that was just beginning. "You picked a good one, Yoongi."

Slightly caught off guard by hearing his name coming out of this man's mouth, Yoongi fidgets with the hem of his sweater again, but this time he takes note of how he isn't completely opposed to the way that the word trails off of those plush lips with a soft intonation, rivaling the material of Yoongi's sweater.

"Ten..." Yoongi echoes, brows furling as the cogs in his head turn. "So you're twenty-nine now?" One year older than himself, he quickly realizes. Yet, this stranger was full of a radiant youth that Yoongi seemed to have lost long ago, perhaps buried underneath one of many peeling posters of astronauts that had adorned his childhood bedroom.

"Mm. That was quick. Guess you really did belong in accounting, hey?" The other man muses. "Good with numbers."

"Nine," Yoongi mumbles quietly. "I was nine when this song came out. And...yes and no."

"Yes and no?"

"Yes to being good with numbers. No to belonging in accounting."

"Is that so?" Taking a sip of his coffee, the other man throws Yoongi a bemused look. "So tell me. Where do you belong?"

It’s as if this question carries the weight of a thousand thorns, puncturing the quilt of comfort that had blanketed the two men just moments before. Deflating, Yoongi fixes his gaze to the floor as he chews on his lower lip. “I...wish I knew.”

“Ah.” The stranger nods slowly. “I see.” Slowly, the man reaches forward to slot his crooked fingers between Yoongi’s, with the action catching the latter off guard. “It’s scary, isn’t it? Not knowing where you should be. But it’s so much better if you have someone to guide you through it.”

With a confident smile, the stranger rubs his thumb across Yoongi’s knuckles, causing the latter’s breath to hitch. Their hands match together eerily well, in ways that Yoongi didn’t even know he could fit into someone else. Just like that, Yoongi finds himself being pulled back towards the diner's bar, where a smattering of shiny coins are still scattered across its surface. Although seemingly small, the action grounds Yoongi and he finds his psyche starting to round itself back out as he allows himself to be pulled away.

Nonchalantly, the other man takes his seat in the stool that he'd been in before, once again patting the one next to him. Deja-vu hangs in the air as Yoongi takes a seat, staring at his now-lukewarm coffee as he gingerly picks it up.

“Wanna know where I think I belong?” The man asks, drumming his fingers on the bar. Before Yoongi can answer, the man gestures around them to the diner until his hand fixes itself in the direction of the front doors. “I belong here and there. Nowhere and everywhere. Both five and fifty kilometers from here.”

“I’m not quite following you.”

“That’s okay.” Chuckling to himself, the stranger takes a slow sip of his drink. “Belonging isn’t always limited to one place, Yoongi.”

“What if...you don’t even have one?”

“That’s impossible. For starters, you belong to the jukebox.”

Scrunching his nose, confusion flickers across Yoongi’s eyes as he blinks at the stranger. “I’m sorry?”

Laughing, the stranger’s mouth turns upwards as he nods towards the musical machine in the corner. “Only someone who has a story worth telling would stand in front of a jukebox for that long. You looked like you had stepped into a time machine for a moment there, taking you back to somewhere that made you happy.” Pausing, the stranger surveys Yoongi's face, eyes languidly flitting over Yoongi’s features. “Somewhere where you belonged.”

At this, Yoongi almost scoffs at how off the mark the stranger is. If only he had known what Yoongi had wished for that day at the fountain, when he had felt as if happiness had slipped right through his fingertips, seared by a sun that would soon disappear into the bleak night sky.

"Listen, Yoongi. You have eons to figure these things out, but let me help you out a bit. You're good at math, right? So let's play a game." Wedging a coin between his fingers, the stranger suddenly spins on his stool so that he's knee-to-knee with Yoongi, the sudden friction causing Yoongi to almost drop his mug. The man's voice is ever so gentle, and not for a moment does his gaze leave Yoongi's face.

"The premise is simple," the man continues, fingers absentmindedly thumbing the rounded silver in his hand, "If I flip this 500 won coin, what are the odds of me hitting either ‘heads’ or ‘tails’?"

Still fixated on the stranger's proximity to him while reeling from the mild existential crisis that he's just been plunged into, Yoongi shoves away the tingly feeling that has formed in his stomach as he sets his drink down, eyes flickering as he ponders the question. Part of him wonders if the kind man is just trying to distract him from spiraling, but either way, he can't help but feel grateful enough to play along. Anchoring his stare to the ground, he clears his throat. "I mean, it's a fifty-fifty chance, either way. Why?"

"Mm." Beaming as if Yoongi had just fed him the answer that he'd been looking for, the stranger shoots him a curious look as he fidgets with the shiny currency, before setting the coin down and clasping his hands together as he leans closer to Yoongi. "If I assign a value to each side of the coin, would you want to play?"

Raising an eyebrow, Yoongi musters the courage to lift his gaze to match the stranger's. The other man is watching him intently, the diner's neon lighting flickering across his eyes. There's something about seeing the reflection of a brightly lit open sign painted in this stranger's irises that juxtaposes Yoongi's normally closed off disposition and for some reason, it doesn't feel uncomfortable.

"Depends. What's on each side?"

The boldness of Yoongi's voice surprises even him, tinged with a hue that he'd never seen before. With his words, the other man breaks into a full grin, eyes waning into crescents not unlike the moon that hung outside in the inky sky, watching the night unfold. 

Straightening up, the other man purses his plush lips as he blinks slowly, surveying Yoongi’s face before he speaks. “Let’s say it flips onto ‘heads.’” Folding one leg over the other, he hums in contemplation as Yoongi watches him with a piqued curiosity. “Then you and me get out of here.” Noting the confusion on Yoongi’s face, the man laughs as he continues. “My shift’s been over for ages, Yoongi. I like hanging around to listen to music, and if I’m extra lucky, then sometimes some rather interesting characters float into here. Ones with good stories.”

“I don’t have any stories.” 

“That’s bullshit, Yoongi. Everyone has stories.” Drumming his fingernails on the veneer of the counter, the stranger purses his lips in thought. “Everyday that you’re alive, you’re given an empty page to fill in. How you fill it depends on what you choose to do that day…” he pauses, “or what you choose not to do.”

“If you don’t do something then it remains unwritten, though.” Yoongi frowns as the stranger lets out a scoff.

“No. It’s still a conscious decision that will ultimately change the way that chapter ends.”

Yoongi ruminates on the stranger's reply for a beat, taking a long sip of his coffee as the other man directs the conversation back onto its original course.

“My hometown is just a couple ways north of here, and it’d be a great place for you to sightsee and rest up before you continue wherever it is that you’re going...if you even have a destination, that is.” 

“Oh.” Yoongi bites his lip. “How did you know?”

“Know what?”

“That I have no idea where the hell I’m going.” 

At this, the stranger lets out a full blown laugh, squeaky like the wipers on Yoongi’s truck on the rainiest days in Seoul. Both the laughter and the wipers provide Yoongi with a sense of clarity, drawing a smile from his taut lips.

“No one who ever passes through here ever knows where they’re going,” the man replies softly, voice gentler than the sound of a raindrop dripping onto glass.

Yoongi waits for him to elaborate, but he simply takes another sip of coffee. This time, he seems to drag the liquid through his lips, slow and excruciating.

“And ‘tails?’” Yoongi asks, crossing his arms across his chest as he waits for the stranger to set his mug down. “What if the coin flips to ‘tails?’”

“Well.” Dabbing at the corner of his lips with a napkin, the stranger blinks slowly as he folds one leg over the other, once again rubbing against Yoongi’s jeans and causing the latter to flush a shade of sanguine. “That’s simple. ‘Tails’ and I go into the kitchen, make you a nice meal for the road, then say goodbye without you having even known my name. I’ll just perpetually remember you as Min Yoongi, the accountant-turned-runaway, aged twenty-eight, who grew up listening to the same songs as me. Then you’ll turn around and walk back out through the same doors that so many lost wanderers before you have stumbled in and out of.” Fidgeting with the napkin, the stranger looks down at where he and Yoongi’s legs have made contact, blinking slowly before ultimately shaking his head and offering a shrug. “And then that’s that. We never see each other again.” Taking another slow sip of coffee, the man sets the mug down as an unreadable expression flickers across his eyes for a fleeting moment, like a flash of rain in the midst of a summer storm. “How you choose to remember me, if so at all, is up to you.”

There’s a beat of silence that passes between them, curling up like the steam from their coffee had done. However, it dissipates faster than the steam as Yoongi’s words slice through it, shattering it as he leans forward, knees pressing harder into the stranger’s. In a flash, Yoongi’s mind reels through the infinite possibilities of getting to know this man better. To feel the warmth of their hands in each other’s once again, not letting go while they chased the impending sunrise, maybe with a little mud on their jeans and caffeine running through their veins.

In a lifetime of indecisiveness and muddled words, the next words come out of Yoongi’s mouth with an unexpected air of confidence, as he straightens out his spine and lets out a definite exhale.

“I want to remember you.”

The other man’s grin rivals the diner lighting as he absorbs this answer, lips turned into an upwards u . “So you’re betting on ‘heads?’”

Yoongi balks at this, a brief moment of contemplation running through his head. However, the warmness of the stranger’s proximity to him erodes the edges of any jagged reservations that he may have had, and he finds himself nodding firmly.

With that, the stranger hums in content as he thumbs the coin behind his fingers, before squeezing his eyes shut and pressing a kiss to its shiny surface. When they open, he’s met with Yoongi’s inquisitive gaze watching him, their knees still pressed together.

“What?” The man grins, greeting Yoongi with that lilted laughter once again. “It’s for good luck. I saw you do the same thing when you picked a song earlier.”

“Luck?” Yoongi fiddles with the hem of his sweater. “Are you hoping for a certain outcome?”

“Of course. One that will make sure that today’s page of my life won’t be left in a cliffhanger. I don’t want to toss and turn every night thinking of Min Yoongi, the man who had so much potential to change the trajectory of the next chapter but ended up walking away.” 

There’s no hesitation in his answer. It’s as if Yoongi had asked him if the sky was blue, or if coffee was hot, or if Yoongi was starting to become the victim of a creeping blush.

“Well. Here’s to hoping that tonight you’ll be one of the lucky ones.” Yoongi mutters, watching as the stranger uses his free hand to raise his coffee mug, motioning for Yoongi to do the same. As they cheer their cups together, the clink of porcelain making contact echoes across the diner’s linoleum floors.

“You and me, both.” With that, the man places the coin across his knuckles, taking a deep inhale as he sends it flying into the air. The coin’s shiny surface catches the reflection of the neon lights of the diner, rays of pink streaking across Yoongi’s field of vision, not unlike the bright pink horizon that day in the park. Here, though, hope manifests itself differently. Instead of the roar of a fountain’s rushing water, hope finds itself woven in between the gaps of the stranger’s lips as he holds his breath and watches the coin come crashing back down on the counter’s veneer, spinning for what feels like an eternity before it eventually comes to a rolling stop in front of Yoongi, flattening itself out to reveal the fate of their night.

Tails.

The stranger’s shoulders sag in a bout of visible disappointment for a moment, before he clears his throat and straightens his posture. “Well. A bet is a bet, and a promise is a promise. It was a pleasure to meet you, accountant-turned-runaway Min Yoongi.” 

Offering Yoongi a small smile, the man starts to get up from his stool, before he pauses, gaze lingering on Yoongi’s face, as if memorizing every dip and every curve. His lips part slightly as he raises a softly clenched fist in the air, sending Yoongi a non-verbal sign of hwaiting , much like the lady at the gas station had done earlier that same night. 

