Chapter Text
“I didn’t mean it, Yoongi.”
The apology is off your tongue and crashing into his ears before you have a second to consider it, pleading colouring syllables in soft shades of blue. You hate the way he’s looking at you, like you’ve found the chink in his armour and are on the verge of exploiting it.
“It’s fine.” Over a decade of friendship tells you it’s decidedly notfine. His concession comes far too quickly, meant to placate whatever guilt he’d accidentally kicked up.
It makes you feel worse, the weight increasing tenfold when he offers you his seldom-seen smile. Gums flash, corner of his mouth hitching over soft pink tissue. It doesn’t quite meet his eyes though, falling just short of the endlessly dark depths of his irises.
“Seriously. Forget about it.” You know he’s doing his best to force you onward but you can’t help but dig your figurative heels further into the dirt. An immovable force.
“I’m really sorry,” you repeat, voice thick with meaning.
Yoongi huffs a little, seemingly frustrated. You shrink a little further in on yourself, shoulders dropping and lips shifting in tandem. You’re probably pouting. You feel his stare from your periphery, feline gaze focused wholly on the way your mouth turns and turns around words you’re trying to perfect.
Silence stretches on, longer than you can stand and far more awkward than you’re used to. You can feel it like a suffocating weight, a goose down comforter in the heat of summer - heavy and unpleasant.
“I’m sorry.” It squeaks out in the same instant he sighs. He sounds less irritated, though you can see the tension in his chin, how it jumps the muscle in his jaw.
“You don’t have to keep saying it.”
“But I don’t think you’re heartless, Yoongi. I shouldn’t have said it.” You say it like it’s crucial - as if you might perish if you don’t get them out. They sweep into the spaces between you, earnest and full of fear, filling all the cracks left by your own hand.
You layer your reassurances as best you can, tongue tripping over teeth as you ramble about all the different ways you see him.
In shades of diffused morning light, lined with silver like a physical reminder that there’s always hope. Through the lens of childhood admiration, sprinkled with childish laughter and doe-eyed awe. With as much unconditional love as you’ve ever been capable of, wrapped up in furtive glances and curious, miserably nonchalant texts to your brother.
It comes and comes, word vomit that won’t stop until you’re brought back by the expression on his face. It’s tender, bemused - reminiscent of a parent of an overzealous child. You’ve seen it a million times before, though the instances were much fewer and far between now that you were older.
You immediately backtrack. “I’m sorry.” This time it’s for wasting his time, for being his best friend’s annoying little sister.
You’re tumbling over your own two feet again. You’ve said too much by the time he speaks at all.
“You’re more than that.” A statement of fact, seemingly, by how he delivers it with such ease, as if it hasn’t just set your heart off in your chest, the poor thing stuttering to life (or death). You’re not sure.
Despite your best efforts, the singular word gives you away, coloured canary red with hope. “What?”
If he’d heard your question at all, he says nothing, footsteps never faltering. He’