“I hope that you fill the pages of your life with showstopping chapters,” he says airily, turning his back.

He doesn’t get very far, soon stopped by a timid hand that seems to grow into itself as it shoots out from Yoongi’s sleeve, wrapping itself around the man’s wrist and pulling him back down. 

“Wait.” Blinking slowly, Yoongi hesitates before his grip tightens. “Just….wait.”

Stunned, the man allows himself to sit as Yoongi lets out a shaky exhale, carefully unfolding his other hand to reveal the 500 won coin pressed against his skin. Without even realizing, Yoongi had knocked it off the counter after it flipped, only to catch it with a sharp exhale. The minute it hit his palm, he had felt the way that the once-cold silver had been made warm by the stranger’s hands and searing hot by his pretty pink kiss of luck. 

This time, though, there’s no signature curvature of the tails -side of the coin. 

Instead, the engraving of a crane now stares both men in the face, its wings pointed towards the ceiling of the diner, as if begging for freedom. 

“Heads.” The stranger muses softly, mouth slightly ajar as his gaze flits between Yoongi and the coin. 

“You asked me where I’m going.” Yoongi says. “And this is my answer.” Tracing the outline of the bird’s wings with his pinky, Yoongi stops at the tip of the span, lightly tapping it. The light clinking of his nail against the surface of silver is not unlike the one that had echoed across the diner when they had cheered their mugs together, just moments before. However, that very moment seemed to have happened lightyears ago, snapped up into the air and sealed into the four walls of the diner. Replacing it was the indescribable tension that now suspended itself between Yoongi and this stranger, creeping onto their shoulders and seeming to pull them even closer than they already were.

“I’m going here.” Swallowing, Yoongi lifts his finger off the coin, fidgeting for a moment before he uses his index finger to point at the stranger, trembling slightly. “With...you.”

“You know,” the clearly entertained stranger begins, “this is technically cheating.” 

Before Yoongi can respond, the man laughs, reaching forward to steady Yoongi’s shaking hand by engulfing it with his own. “It initially rolled on tails .” Rubbing his fingers across Yoongi’s knuckle, the stranger smirks. “Didn’t pin you for a rulebreaker.”

“Rules don’t apply when you’re a runaway,” Yoongi says flatly, and the guffaw that the other man lets out shakes through both their bodies, the vibration surging through their entwined hands. It’s almost electric, the way that someone else’s laughter surges through Yoongi’s own veins, as if he had pressed his skin against a brightly lit fuse.

“Tell you what. We’ll count that first flip as a practice round. Nothing more than a quick warm-up that got you well-acquainted with the rules of the game. Like kids do.” The man proffers and Yoongi nods quickly, head moving just a beat slower than the rapid pounding in his chest. 

“You must have had great friends growing up, because I was never given a practice round,” Yoongi mutters, and the other man tuts in response. 

“Well,” the stranger muses, “I’m your friend now. And as your friend, I believe in second chances. You know, shots at redemption.”

Yoongi blinks slowly as the stranger’s nonchalant declaration weaves itself into Yoongi’s heart, tugging on its strings. 

Friends.

The word brings a rushing sense of warmth to Yoongi, but at the same time, it feels partially incomplete. As if it were the incipience of something larger to come, rooting itself in this moment in time and space and patiently waiting for the two men to step into the careful, nurturing caress of the moon’s waxen glow outside for it to fully bloom.

“Since we’re now partners in crime, I suppose I should introduce myself, hey?” Dabbing the corner of his plush lips with a napkin using his spare hands, the stranger folds the tissue into a neat square and slides it away.

“My name is Kim Seokjin. I’m no runaway, but I am twenty-nine years old, and as you can deduce, I work in a diner.” Leaning forward, Seokjin’s voice shifts slightly, soft and calm as he gently stands up, pulling Yoongi along with him, with the jingle of the latter’s car keys clanging against his thigh.

“And tonight, if only for just one night, ” Seokjin begins, “I’m going to give you somewhere to belong.”

┊     ˚✩     ┊

Yoongi soon finds out that Seokjin is less of a mysterious enigma and more of the kind of person who sings in the car, windows down and fingers catching the wind.

The truck radio welcomes them with nothing but static, accompanied by the slight creak of metal as the vehicle dips while adjusting to the weight of another person besides Yoongi — something that it had never experienced before.

As Seokjin settles into the shotgun seat, he laughs as he fumbles around in the dark, grasping for the seatbelt. Leaning over, Yoongi tugs the head of the belt from where it’s been caught in the center console, fingers brushing against Seokjin’s as they linger for just a beat as the other man shoots him a wide smile as his crooked fingers wrap around the seatbelt, clicking it into place.

“Smells like oranges,” Seokjin nods, taking note of Yoongi’s car freshener. “I like it.”

“Tangerines,” Yoongi corrects, immediately mentally slapping himself right afterwards. 

“Huh,” Seokjin grins, plush lips pulled to the side. “Is there a difference?”

“Well,” Yoongi starts, “Tangerines are generally rounder and...softer.” 

“I see,” Seokjin nods enthusiastically, as if citrus trivia had suddenly become riveting. “And I take it that you prefer tangerines?”

“Mmm.” Yoongi draws out his response slowly. “It’s because...never mind.”

“No no,” Seokjin shakes his head. “Do tell.”

“I could never find my mittens whenever I had to walk to school, so my mom used to hand me a tangerine to peel to keep my hands busy and warm. I guess after a while I started to grow fond of them.” 

“Ah,” Seokjin says slowly. “That’s genius.” Head cocked in thought, he runs his tongue over his lips in ponderation. “I’ll have to try it sometime.” 

“I mean, sure.” Yoongi shrugs.

With that, it’s quiet as Yoongi unclips the keys from his belt, sliding it from the carabiner and into the palm of his hand.

“I love this song,” Seokjin says suddenly, his grin only widening at Yoongi’s visible confusion as silence hangs in the air around them, coalescing like specks of summer dust. 

“What song? White noise?” Yoongi balks, the silence sliced by the sound of the engine coming to life, headlights highlighting the empty parking lot and rivaling the neon shine of the diner as it soon starts to fade into the background while the truck carefully pulls back onto the highway, the pavement illuminated by the glow of the moon.

Seokjin shakes his head, pointing one finger upright in the air as if conducting a symphony inside of his head. 

Then, quietly, he starts to hum.

Yoongi recognizes the song immediately. It’s the same one he’d heard when he’d first approached the diner’s door in a haze of curiosity and nostalgia.

A smile starts to tug at his lips as the familiarity creates a cozy comfort in the front of the truck, making for the perfect soundtrack as the vehicle picks up speed and cuts through the night.

The moon casts a shadow on Seokjin’s face, and Yoongi can’t help but look over and steal glances here and there, grinning to himself as Seokjin’s humming blossoms into a full fledged song, enunciating every lyric and syllable with flowing ease. 

“Do you always lose focus of the road when there’s someone in your truck?”

Yoongi blinks as he realizes that Seokjin’s stopped singing and has since melted into the shotgun seat, long legs stretched out as a crooked finger points towards the stretching highway in front of them. Seokjin has a cheeky smile waxed across his face and a radiant twinkle in his eyes as he catches Yoongi blushing, the latter quickly clearing his throat and tightening his grip on the steering wheel. 

“You’re the first.”

“First passenger? Or first recipient of not-so-sneaky glances?” Seokjin laughs, and Yoongi finds himself boring holes into his windshield.

“You can interpret that however you want,” Yoongi mumbles in response, receiving a hum of approval from Seokjin as the latter pauses for a moment before starting to sing again. 

This time, he picks a ballad — an old tune that reminds Yoongi of sitting cross-legged on the floor of his childhood bedroom, staring up at posters of the space station and astronauts, flanked by his favourite basketball perched on his nightstand.

He remembers wanting to go to space so badly. In space, there was no such thing as struggling to belong or fit in. There were no deadlines, no burden of existence. No matter who he was or was trying to become, the galaxy would always have a spot for him, twinkling brightly among the stars that currently hung in the sky above Yoongi and Seokjin as the night grew deeper, as if mirroring the depth of Yoongi’s current desire for happiness.

The moon follows them as they drive, seeming to become fuller in shape with every kilometer of land that they cover. Every now and then, bumps in the pavement send the truck momentarily soaring. 

It’s in these moments that Yoongi wonders if this is what flying feels like — the weightless glide of being suspended in the air, inches closer to the sky and sent off with a sweet melody coming from a plush set of pink lips.

“Hey, Yoongi?” Seokjin asks, a u- shaped smile taking shape as he tilts his head towards the former.

“Yeah?”

“Does this go down?” Seokjin points towards the passenger window. His sweater sleeve drapes itself over his hand, with only the tips of his fingers sticking out. They’re dainty, and Yoongi wonders if before the night ends, they’ll somehow find their way between his own once again. 

Yoongi tears himself away from the thought as he shifts one hand from the wheel to the control button on the side of his door. They’re soon met with a cool blast of air as the glass slides down and Seokjin beams. 

As if he didn’t have a single care in the world, the latter rolls his sleeve up and sticks one hand out, splaying his fingers as the wind finds its way into his hair. His smile widens as his lashes flutter, framing a set of eyes that drink in the passing stalks of grass and occasional lights as if seeing the world for the very first time. 

With that, Yoongi hits another pothole, sending the truck soaring. Turning to apologize for the sudden lurch, he’s instead met with Seokjin’s laughter — squeaky and a melody of its own.

“Putting the joy in joyride, I see,” he muses, arm languidly hanging out the side of the vehicle.

Drumming his fingers on the side of the door, Seokjin starts to hum another tune. Yoongi doesn’t recognize it this time, but there’s something in the vibrato of Seokjin’s voice that ignites the caffeine in his system, refreshing him and encouraging him to keep driving.

It seems to do the same for Seokjin, who has a surprising amount of stamina at this hour. Perks of being accustomed to working graveyard shifts at the diner, Yoongi supposes.

“Why are you doing that?” Yoongi blurts suddenly, curiosity causing him to gesture to Seokjin’s dangling hand.

“This?” Seokjin stops humming, flexing the hand in question. Splaying his fingers out once more, he raises it higher and wiggles them, giggling. “I’m interpreting.”

“Interpreting?”

“Mm.” Seokjin nods. “You told me I could interpret things however I wanted. So this is me interpreting the night. The scenery. Time. Life itself, even.”

“And what’s your verdict?”

“It’s a gift, Yoongi. This moment is a gift. That’s why they call it the present.”

Yoongi ruminates on this answer for a moment before frowning in realization. “Isn’t that a quote from Kung Fu Panda?”

At this, Seokjin bursts out laughing, smile lines showing around his eyes as he chuckles.

“You really couldn’t just play along, could you?”

Yoongi shakes his head in seriousness, causing Seokjin to burst into another fit of laughter.

“You know,” Seokjin starts, “I used to watch that movie everyday as a kid.”

Letting the wheel slip between his fingers as he turns the truck onto a ramp, Yoongi waits until they’re back onto flat pavement before he allows nostalgia to blur his vision — thoughts of bright, cartoonish figures floating across his mind.

“I did, too.” Yoongi replies, mouth curled upwards in surprise. “Always picked it back in grade school when the teacher would wheel in those ancient TV monitors and let us choose a movie.” Sighing, he shrugs. “It didn’t make me very popular with the other kids. They always wanted something with more action.”

“More action than Kung Fu Panda? Is that even possible?!” Seokjin balks in mock horror, crossing his free hand across his chest.

“Well,” Seokjin continues, “They’re tasteless fools. I, for one, would’ve loved to watch it with you. For hours on end.”

That u- shaped smile comes back in full force again, and it makes Yoongi realize that perhaps Yoongi’s truck wasn’t the only thing that was starting to adapt to having another person around.

Fighting a blush, Yoongi avoids Seokjin’s eyes as he fixates on the road ahead, mouth clamped shut. 

He wants to say something; anything. But Yoongi’s had too many experiences saying the wrong things to balance the times that he’s said the right things, and he doesn’t know which way a response right now would tip the scale.

So he stays quiet, hoping that Seokjin won’t notice the way that he’s gripping the wheel with the force of iron.

Seokjin takes the silence as a cue to start humming again, but this time, he picks the titular theme song of the beloved kid’s movie, imbuing it with a breathy laugh here and there. 

They continue on like this for several kilometres, with Seokjin cycling through more songs, until eventually the truck tapers into a settled quiet, the silence causing a comforting buzz to radiate through the vehicle as the sound of wind and the roll of Yoongi’s wheels on the asphalt serves as the new soundtrack to their journey.

As Yoongi looks over at Seokjin, he realizes that the latter has fallen asleep.

Curled up in the shotgun seat, his sweater looks so much bigger than it did before, draped over him and rising and falling in tandem with his chest. He looks so peaceful like this, with his head leaning against the door and wind tousling his hair. 

The most endearing thing though, Yoongi thinks, is how one hand is still hanging out the window, as if Seokjin were too afraid to let this moment slip through his fingers without him experiencing it first. 

Grinning to himself, Yoongi pays attention to the way that his heart pounds in the cage of his chest, as if asking to be freed. 

Hesitantly, Yoongi cracks his own window open a tad, squinting as wind greets him with an overwhelming gust. With a timid gesture, he slowly sticks his own hand out the window.

The air that had been slapping him sideways soon bends to whoosh through his fingers instead, sending a chill through his entire body as his mouth pops open in awe at the freeing sensation. 

For the first time in his life, he realizes why this time of day is called nightfall.

It’s made evident by the way that the twilight sky catches itself in the gaps between Yoongi’s fingers, descending to set itself in the palms of his open hands and making a home in the gusts of wind that greet him in a flash bang of momentum, passing him by at top speed. 

Subsequently, the opposite of this feeling is daybreak — a harsh reminder that the impending sunrise will soon shatter every moment that Yoongi’s finely built up through the night, rays of sun fragmented across his windshield like the scattered remnants of a fallen house of cards.

He just wonders if the coming sunlight will illuminate Seokjin’s face, or if he, too, will disappear— just like the wind.

Hesitantly, Yoongi rolls his window up, using his hand to reach towards Seokjin. 

Mind and heart racing in tandem, he wonders if Seokjin will be bothered by him. On the other hand, however, he knows that the highway will only be a straight path for so long until he eventually hits a fork in the road. With only Seokjin knowing where the final destination on this midnight excursion is, Yoongi feels a sense of anxiety start to root itself in his chest.

Yet, Seokjin looks so incredibly tranquil. There’s slight puffy bags underneath his eyes and his plush lips have drawn themselves into a pout. Since the last time that Yoongi’s looked at him, the former seemed to have only become more comfortable.

Yoongi’s fingers linger in mid-air for a beat, suspended atop the center console before they ultimately curl in on themselves as Yoongi retreats, clearing his throat and placing both hands back on the wheel.

As Seokjin mumbles something incomprehensible in his sleep, Yoongi wonders what the other man is dreaming about.

He wonders if Seokjin’s subconscious borrows colours and scents from the night, filled with the way that the stars twinkle above them, or the fumes of exhaust that the truck leaves in its wake — a smoky trail that floats across the asphalt, streaking the pavement like the moonlight that falls across the two men.

He wonders if Seokjin ever feels lost in his dreams — if he wanders through different towns and places, in search of a life to have and a person to hold, mirroring what Yoongi does even while awake.

Yoongi’s jarred out of his thoughts as Seokjin stirs, his eyelids heavy as the latter slowly comes to. 

Stifling a yawn, Seokjin sits upright and rolls his shoulders. Blinking slowly, he cracks a dazed smile as he catches sight of his dangling hand, retracting it as he pulls both arms above his head in a stretch. No longer curled up, his sweater falls back into its original place, save for the sleeves, which expose Seokjin’s cotton-tip-esque fingertips that graze the top of Yoongi’s truck ceiling, which feels so much lower than it had before.

“How long was I out?” He asks, raising a sweater paw to rub the sleep from his eyes.

Long enough to leave me lonely, Yoongi thinks to himself.

Instead of verbalizing this, he offers a shrug. “A while.”

Then, he shoots Seokjin a quick glance before steadying his gaze back on the highway. “Did I wake you?”

From the corner of his eye, he sees Seokjin shake his head adamantly, with his wind-matted hair fondly astray. “Nah.”

Chewing on his lower lip, he appears to be lost in a thought that rivals the night in depth. Before he can share it, however, it bursts into sparks on the tip of his tongue, replaced with a bright expression on his face as he excitedly points towards a sign that hangs on the side of an overpass above them.

In the distance, there’s an array of lights that wait to greet them, aligned North like a shining Polaris. Although fuzzy against his vision, Yoongi can vaguely make out the shape of short, stalky buildings and what appears to be shrubbery — a vast difference from the concrete jungle of a neighbourhood that he had lived in in Seoul.

“You’re gonna want to take the next exit,” Seokjin instructs gently, voice lilted as if singing again.

Maybe it’s a trick of the night, but there seems to be a note of fondness entwined with that laughter, accompanied by a gaze that lingers for a beat too long.

"Which one?" Yoongi squints.

“This one.” Seokjin’s reply comes in the form of his whole body as he angles himself to lean forwards and tilt Yoongi’s face to the side, crooked fingers teasingly pinching the latter’s now-blushing cheek lightly.

The warmth in his touch rivals the balminess that becomes pleasantly thicker as the buildings in the distance become more clear, their edges sharpening as light starts to flood the vehicle.

Within moments, the abyss of the highway tapers out into one streamlined, narrow road that slices through the town that has fully come into view. Soon, the two men are flanked on both sides by rows of houses with colourful roofs, accessorized with a mismatch of power and clothing lines that seem to connect each building, swinging lightly in the summer night breeze like a hammock.

For the most part, the majority of the houses are pitch black, with their residents soundly tucked into their dreams. Yet here and there, Yoongi catches the ghost of a light from beyond some of the windows, causing Yoongi to wonder if these people were dreaming all the same — but while wide awake.

“Turn here, then pull over.” Seokjin gestures to the corner of the road, on which a small mom-and-pop convenience store with a flickering sign marks the end of the street. As Yoongi makes the turn, he’s greeted with the sight of bright soda bottles and bags of chips from beyond the store’s glass exterior, causing his heart to pang with a burst of fond childhood nostalgia. 

“C’mon,” Seokjin beams, popping the passenger door open as soon as the truck comes to a standstill. Swinging his legs out, the sound of his feet hitting the pavement echoes through the silent night, his footsteps increasing as he rounds the front of the vehicle and waves.

Yoongi stares at him for a moment before he responds with a small wave of his own before unclicking his seatbelt and letting it slide across his chest before it goes slack, banging against the side of the seat.

As Yoongi opens the driver’s door and finds his footing, Seokjin waits patiently with his back leaning against a streetlamp and his hands tucked into his pockets. These hands soon come right back out as Yoongi approaches him and Seokjin nonchalantly threads his fingers through Yoongi’s, rubbing his thumb over Yoongi’s knuckle as he pulls him in the direction of the store.

Noticing Yoongi’s evident surprise, Seokjin simply shoots him a toothy grin as he swings their entwined arms. 

“I used to do this all the time with my friends when we were kids,” he explains. “Back then, even the smallest shops like this one seemed so big that we were scared we would lose each other.” Laughing, Seokjin shakes his head. “Some things really do follow you through your life, I guess.”

“Ah.” Yoongi mutters in response, peering up at the store’s neon sign that suddenly seems larger than life.

Using his side, Seokjin nudges the door open, the light jingle of a bell welcoming their arrival. 

Nodding in greeting to the ahjusshi that sat perched behind the counter, Seokjin then spins so that he’s facing Yoongi, treading backwards as he uses his free hand to pick up bags of snacks here and there, scanning the backs as he gauges Yoongi’s reaction to each one.

The cool blue lighting in the shop illuminates Seokjin’s amused face as they near the section of refrigerated drinks neatly coordinated by brands that Yoongi had almost forgotten even existed. 

Seokjin pulls open the fridge door, reaching towards the soda rack before he stops mid-way, hand lingering in the biting cold of the condensed air as he regards Yoongi with a curious expression, plush lips popping slightly ajar as he asks him a question. 

“Which one’s your favourite?”

“Oh?” Yoongi replies, brows furrowed in thought. Memories of racing to the store after school and of chubby fingers wrapping themselves around a familiar green can float to the top of Yoongi’s conscience, so potent against the night that Yoongi can almost taste the tangy burst of fruit on his tongue if he concentrates hard enough.

“Melon,” he replies with a nod. “Definitely melon.”

“Yeah? Good choice,” Seokjin beams as he effortlessly pulls down two cans from the top rack — one melon, one strawberry. 

Tucking them into the crook of his elbow, his sweater forms a makeshift sling, which he proceeds to load with various snacks as he leads Yoongi through the tight aisles. There’s not enough space for two people to walk at the same time, so he guides while a very baffled Yoongi trails closely behind, hands still locked together.

Seokjin’s eyes light up as he pinches a bag of gummies in between his fingers, holding it up so that Yoongi can see. 

“Jellies,” Seokjin grins. It’s not a question, but rather a statement. An affirmative way of letting Yoongi know that Seokjin is about to pile three more bags of the brightly coloured candies onto his arm.

Satisfied, Seokjin tugs Yoongi towards the cashier. Just before they can reach the front, Yoongi stops, rooting himself to the floor as his eyes catch something in the corner of his eye.

“Wait,” he mutters, letting go of Seokjin’s hand. Cycling backwards, Yoongi crouches into an aisle, eyes scanning over various cups of instant ramen that decorate the shelves. 

Suddenly, it’s as if he’s been transported back to his university days — with the floor littered in balance sheets and ripped pages from textbooks. Yoongi had lived in an apartment that seemed to only have heat in the summer, and air conditioning in the winter. As a result, he had spent countless days and nights huddled into the comforting shield of his duvet, stirring hot ramen and tracing the steam with his eyes, following it as it curled into the air, weaving across his posters of space until it eventually dissipated, much like the waning stretch and snap of his own dreams.

Pulling from the back of the shelf, Yoongi’s hands find themselves wrapped around two bright orange cups. Stacking them in his arms, he totes them back to where Seokjin stands waiting. 

In the brief moment that Yoongi had been gone, Seokjin had added one more thing to his steadily mounting pile — a small bag of a familiar citrus fruit. 

“Hey Yoongi,” Seokjin says, voice coated in a jovial glee. “I found tiny oranges.”

“Tangerines,” Yoongi corrects, a wide smile threatening to cause his entire face to fall off.

“Legend has it that they’re softer than actual oranges,” Seokjin laughs, making the already tiny store feel all the more cozy.

“Whatchu got?” Seokjin peers over at Yoongi’s hands and lets out a hum of approval as he steps out of the way and allows the latter to place the ramen on the counter. Reaching beside Yoongi, he takes two eggs out of a box that sits nearby, setting one neatly onto each cup of noodles.

“You can’t have ramen without the egg,” he explains. “It’s sacrilegious.”

The old cashier lets out a laugh at this, and Seokjin turns his attention to the man. Leaning against the counter, he strikes up a conversation effortlessly, his words acting like a flame to match as the older man pulls a canteen out from the counter and sets it underneath the hot water dispenser before handing it to Seokjin, winking as he bats away Seokjin’s attempt at paying for the container.

Yoongi doesn’t even process what’s being said during the encounter, but he takes note of the way that the old man’s smile lines reveal themselves as Seokjin uses vivid hand gestures and animated expressions to chat away, evidently weaving a couple jokes into the narrative.

The old man tells his own share of puns, causing Seokjin to double over in laughter, and it's as if the two of them were standing on opposite sides of a mirror. There’s a pang that stirs in Yoongi’s heart as he observes the way that two complete strangers could connect so easily, meeting each other like the ends of a red string bending to form a circle. 

Suddenly, Yoongi sees a vision of Seokjin in his old age, with the same jubilant smile and biting charm. 

Even though Seokjin said everything they would be doing would be just until the night rolled into day, Yoongi can’t help but feel like for the first time in his dull twenty-eight years of life, he would be fond of settling into a rhythm. 

Routines and bleak banality were a large reason for why he was running, but now he wonders if maybe he was finally running in the right direction — one that pointed towards convenience store runs with Seokjin for the rest of their lives, with Seokjin fumbling with a bag full of groceries in one hand while he outstretched the other towards Yoongi, much like he was currently doing.

“Ready to go?” He asks, a residual laugh still caught in his throat as the cashier snorts and hands him the receipt.

Nodding, Yoongi slots his fingers back between Seokjin’s, using his free hand to timidly wave goodbye to the cashier, who bows in response.

The bell chimes again as they exit the store, greeted by the balmy air of the night. 

“We’re not in the store anymore,” Yoongi says slowly, words falling across the sound of their shoes hitting the pavement in unison as they walk back towards Yoongi’s truck.

“Mm.” Seokjin nods, raising an eyebrow. “And?”

Yoongi gestures to their entwined hands, pulling them up and watching as Seokjin’s arm swings along with them. “You’re not going to let go?”

The question gives Seokjin an opportunity. The chance to withdraw and place his warm hands back into his pockets. At the same time, the question provides Yoongi an opportunity to brace himself for the seeping numbness that’s bound to flood between the empty voids of air where Seokjin’s fingers had once been.

Seokjin merely shoots Yoongi a confused look, holding onto the latter a little tighter.

“Why would I do that?”

Continuing, Seokjin laughs as he takes note of Yoongi’s aghast expression. 

“Just because we’re out of the store doesn’t mean that we can’t still get lost, Yoongi. If anything, the world out here is so much bigger, don’t you think?”

Pointing his chin upwards towards the star-streaked sky that hangs over them, Seokjin hums as Yoongi follows his gaze. 

The sky seems to be endless — an inky quilt that sparkles and shimmers with no boundaries or limits.

It’s as if up to this moment, all of Yoongi’s inhibitions had been contained within a glass, with mounting pressure starting to cause the tiniest of cracks to weave themselves into the surface. 

With Seokjin’s gentle encouragement, the glass shattered right then and there, littering the ground with a million shards and allowing the speckled night sky to flow out of Yoongi’s core, ephemeral and woven with the promise of being found. 

Swallowing a lump in his throat, Yoongi musters the strength to look Seokjin in the eye, and for a brief second, it's as if he had never glanced away from the stars.

“Where to next?”

        ┊     ˚✩     ┊

Yoongi’s in love.

The target of his desire lays flat in front of his eyes — a well-kept basketball court, guarded on both sides by two hoops that seem so much shorter than they had the last time he had held a ball in his hands.

The moon itself acts like a makeshift ball, suspended in the sky above one of the hoops. It’s so close that Yoongi feels as if he can dunk it into the mesh net, embracing the weightless feeling following the layup as his feet propel him into the air.

Being here brings back a flood of memories that Yoongi had since locked away, but it was clear that his body still remembered — every dribble and every swish that took Yoongi that much further from the ground and that much closer to space itself.

Besides his fascination with the solar system, basketball was one of the only hobbies he had as a kid where he felt like there was marginally a place for him. It was something he had a natural aptitude for, although he had still often felt invisible when on the court with his school team.

It got significantly worse as Yoongi got older and his circle of friends eventually imploded and collapsed into itself, and he soon found himself trading the familiar feeling of the telltale orange ball for empty, idle hands — hands that would pack his bags and leave in the middle of the night over and over again, in a vicious cycle.

“I used to play a lot during recess, but I think I had more of an affinity for tennis. A shame we didn’t have a space for that back then, though.” Seokjin’s voice cuts across the clearance. 

He’s sitting cross-legged in the middle of the court, balancing one leg on top of the other as he neatly double-knots his laces. 

Behind him stands a five story building in a drab shade of grey, but Yoongi knows that deep within its walls are countless stories of youth and the woes of being young.

It’s Seokjin’s old middle school, and it looks so uncannily like Yoongi’s own that it sends a chill down his spine. 

Yet, the moment that Yoongi had spotted the two tall hoops in the distance, he had made a beeline towards the court, and before he knew it, the night air had been pierced through with the sound of two sets of feet hitting the pavement.

“What position did you play? In ball, I mean.” Yoongi asks, pulling his sweater away from his chest as he walks the perimeter of the court, feeling the way his body seems to innately bend and twist, as if itching to play a round.

Seokjin laughs at this, switching legs to start tying the other shoe. “Everything and nothing. I was a bit of a floater, just kind of subbing in wherever I was needed — although the bench needed me the most, apparently.” 

Finishing knotting his laces, Seokjin leans back to shift his weight onto his palms as he watches the way that Yoongi’s mouth has popped slightly ajar, eyes full of a child-like sparkle as his pacing gains speed, head tilting from side to side as he stares the hoops up and down.

“What about you?” Seokjin asks, raising an eyebrow. “Wait — no. Let me guess.” Pulling his lips into a thoughtful pout, he suddenly raises one hand to snap his endearingly crooked fingers. 

“I know. You were team captain.”

“Not quite,” Yoongi shakes his head. “Shooting guard.”

“Even better.” Seokjin beams. “I would pick that over being captain anyday.” After a brief pause, he lets out a giggle. “Remind me what a shooting guard does again.”

“Well,” Yoongi begins. “We have to play both offense and defense. Stealing the ball from the opposition and scoring, all in one fell swoop.”

“Hmm.” Dusting his pants off, Seokjin unfolds himself and stands. At full height, he rivals the height of the hoop situated behind him. “I’m more of a kinetic learner. Why don’t you show me?”

Frazzled, Yoongi digs his foot into the ground as he shrugs. “With what ball?”

Seokjin simply wags a finger at Yoongi as he turns on his heel and jogs off the court, broad shoulders disappearing as he rounds the corner and heads into a small thicket of trees that line the pavement. 

Within minutes, he returns — hands dusting the dirt off of a round shape to reveal a bright orange basketball beneath.

“Look, Yoongi.” Seokjin beams. “The largest tangerine known to man, buried periodically by schoolchildren who are too lazy to run all the way back inside to get a new one whenever theirs roll out of sight.”

“Is the building really that far?” Yoongi asks, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he watches Seokjin purse his lips together to blow the last of the dirt off the top of the ball.

“Everything more than twenty steps is too far when the ddeok snack cart only docks fifteen steps away from here, Yoongi.”

Seokjin redirects Yoongi’s attention to the game as he shoots the ball at him at chest level, eyes widening as Yoongi catches it with rapid ease.

“Wow,” is all Seokjin manages to muster, letting out a low whistle. “Alright shooting guard, ball’s in your court. Quite literally.” 

Yoongi tosses the orange sphere right back at Seokjin, impressed with the way that it finds its way into Seokjin’s hands effortlessly. 

“Game on.” Yoongi nods, sucking in a deep inhale. 

It’s silent at first, with only each man’s hitched breathing to be heard.

Then, like clockwork, Yoongi springs forward, pivoting and knocking the ball out of Seokjin’s hands, catching it as it bounces back up from the ground, like a yo-yo retracting into the hands of its wielder.

Seokjin is just as quick at shifting into defense, swinging to stand directly in front of Yoongi, mirroring his movements. 

They play like two ice dancers, gliding across the pavement and synergizing with each other, eyes narrowed and skin gleaming with competitive spirit.

With his arms raised above his head, Seokjin smirks as he blocks what would’ve been a clean throw from Yoongi. The former’s sweater has ridden up to reveal just a sliver of skin, causing Yoongi to look away as he extends a leg and tries to check the other.

Seokjin only laughs, following Yoongi and sticking out his other leg, catching the latter as he loses his balance. 

His pseudo embrace is so warm, adding another dimension of heat to the flush that was already burning through Yoongi. 

Being in Seokjin’s arms makes a part of Yoongi want to stop playing altogether, settling into a stagnant state instead. 

Yet, another part of him reminds him of the goal, and with that, he pivots around Seokjin, taking the ball with him.

Seokjin lets out a surprised noise as he chases after Yoongi, but this time he’s just a beat too slow as the latter crosses one foot in front of the other before taking the leap of faith towards the hoop.

Holding his breath, Yoongi soars in the air for a brief moment, feeling the wind clip his ears and the moon greet him as he makes out her various craters and blemishes. 

Then, he sinks the shot, beaming as the hoop rattles from the impact before gravity releases both the ball and Yoongi to the ground, his shoes hitting the court with a satisfying thud as a similar sound comes from behind him.

Turning around, Yoongi’s met with a red-faced Seokjin’s applause.

“You’re something else,” he beams, relinquishing victory as he walks towards Yoongi slowly. 

“Thanks,” Yoongi manages, catching his breath as he sucks the wind through his teeth. 

“I mean,” Seokjin starts, “it’s especially admirable how you did all that with your laces untied.”

Alarmed, Yoongi begins to bend down towards his haphazardly sprawled out laces, but this time, Seokjin is much faster. 

Already on one knee, the latter gently weaves the string between his fingers, brows knitted in concentration as he crosses one lace over the other, pulling them upwards and into a neat bow. With the level of care put into each step, one would think he was wrapping a present that he had made with his two hands.

“There,” Seokjin grins, admiring his handiwork as he stands. “I can’t even begin to imagine how powerful you’d be playing without the risk of tripping over yourself.”

Yoongi’s mind instantly brings him back to the very fresh memory of Seokjin holding him in his arms and preventing him from becoming one with the floor, and his body remembers it in even more vivid detail, causing his ears to tinge red as he recalls the way that he fit against Seokjin so seamlessly, as if they had been made to collide and then melt into one another.

“I’m not that good,” Yoongi shrugs. “I was decent enough to be a shooting guard, but I don’t think my skills were good enough to make it to captain.” Shaking his head, Yoongi’s shoulders deflate. “After a while, I don’t think people on the team even noticed I was there.”

Drumming his fingers on his thigh absentmindedly, Yoongi frowns. “Maybe it was for the better that I didn’t have any time to play since I became an accountant.”

“C’mon now, Yoongi. Think of it this way.” Seokjin reaches up to nudge his matted hair out of his line of vision before crossing his arms across his chest. “First of all, you’re not an accountant anymore.”

The realization sets on Yoongi’s shoulders as he raises his gaze to take in the sight in front of him — the basketball court, Seokjin’s old school, the thicket of trees, and Seokjin himself — each one under the careful watch of the twinkling night sky. 

They were all figments of a world so familiar, yet so distant.

“Huh,” Yoongi says. In this moment, fear and hope seem to taste the same on the tip of his tongue.

“And sure, the captain is important,” Seokjin continues. “Not discrediting that at all. But at the end of the day, who makes sure that the efforts that the captain puts in to assemble a good team don’t go to waste?” 

Walking backwards, Seokjin points to one of the hoops, tilting his head slightly. “I know we’re talking about basketball, but have you ever played anything else?”

Yoongi chews on his lower lip in thought. “Not really. I guess...maybe...tug-of-war?”

“Okay. Good. Think about that.” Seokjin nods. “In tug-of-war, the leader in the front shouts commands and motivates the team, but you know where the strongest player stands?”

Moving so that he’s now behind Yoongi, Seokjin leans back on his heel with one leg in front of the other, as if pulling an imaginary rope. 

“Here,” Seokjin says. “They stand here. At the back. Out of sight, but definitely not out of mind. The team literally can’t secure a victory without them. You know what this position is called?”

Yoongi’s mind draws a blank as he shakes his head, watching the way that Seokjin seems to lean into the stance with ease.

“The anchor.” Seokjin replies. “They call the person at the back the anchor, because the concentration of strength and power lies with them. The team puts their blind trust in this person because even though they can’t see them, they know they have their back.”

Letting go of the imaginary rope, Seokjin pretends to fall forward due to the slack, stopping just before he topples into Yoongi. 

Placing his hands on Yoongi’s shoulders, Seokjin spins the latter around so that they’re face-to-face. Lightly pinching Yoongi’s cheeks, Seokjin laughs as Yoongi stares at him in equal parts horror and happiness.

“Being a shooting guard is like being the anchor of the game, Yoongi. The only difference is that physically, you were very much in sight.” Slowly scanning Yoongi’s face, Seokjin’s voice drops to a gentle lilt. “To the point where all eyes were probably on you. You may have felt invisible emotionally, but regardless, your team put their trust in you to carry them to victory. Which,” Seokjin beams as he lightly runs a finger across Yoongi’s reddened face, “I have zero doubts that you did. Time and time again.”

“...And where were you in the tug-of-war lineup?” Yoongi asks quietly.

“At the front,” Seokjin laughs airily. “Encouraging my team the best way that I could.”

Somehow, Yoongi doesn’t know why he expected anything else from the puffy-cheeked man standing in front of him, with the universe’s worth of positivity and light concentrated in his fingertips with a crackling electricity. 

“That suits you.” Yoongi nods.

“Yeah? Think it would’ve been even better with an anchor like you, though.” Seokjin cups Yoongi’s face in his hands, refusing to break eye contact. “We would make a good team.”

Scrunching his nose at Seokjin’s continued touch, Yoongi tries his best not to shrink into the abyss of his sweater. “Don’t you mean that we would’ve made a good team?

“No.” Seokjin hits back without even the briefest gap of hesitation. “Just as we are now. Min Yoongi, aged twenty-eight, and Kim Seokjin, aged twenty-nine. A runaway and a stowaway, joined at the hip through their mutual love for baggy sweaters, Oscar-worthy cartoons, and the kind of music that makes them feel like it's worth being alive. Partners in crime. Present tense.”

In that moment, with Seokjin’s tender eyes drinking in every inch of Yoongi’s skin, Yoongi can’t help but feel hope knotting itself between the empty spaces between his ribs, ebbing and flowing like the boundless night sky.

Hope that the Seokjin of the present would hold Yoongi like this well into the future.

“That sounds nice,” Yoongi mutters, voice a low whisper that he expects to fall flat.

Instead, it seems to land onto Seokjin’s chest, which is so close that Yoongi isn’t sure if the rapid heartbeat he feels is his or the other man’s. 

Taking Yoongi’s words to heart, Seokjin gently lowers his hands from the former’s face, fingers finding Yoongi’s as he slots himself effortlessly between the gaps. 

Rubbing his thumb over Yoongi’s knuckles, Seokjin hums lightly as his lips crack into a smile. 

“So, Min Yoongi, you ready to get back in the getaway car?”

┊     ˚✩     ┊

The final stop of Seokjin’s hometown tour takes Yoongi closer to the stars than he’s ever been. 

This time, they’re taken out of the concrete banality of the basketball court and instead transported into the backyard of one of the colourful houses Yoongi saw when they’d first driven into the town.

This one in particular buzzes with a vibrating sense of warmth, because it belongs to Seokjin —  of the past, present, and future.

As does the open-roofed treehouse that they’re currently sitting in, accompanied by the ghosts of Seokjin’s childhood that sing in the wooden walls, warmed by the moonlight that filters through the gaps and spills onto the uneven flooring, hugging every curve of the room —  including the round basketball they’d taken from the park. 

They’ve already demolished the various bags of gummies, and now Seokjin’s peeling tangerines.  For every one that he peels, two stickers from the fruit’s bright exterior find themselves stuck to his face, accompanied with a cheerful laugh.

Citrus perfumes the air, although there’s something about this scent that feels worlds more invigorating than the freshener in Yoongi’s truck. 

It’s not until the sweet tinge meets Yoongi’s senses when Seokjin hands him one of the fruits, peeled and proper, that Yoongi realizes what his air freshener is missing — 

Genuinity.

“So,” Seokjin says, slightly muffled as he chews thoughtfully. “I have the feeling that shooting guards are pretty prone to injury.” 

Carefully peeling the whitened vein from the plush fruit, Seokjin separates the tangerine into tiny wedges before reaching for Yoongi’s hand and placing them in his outstretched palm, before cocking his head to the side as he watches as Yoongi nods in appreciation and pops a wedge into his mouth. 

“Yes and no,” Yoongi says, wiping citrus from the corner of his lips. “I think I was a lot more fortunate than some of my teammates, though. Wasn’t on a first-name basis with the doctor.”

“I see,” Seokjin muses. “Have you ever broken a bone?”

Yoongi stops chewing as he ponders the question. Parts of his body seem to ache at the prompt, but he ultimately draws a blank. 

“No,” he shakes his head slowly. “You?”

Seokjin nods, bending over to rummage through the plastic grocery bag next to Yoongi. 

Just like the diner, their knees are knocked together, rendering each man seamless as the fabric of their jeans flow into one another. Seokjin’s lips are just a whisper away from Yoongi’s reddened ears as the former leans forward, pulling out the soda cans and playfully tapping Yoongi lightly on the forehead with the bright green tin before settling back down.

“Nope,” Seokjin grins, popping the p. “Came really close, though. Just a couple meters from where we’re sitting, actually.”

Rapping his knuckles on the wooden floor, Seokjin unfolds his palm to trace circles onto the panels absentmindedly. 

“It happened when I was a lot younger and a hell of a lot more stubborn.” Seokjin laughs — an almost muted sound, as if the memory was still swelling in the lump of his throat.

“What went down?” Yoongi asks, whispering his gratitude as Seokjin cracks open the drink in his hands and hands it over.

“Well, technically, I did.” Seokjin grins, juxtaposing Yoongi’s groan. “I think I was too ambitious. Didn’t have the height or the strength to climb the tree by myself, but I was hellbent on trying.”

“And you fell?” Yoongi asks, taking a small sip of his own soda. The tang of the melon sits just right on his tongue, fizzy feelings coating the roof of his mouth that mirror the ones in his heart as Seokjin shrugs his shoulders nonchalantly, his sweater rising and falling like a curtain.

“Oh yeah. Big time. Came crashing right through a bunch of vines and got a nasty concussion. My cousin found me sprawled out on the ground, halfway to being absorbed back by the earth.” 

“Did you regret it?” Yoongi fidgets with the rim of his drink as Seokjin snorts, the latter shaking his head.

“Nah,” Seokjin hums. “Maybe it’s because at that moment, all the proverbs and sayings that I had only seen in textbooks and motivation posters seemed to actually come to life.” Folding his arms across his chest, the soda can tilts in Seokjin’s hand as he speaks. “I felt like Icarus. Like I was flying close to the sun — except instead of the sun, I was shooting for the moon. And I fell — hard —  but if you’re going with what the posters would say, then I guess you could say that I landed among the stars."

“Why is that?”

“I mean, I was fortunate enough to not get injured. But what that really taught me was that too much ambition can be dangerous, and that I preferred to be low to the ground — at least until my limbs grew enough to support the journey upwards. Both metaphorically and physically.” 

Sipping his strawberry soda, Seokjin puckers his lips, sugar glazing their plush pink surface. 

“Eventually I did get old enough to climb here myself, but my affinity for laying low only grew.” Chewing absentmindedly on the rim of the soda can, Seokjin seems to come to an epiphany. “Huh. Guess that influenced what I eventually majored in.”

“Oh?” Yoongi blinks. “Can I guess?”

“Of course,” Seokjin smiles softly. “Go ahead. Place your bets wisely, though. Lose, and I might just make you take over the tangerine peeling duty here.”

“Hmm.” Yoongi knits his brows together in thought. “Something low to the ground, huh.” Crossing his fingers, he eyes Seokjin with hesitation before speaking. “Geology?”

“Oof. All striked out,” Seokjin teases, his laughter growing as Yoongi protests about having an unfair allocation of guesses. 

After his fair share of complaining, Yoongi sighs as he wordlessly takes a fruit out of the bag, tracing the rough skin with his pinky finger. Before beginning to separate the fruit from the peel, he pauses, looking up at Seokjin. 

“Aren’t you going to tell me what it is?”

“Let’s see,” Seokjin says, tilting his chin as if in deep thought. “I guess I could do that. But it’ll cost you.”

“I’m not exactly employed anymore,” Yoongi hits back, and Seokjin snorts. 

“That’s fine. You can allow me a glimpse into your mind instead. I think that’s a great method of payment.”

“My mind isn’t wired for NFC transmitting, so I hope you aren’t relying on tap,” Yoongi says, quirking a smile that widens as he observes the way that Seokjin’s entire face lights up as the elder lets out a laugh that causes him to bend over, fingers gently holding his torso as his stomach rises and falls at Yoongi’s stupid joke.

Yoongi can’t look away.

“Really?” Seokjin grins. “Because I feel like our minds have already been connected all night.”

Yoongi clears his throat and resumes peeling his tangerine. “Why marine biology in particular?” He pries gently. “Wouldn’t someone who enjoyed staying low to the ground like something more pertinent to...I don’t know...dirt?”

Seokjin snorts at this as he shakes his head. “I thought about this too, but what I realized was that no matter where in the world, if you drill deep enough into the earth’s core, you will always come across water. It’s inevitable. Follow the trail and you’ll be lucky enough to end up at the coastline.”

“There’s so much out there we don’t know about, Yoongi.” Seokjin continues slowly. “The ocean has so many secrets, thriving and living underneath the waves. That place...it’s infinite. It stretches and bends, pulled by the moon and carrying the bodies of eroded matter back home.” 

Smiling to himself, Seokjin reaches for another tangerine. 

“That place,” he continues, “it’s a beginning and an end. It reminds me of how incredibly small we are, and it makes me realize that all the problems we have are so miniscule...because we’re all tiny beings compared to the size of the waves. And maybe the poets would either praise or chastitize me for it, but,” he pauses, rolling the tangerine between his palms, “the ocean makes me feel like I’m a lot less alone.”

Yoongi’s heart almost stops as his mouth pops ajar, taken aback as Seokjin takes the moment as an opportunity to playfully pop a tangerine wedge into his mouth. 

“I feel the same way,” Yoongi says, baffled. “But about space. I’ve always wanted to see the stars up close.”

“Yeah? Maybe that’s why we click so well. Opposites, but meant to cross paths. Like the moon pulls the tide,” Seokjin says, the statement coming out so casually, as if he were talking about what colour the sky was. “Were you one of those kids that wanted to be an astronaut?” He asks, shifting back into the original conversation with an effortless glide. “With posters all over their bedroom walls?”

Yoongi coughs as he forgets how to swallow, the citrus potent in his throat as his cheeks redden. 

Seokjin reaches forward to pat Yoongi on the back, his hand lingering for just a little too long, even after Yoongi regains his posture.

“Maybe,” Yoongi mutters. “I feel a little too seen right now.”

“Is that a bad thing?” Seokjin chides. “To be seen physically is one thing. But what about being understood?”

Yoongi doesn’t respond to this at first, simply taking a long sip of his soda as he stares up at the starry night sky above them.

Seokjin’s treehouse, much like him, is both unique and magnificent. The top of the room is completely gone, as if someone had come and plucked the roof off, leaving jagged odds and ends of wooden scaffolding that stick out here and there, but nothing about it feels unsafe. 

In fact, this is the coziest that Yoongi’s been in a long time — with nothing but the warmth of Seokjin’s body pressed against his and the soft lull of the solar system to placate his normally roaring mind.

“No,” Yoongi says, words a languid whisper. “Not at all.”

“Good, because I’m looking at you right now, Yoongi,” Seokjin beams. “And all of you looks amazing.”

Beaming, he raises his soda in the air as he encourages Yoongi to do the same, clinking their cans together and sending a surge of energy through the air. 

“To us — Min Yoongi and Kim Seokjin, both of whom have never broken a bone.” Seokjin toasts, knocking the soda back with ease as Yoongi sips his own quietly.

It’s silent for a beat before Yoongi clears his throat as he shifts so that his knees are still pressed into Seokjin’s, but now he’s angled slightly sideways, making it easier for both of them to look up into the night sky without knocking their heads together.

“Do you ever miss it?” Yoongi asks gently.

“Miss what?”

“Dreaming.” Yoongi replies. 

“I do that every night,” Seokjin teases, but his expression softens as he notices Yoongi’s weary face.

“Not like that.” Yoongi sighs. “I mean dreaming as in thinking about the ocean. The thought of weightlessly floating there with a full heart...and of having a child-like fantasy that you’ve anchored yourself to.”

“Oh,” Seokjin nods slowly. “So you mean...hope?”

Yoongi balks, heartbeat and blinking unsyncopated underneath the moonlight as he shifts his jaw to the side in puzzled thought. 

The way that the last word leaves Seokjin’s mouth sounds so rounded; so free of any sharp edges around its corners. It alone sounds weightless, juxtaposing the heavy pang in Yoongi’s ribs as he makes a realization. 

“They’re pretty synonymous, huh. Dreaming and hoping,” Yoongi says, enunciating each word with a newfound clarity. 

“Yes and no,” Seokjin replies. Before he elaborates, he leans forward and pulls the plastic grocery bag closer, gently taking out the ramen cups and hot water canteen, stacking them all atop one another as his eyes flicker back up to meet Yoongi’s.

“There’s one big difference,” Seokjin starts, peeling the lid off of the cups and carefully pouring the water in, watching as steam starts to curl up — much like the coffee had in the diner, in what seemed some lightyears away. 

Rummaging through the bag, he manages to find two pairs of wooden chopsticks, which he expertly places across the lids of the noodles in order to seal in the heat. Once he’s content with letting them cook, he moves them aside and starts to drum lightly on Yoongi’s knee, catching the other man off guard.

“See, Yoongi,” Seokjin continues nonchalantly, “Dreams and hopes — same deal, right? More or less? Both reflect bits and pieces of us. The things we long for. But if there’s one thing you need to keep in mind,” Seokjin says, emphasizing each word, ''it’s that it’s okay to not have a dream.” 

His signature, comforting u shaped smile fills up his whole face at the moment, making the twilight treehouse feel all the more cozier. 

“I mean,” Yoongi swallows hard. “I lost mine a long time ago, anyways.”

“Hold on, let me finish.” Seokjin chides. “Don’t have a dream, or can’t find it? More than fine. But ,” he says, his tone shifting to take on something much softer, reflecting his gentle gaze. “What isn’t okay is to not have hope. That’s something you should take with you. Pocketed away somewhere you can’t ever lose it.” 

“Like...where.” Yoongi frowns. In an attempt to crack a joke, he turns the pockets of his jeans inside out, hands hovering in the air in a shrug. “I don’t have any space.”

Seokjin laughs at this, eyes crinkling into crescent moons, before his own hand suspends itself in the air for a fleeting moment as well, mirroring Yoongi’s. It stays there before Seokjin takes a deep inhale and carefully reaches forward, splaying his palm and pressing it against the cage of Yoongi’s chest.

“Here,” Seokjin says, his eyes flitting across Yoongi’s face. “You keep hope in here.”

Time seems to stop right then and there, with only the hammering of Yoongi’s heartbeat and both men’s quiet breathing to indicate that seconds are passing them by. 

“I think your noodles are done.” Yoongi coughs, prodding one of the cups and bursting the bubble of the moment.

“So are yours,” Seokjin replies, lifting the lids off and cracking a pair of chopsticks in half. After rubbing them together to get rid of any potential slivers, he reaches for the eggs in the bag, knocking the shells on the wooden floor and lifting them to pour the liquid yolks into the cups.

Before handing Yoongi his portion, Seokjin pauses, scooping the yolk out of his own ramen and carefully transferring it to Yoongi’s cup so that the latter has the bulk of both eggs.

Yoongi starts to protest, but he’s met with Seokjin using his chopsticks to gently clamp Yoongi’s mouth closed.

“Weary travelers meet bad fates when they’re left unfed,” Seokjin says calmly, laughing as Yoongi crosses his arms over his chest in protest. Eventually, the latter deflates in defeat, curling his hands across the warm cup.

Both of them start to eat, taking breaks between the spiced salt of the ramen to cleanse their palates with the sugary sweetness of their soda. 

Every now and then, Seokjin lets out a content sigh, nodding to himself as he savours the bursts of gochujang on his tongue.

Yoongi feels full just watching him eat.

“Can I ask you a question?” Seokjin asks, setting down his own half-empty cup as he watches as Yoongi coils his noodles across his chopsticks and leans forward to catch the end of the strands between his lips.

“Didn’t you just ask me one?” Yoongi replies wryly, laying his chopsticks across the lid of the noodles as he moves them to the side, raising an eyebrow at Seokjin.

“You’re right. I technically did,” Seokjin says, dramatically huffing. “But since I gave you my egg yolk, I think I deserve to ask you one more thing, don’t you think?”

“Isn’t that another question in of itself?” Yoongi grins, finding strange solace in the fact that this was the first time he ever felt comfortable joking around like this — especially with someone he had just met.

Yet, the longer he spent with Seokjin, the more the other man seemed to override Yoongi’s fear of judgement, scrubbing the hardened edges of anxiety that had plagued Yoongi all his life and revealing a much more tender side of himself — one that enjoyed citypop and citrus-scented nights in the company of a perfect stranger.

At the same time, there’s a fear that starts to creep up on Yoongi — the implications of what the impending sunrise would give him, and what it would take away.

“Okay,” Seokjin rolls his eyes, “that was rhetorical. So really only half a question at best.”

“So ask me,” Yoongi replies softly. “What’s your question?”

“Why are you doing it?” Seokjin asks, his voice gentle as it falls out of his mouth in a hushed whisper. 

Maybe it’s absentminded or fueled with purpose, but Seokjin’s palms have splayed across Yoongi’s knees, his fingers lightly tracing the bone as Yoongi raises his gaze to meet Seokjin’s eyes.

“Doing what?” Yoongi blinks slowly, cognizant of the slight ticklish feeling that comes with every feathered stroke of Seokjin’s hands.

With that, Seokjin shifts so that his fingers start to walk downwards across Yoongi’s leg, stopping at the cuff of his jeans. With the hint of an amused smile tugging at the corner of his lips, Seokjin tilts his head to the side as he fiddles with the denim.

“Running away.”

“Ah,” Yoongi manages. His face goes ashen pale, which is only made more obvious with the moon’s glow hitting his cheeks like a spotlight. 

“Is that too touchy?” Seokjin asks, retracting his fingers as he sits upright. “We don’t have to talk about it.”

Somewhere in the middle of Seokjin’s protest, Yoongi’s hands find themselves pulling Seokjin’s back between his own, filling those empty gaps once again and sending warmth surging through his veins.

“No,” Yoongi replies, his fingers memorizing every curve and dip of Seokjin’s. Every crooked bend, every perfect imperfection. “Let’s.”

“Mm,” Seokjin nods, the sound a heady lilt. “I guess I should elaborate on my question.” Pausing to gather the words, he purses his lips before they part again, plush and soft, like the tone of his voice. “Are you really running away...or are you running towards something?”

“That’s...a good question,” Yoongi frowns. “Are they that different?”

“That depends. This isn’t your first time on the road, is it?” Seokjin asks. 

At that moment, Yoongi feels paper-thin — the flesh and skin on his bones mirroring the countless boarding passes he’s held throughout his lifetime, each one heavier than the last.

“No,” he confesses, swallowing hard. 

It’s quiet for a beat before Yoongi sighs. “Sometimes I lose track.”

“Of?”

“How many times I’ve jumped ship,” Yoongi deadpans. Shaking his head slightly, Yoongi sips his soda and sets it down, listening to how loud the clank of the metal against the wood seems to echo across the treehouse’s liminal space.

“It’s almost funny,” he chuckles, “how my childhood dream was to be an astronaut, and now all I do is take off and take off, but each time I only seem to get... further from where I want to be.”

“Which is?” Seokjin prompts gently. “What exactly are you looking for, Yoongi?”

“Something I lost a long time ago,” Yoongi says quietly. 

“It must be important if you’re still looking for it,” Seokjin points out, rubbing his thumb across Yoongi’s knuckles. 

“Maybe at one time, it was,” Yoongi mutters. “Now? I don’t know.”

“Humour me.” Seokjin grins, using his free hand to gently sweep Yoongi’s hair off of his forehead.

Yoongi begins to laugh — a hoarse sound that sounds almost guttural, like the sonic experience of a neglected vase tasked with catching rainwater finally shattering, its porcelain pieces strewn on the floor like the peels of the tangerines at Yoongi’s feet. 

“Myself.” Yoongi blinks, his eyes starting to sting. “I guess that’s what I’m looking for.”

“I kinda figured just as much.” Seokjin leans forward, pressing their foreheads together before he tilts Yoongi’s head up carefully using their entwined hands. “And you probably won’t believe me, but I think I know where that is.”

Then, Seokjin tightens his fingers between Yoongi’s, moving their joint hands up into the air, where they suspend themselves for just a moment longer than it takes for Yoongi to take in a deep breath.

Smiling, Seokjin slowly pushes their hands back, further and further until both their hands feel the steady thrumming of Yoongi’s heart, hammering underneath the thin veil of his sweater.

“The answer is here,” Seokjin says softly. “The heart is a vessel for so many things — hope, heartache, and happiness.” 

“Think of it like the ocean,” he continues. “And how at the end of the day, all these different drains will end up at the same place. That’s what this is,” Seokjin says, fingers tracing the outline of Yoongi’s chest. “A limitless space. A beginning and an end.”

“What if mine is just full of ends?” Yoongi murmurs. “Just dead end after dead end.”

“You know that’s bullshit and even you don’t believe it,” Seokjin says, an air of finality in his tone. “Because if you did, you wouldn’t keep running.”

This silences Yoongi as he chews on his lower lip, eyes fixated on Seokjin’s hand on his chest.

“I think what you’ve done is shatter your heart into a bunch of tiny pieces,” Seokjin says languidly, drawing out the words. “And every time you just up and left a place, you would accidentally leave a piece behind, thinking that you had to take off in order to find it without knowing,” he says, smiling gently, “that it had been with you the whole time.”

Using his and Yoongi’s entwined hands, Seokjin reaches up to lightly caress Yoongi’s cheek, pulling the corner of the latter’s mouth up slightly.

“And let me guess,” Seokjin whispers. “As you kept running and losing all these pieces of you, eventually your heart emptied itself out until it bled dry, and you couldn’t remember where any of these shards were.” 

Drumming on Yoongi’s knee with his free hand, Seokjin leans closer — so close that Yoongi isn’t sure whether the heartbeat he feels is his or Seokjin’s. 

“Maybe,” Seokjin continues, “some of those pieces got tangled up with dead dreams, or maybe some of them were given to people who didn’t deserve it, or maybe,” he pauses, “some of them are simply still running in hopes of catching up with you again.”

“What can I do about it?” Yoongi exhales slowly, closing his eyes as his face finds itself in the crook of Seokjin’s neck, fitting perfectly as if he had been made to fold into the warm stature of the other man.

“Yoongi,” Seokjin says, his hand finding the small of the former’s back as he rubs small circles into Yoongi’s skin.

Pulling back, Seokjin then releases their hands, only to use them both to cup Yoongi’s face tenderly, pressing their foreheads together. 

“I think,” he murmurs, breath a violet whisper against the red of Yoongi’s cheek, “that it’s time to tell those pieces of you to come home.”

Home, Yoongi thinks, is something he had never really been intimately acquainted with. It was just one syllable that hit like a hollow pang in the back of his throat, becoming emptier every time he tried to swallow the notion of having somewhere to somewhere to plant roots and anchor his feet to the ground. Somewhere that made him feel as if everything he envied about outer space — the weightlessness, the dreaming — could be felt in the airy gaps between his fingers.

But here, with Seokjin’s hands around his face, Yoongi feels it all for the first time, and he begins to understand one thing — 

The fear of falling.

While Seokjin had fallen out of the treehouse and survived, Yoongi thinks that the gap between the treehouse’s deck and the ground was a lot smaller in scale in comparison to how high up Yoongi felt right now, because at that moment, the wooden flooring of the treehouse felt miles away, replaced with the cool wisps of clouds that curl across his ankles, with every gentle caress of Seokjin’s fingers taking him all the more closer to space.

Yoongi didn’t ever want to find out what the impact would feel if he crashed, but at the same time, there’s the smallest burst of faith that quietly sits at the back of his chest, telling him that if it should happen, maybe — just maybe — he would be able to finally learn how to catch himself, hands outstretched and collecting all the strewn pieces of his wandering heart to cushion the fall.

“Home.” Yoongi echoes slowly, tasting the way it sits on his tongue, red and efflorescent. “You think I should tell myself to come home...to...well, myself.”

Seokjin nods casually, as if Yoongi were stating a mere fact. 

“The diner’s always looking for a pair of helping hands,” he says lightly, tongue-in-cheek and heart shown on his sleeve. “And of course I can’t force you to stay, but I think there’s something you should consider before you do go.”

“And that is…?” Yoongi purses his lips as he surveys Seokjin’s sticker-covered face.

“You told me that you had no stories, Yoongi. And do you remember what I said?”

“You told me I was full of shit.”

“Exactly,” Seokjin beams, his smile growing extra wide as he takes note of Yoongi’s baffled expression. “And I still stand by it. You know why?”

“Do enlighten me,” Yoongi murmurs.

“Because,” Seokjin starts, “this whole night, I’ve lived through your stories. I know that you peeled tangerines to keep your hands warm, your favourite soda flavour is melon, you played the shooting guard on your school basketball team, you like citypop and ramen, and,” Seokjin says, temporarily lifting his hands off Yoongi’s cheeks to put down one crooked finger with every point that he ticks off, “you wanted to be an astronaut.”

“A story,” Seokjin continues, smiling as he fans his fingers against Yoongi’s face, “is something that makes you who you are. A narrative. A chapter in your book of life or whatever. They’re pieces of your heart, Yoongi. So now how you want to keep writing these stories is up to you.”

“And if I keep running,” Yoongi says slowly, “what happens to the story?”

Seokjin shrugs. “It keeps getting written, but the ending will be different than if you don’t. Remember, what we choose not to do will affect the outcome, too. It’s a bit more complex than the 50/50 chance of a coin toss. Lots more variables.”

“Huh,” Yoongi muses, reaching for his soda can. Before his hands can meet it, the taste of strawberry soda meets his lips as Seokjin takes his own soda and tilts it upwards into Yoongi’s mouth, taking him by surprise. 

“Betcha didn’t expect that variable, did you?” Seokjin laughs as he sets the soda down and raises his hands to gently wipe the sugar away from the corner of Yoongi’s lips, which have curled upwards in a flustered smile.

“Can’t say that it was in my calculations,” Yoongi hums, enjoying the summer sweetness of the strawberry on his palate, creating the perfect harmony with the lingering notes of melon.

“Can you ever really calculate everything, though, Mr. Accounting-Know-It-All?” Seokjin replies, fingers drumming on Yoongi’s knee. “Aren’t there infinite possibilities in places like space?”

“Mm,” Yoongi nods. “Tons.”

Going silent, Yoongi shrugs as he runs his tongue over his lips in thought, eyes squinting as they take in the moonlight filtering through the slits in the treehouse walls.

His mind at the moment runs through a million different variables — fueled with fleeting images of blurry night lights and the smell of his tires on the asphalt.

He thinks about where he would end up if he kept going. Whether the North Star would guide him somewhere he was meant to be, or if it would burn out just like Yoongi had, leading to him finish half-baked chapters in indefinite endings. 

Each of these thoughts feel flat as they cross his mind, falling off the edge into the unknown as soon as they appear.

Then he thinks about what Seokjin said — about the heart, and how it was struggling to catch up with Yoongi’s wandering soul. 

And as he contemplates it all — tasting the reddened taste of it on his tongue as he pulls the thought through his teeth — he realizes that the North Star that he had been following so diligently had really been twinkling inside the empty space between his ribs all along, bursting like a solar flare as it showed him the hundreds of alternate endings that made his heart pound, its chamber walls stretching as it made space for more possibilities. 

And the one thing that Yoongi notices as he thinks about these options and endings is that, no matter the differing variables, there was always one fixed constant. 

Constant, as in constant presence, constant caress, and constant foundation.

And that one constant was Seokjin.

Seokjin, who was sitting cross-legged across from Yoongi, hair strewn across his forehead and bathed in soft moonlight. Seokjin, who smelled like citrus and whose sweater draped just perfectly across his shoulders but drowned his arms. 

Seokjin, who worked in a diner, liked strawberry soda, and played as the leader of his tug-of-war team. 

Seokjin, who was ten years old when he first heard his and Yoongi’s shared favourite song, and twenty-nine when he changed Yoongi’s life. 

“What’s on your mind?” Seokjin asks quietly, tucking a strand of Yoongi’s hair behind his ear. 

You.

“A lot,” Yoongi replies, laughing gently as he lets out a sigh. “A little of…a lot.”

“Well,” Seokjin starts, voice like honey, “I know just the place where you can offload some of those thoughts.” Smiling, he laces his fingers between Yoongi’s, holding on the tightest that he has the entire night. 

“The depths of the ocean?” Yoongi murmurs, to which Seokjin laughs.

“No,” he whispers. “It’s somewhere we technically already went. But it’ll be the very last stop for tonight.” Pausing, Seokjin seems to contemplate a thought that flickers across his mind, but he ultimately shoves it back down as he shoots Yoongi a soft smile instead. 

“I’ll take you somewhere to make your baggage for the rest of your trip a little less heavy,” he offers, as Yoongi eyes him with a baffled expression.

“Do I get a hint?” Yoongi asks, keeping his voice low as Seokjin nods, hair brushing against Yoongi’s forehead.

“Sure. Remember that thing?” Seokjin raises a crooked finger to point across the tiny space of the treehouse. In the corner sits the basketball they’d dug up from Seokjin’s old high school, rounder than the moonlight that was bathing it in a soft glow.

“What about it?” 

“Technically, when I said that we’d make good partners in crime, I wasn’t joking,” Seokjin laughs, the sound escaping out of the corner of his lips as they then draw themselves into a mock pout. “We committed an act of theft, and now that my moral conscience is catching up with me, I think that we should probably return the ball from where it came from.”

“So you wanna bury it back?” Yoongi asks, gaze fixed on the rubbery orange sphere.

“Mm,” Seokjin nods. “I think it’s only fair to the kids. They’ve had this thing tucked away in the same place for years, so can you imagine the distress that will come when they see that it’s gone?”

Consistency , Yoongi thinks to himself as Seokjin starts to stand, dusting off his jeans and extending a hand out to Yoongi. 

There was a sense of comfort that stemmed from knowing where something you were looking for would be. It was something that Yoongi didn’t have the luxury of having, since what he was looking for was so much more abstract than anything tangible.

Yet, as Seokjin pulls him up off the floor and holds him close for just a beat, Yoongi wonders if this is the closest he’s ever been to finding the right direction.

“Ready to go?” Seokjin whispers into his ear, and this time, Yoongi is the one that reaches out for Seokjin’s hand, pulling him towards the ladder of the treehouse.

Seokjin had fallen here, years ago, and now Yoongi finds himself falling all the same. Yet, it looks different on him — flushed with shades of red and held in the pockets of space between the two men as they help each other down each rung.

Two pairs of feet hit the ground just one after the other, the sound of Yoongi’s car keys clanging against his leg echoing through the crisp night air as he unbuckles it from the carabiner and gives it a gentle shake in front of Seokjin’s face.

“C’mon Clyde, let’s go.” 

                                         ┊ ˚✩ ┊

The hole is bigger than Yoongi had imagined.

Deep in the ground, it felt like he was staring at a crater, carved into the ground by the sheer willpower of a gaggle of schoolchildren. With the basketball tucked under his arm, he cocks his head to the side as Seokjin whistles lightly below his breath.

“Okay Yoongi,” Seokjin starts, gently placing his hand on the small of the former’s back. “Here’s the plan. You’re going to put this thing back, but alongside it,” he says, gesturing to the dirt, “you’re also going to let go of whatever’s holding you back.”

“Like what?” Yoongi blinks.

“All the doubts, all the inhibitions. Just let them fly.”

“Hm,” Yoongi muses, taking in a deep inhale as he fidgets with the rubbery exterior of the ball.

“Think of it this way,” Seokjin says, folding his arms across his chest. “Take everything weighing you down and shove it back into the Earth, freeing you. You’ll be weightless —”

“ — Just like I’m in space,” Yoongi says quietly, finishing Seokjin’s train of thought. The latter closes his eyes and nods slowly, his u- shaped smile wider than the radial space of the fluttery feeling in Yoongi’s ribs.

“Exactly. Just like you’re in space.”

There’s a beat of silence before Seokjin moves to back away, shaking his head as Yoongi opens his mouth to call him back.

“I think it’d be best if I gave you some privacy,” he explains, and Yoongi mourns his absence although he’s still here.

With a flurry of footsteps that crunch against the dirt, Seokjin’s gone sooner than Yoongi can even realize it, the outline of his shadow faint in the distance as he leans against a tree at the entrance of the clearing, head tilted towards the stars.

Now alone with nothing but his thoughts, Yoongi lets out the breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding as he squats down closer to the hollowed ground, letting a finger trace the dirt. 

It must’ve rained sometime recently as the scent of petrichor greets him, hugging onto his hands while he drags them through the earth.

Thinking of what Seokjin said, Yoongi plays a mental montage of his life through his head. He’s met with brief vignettes —  some drenched in sepia, some in bright colour. He sees himself packing up and skipping town after town, sees himself at his desk at work, sees himself at the gas station earlier that night. As he concentrates and screws his eyes shut, he starts to see more — the fraying poster of the astronaut on his bedroom wall, the cascading steam of countless ramen packets, the shiny gleam of the coin he’d lobbed into the park fountain all those years ago.

And with this, he thinks about all the Yoongis he has come to know, and the Yoongis that he’s lost. He wonders where all the pieces of their hearts are, and how deep down he’d have to dig in order to find them. 

Above this, he wonders if past Yoongi would be proud of where current Yoongi was, lightyears from home but yet closer all the same.

Blowing air onto the tips of his fingers, Yoongi rubs them together as he parts his lips to speak, getting stuck for just a lingering beat as his words catch on themselves. Clearing his throat, he swallows before adjusting to sit cross-legged, throwing the basketball into the air and catching it just before it hits the ground.

Hugging the ball to his chest, Yoongi presses his face against the rubbery exterior as he screws his eyes shut, beginning to murmur softly.

As he rambles on, the words that he’s looking for finally find their way onto his tongue, tasting sweet and light — like the soda he’d shared with Seokjin just earlier that night.

“I want,” he begins slowly. His thoughts are heavy, but there’s a weightlessness that lightly dusts his lips as he speaks — as if getting rid of the sentiment was allowing him to slowly sheathe the protective casing off of his tired heart. 

Take everything weighing you down and shove it back into the Earth.

Seokjin’s voice still rings in Yoongi’s ears, low and warm, as if the other man was still holding Yoongi’s hand.

“I want,” Yoongi continues, the thought of Seokjin on the tip of his memory, “to leave myself behind.”

And this time, he means it in a way that’s completely different than all the other times that he’s folded himself out of his own skin. 

This time, he ruminates on Seokjin’s advice. On how the heart was composed of pieces, and how he had left so many of them in various places where they didn’t belong. 

Here, crouched in front of this hole, Yoongi realizes that he needs to once again leave behind a piece. Yet, this one would be going directly where it should be — deep in the ground, nurtured by the soil of Seokjin’s hometown and left to grow.

As he leans forward to gently lower the basketball into the dirt, he’s caught off by the sound of something small falling in front of him.

Squinting, Yoongi almost can’t believe his eyes when he makes out what it is.

Because there, embedded in the dirt, is a tiny tangerine seed. 

Yoongi thinks that it must’ve gotten stuck to the threads of his sweater, clinging along with a sense of resilience that Yoongi could only envy. 

But now, the seed had planted itself, ready to put down roots. 

Maybe if Yoongi sticks around for long enough, he’ll be able to see the blooming burst of leaves that will shoot from the earth’s core, born from basketball dreams and a settled feeling of hope and home.

Home — something that he’s realized transcends four walls. Something that he had never felt in the banality of his old apartment.

With that, Yoongi quietly shovels the dirt back over the top of the basketball, feeling a sense of satisfaction burning in his lungs as he feels the earth slipping between his fingers and onto the orange exterior.

Shovel, sprinkle. Shovel, sprinkle.

Once he’s done, he dusts off his pants and stands up, feeling the keys on his belt loop clanging against his leg, bringing his attention to how one particular key — his old apartment key —  catches the glint of the moonlight.

It’s in that moment that Yoongi’s hand moves before his mind can stop him. Before he can even realize what he’s doing, he’s clipped the key off the ring and was currently thumbing the jagged edges, remembering every groove and dip.

Crouching to the ground, Yoongi paws another hole into the dirt, just a couple meters away shy from where the basketball was. 

This hole is shallower in depth, but it’ll do for what Yoongi needs. Taking a deep breath, Yoongi brings the key to his lips and presses a kiss to the silver — for luck. 

Then, he tosses it into the hole.

Unlike the basketball, he knows that no one is going to be coming back and looking for this key, because it’s something that belongs to the past — a direction that Yoongi will never walk towards again.

His apartment was a small place; stuck right in the suffocating center of the city and cemented with four bleak walls and a ceiling. But for some reason, it had never felt like the home that Yoongi had so desperately tried to seek out, again and again.

Here, with the scent of citrus in the air and the feeling of dirt between his nails, Yoongi finally feels it: that cozy feeling that begins at the bottom of his chest, fanning upwards and outwards, like a flickering flame. Something so foreign, yet familiar — as if he had missed it before he had even gotten to know it.

As he stands back upright, each disc in his back seems to crack slightly, as if easing into a new life.

Glancing towards the entrance of the clearing, Yoongi sees that Seokjin is still standing exactly where he had been when he’d first left, shifting his weight from side to side.

As Yoongi walks back towards the other man, he thinks about the basketball he’d just sunk into the ground. About how it would be left for schoolchildren to find when they needed it the most, in the spot where they knew exactly where it’d be.

About how it was just like Seokjin — positioned exactly where Yoongi had left him, eyes slowly blinking as they squinted and curved upwards in joy as he raised a hand to wave at Yoongi, whose steps were growing wider as the gap between the two men only became smaller.

In that moment, with the sight of Seokjin’s warm smile burying itself into Yoongi’s mind, Yoongi does what he does best.

He runs.

But this time, the direction takes him straight into Seokjin’s arms, the latter letting out a scream of surprise as he catches Yoongi, back bent as he adjusts to allow Yoongi to wrap his arms around his shoulders. 

In the fleeting moment that he’s in the air, Yoongi feels it — that effortless weightlessness.

To Yoongi’s surprise, the two men fit so perfectly together, like a key finally slotting into the doorknob of the home to which it belongs. 

“Hey,” Seokjin says softly, breathing slowly as Yoongi rests his face into the crook of Seokjin’s neck.

Seokjin smells like citrus, and so much more. 

He smells like the promise of care, like the subtle declarations of the ephemeral found woven into moments of domestic bliss.

And he tastes like so much more, which Yoongi finds out as he pulls back to survey Seokjin’s face, slowly coming to know and memorize every feature — his pretty eyes, pouty lips, and the slightest wash of a flustered blush that creeps over his cheeks, almost as red as the burst of happiness that explodes as Yoongi leans in, pressing his lips to Seokjin’s.

Seokjin tastes like summer nights flowing into strawberry soda, full of tinges of light that flow into the lingering taste of melon and memories — new and old — already on the tip of Yoongi’s tongue. 

“Hey, Yoongi?” Seokjin murmurs, voice low and heady as he leans into the kiss, the vibration of his words settling onto Yoongi’s lips and echoing the pounding of his heart. 

“I’m here,” Yoongi replies softly, tightening the embrace. 

“Here? Where’s here?”

Yoongi nods, closing his eyes as he allows Seokjin to raise a hand and gently caress his cheek. He leans into the other man’s palm, as if getting well-acquainted with the idea that the remnants of a dream could become tangible and felt in the gaps between Seokjin’s fingers.

“I’m here,” Yoongi reiterates, taking in a breathy inhale as he slowly pulls away, blinking slowly as he regards the amused expression in Seokjin’s eyes — bright and twinkling, closing the space between Yoongi and the galaxy.

“I’m finally home.”

It’s silent for a moment as Seokjin processes Yoongi’s words, nodding to himself as he holds Yoongi close. 

“So,” he finally begins, “home is where your story continues. The tale of Min Yoongi, the ex-accountant.”

“And current diner employee,” Yoongi adds on, grinning softly as realization sets in for Seokjin. 

Laughing as he raises a hand to intertwine it with Seokjin’s, Yoongi caresses Seokjin’s knuckles quietly, thinking about how Seokjin had held onto him so tightly outside of the convenience store — to prevent getting lost.

But now, after being adrift for so many years, Yoongi had finally found his way.

“When’s my first shift?” He laughs, splaying his fingers between Seokjin’s. 

Grinning, Seokjin tugs Yoongi a little closer, holding on just a little more, as if tethering an anchor. 

“We have all the time in the world to decide that…in the morning,” he whispers into Yoongi’s ear, beaming as he pulls back and tilts Yoongi’s chin to the sky. 

Squinting, Yoongi makes out the way that the horizon is starting to transition — softening out the dark night and bringing with it change in the form of bright hues of orange, fluorescently warm, as if someone had brought a match to the sky the same way that there was a flickering flame kindling in the depths of Yoongi’s heart.

It feels like a dream — this surreality of standing here in a sweater that feels too big but fits all the same, wrapped in Seokjin’s embrace and christened with an answered prayer for better days. 

Yet, Yoongi knows that this is a dream that he won’t be afraid to lose to the depths of the night, because he’ll be able to open and close his eyes to the same view — a view that was currently grinning from ear-to-ear, slowly pulling Yoongi away from the forest clearing and back towards the direction of where the truck remained idling, the front seat still adjusted to Seokjin’s height and window slightly ajar.

As they approach the vehicle, Seokjin suddenly bends, motioning for Yoongi to get on. Like clockwork, the latter obliges, hoisting his legs around Seokjin’s waist and feeling his own heartbeat echoing back to him against Seokjin’s back as the other man stands back upright, trudging forward before he comes to a stop at the truck’s passenger door. 

Pulling it open, they’re greeted with the familiar blast of citrus as Seokjin slowly lowers Yoongi into the passenger side, gaining a perplexed look from the latter as Seokjin merely winks and leans forward to unhook Yoongi’s car key from his belt, stealing a peck as he does so. 

“Unseen variable, Yoongi,” he laughs, whistling as he pulls back and rounds the truck, popping himself into the front seat and starting the ignition. 

As the truck roars to life, Seokjin begins to hum, harmonizing with the engine and flooding the truck with the silvery tune of the song that Yoongi had picked in the diner. Pausing right before the chorus, he lifts his head to shoot Yoongi a sweet grin, face illuminated with the warmth of Yoongi's headlights. “It’s your turn," Seokjin gestures, "to interpret.” 

Reaching one hand across the center console, Seokjin intertwines it with Yoongi’s, skin as soft as the wind that slips through Yoongi’s fingers as he sticks his other hand out the window, feeling life bend itself to fit through the tiny gaps as Seokjin hits the acceleration.

As the truck rolls onto the highway and gains speed, it becomes closer and closer to taking them into a lifetime of coloured roofs and careful citrus kisses, woven tightly into dreams that hung in the sky higher than any basketball hoop could ever reach.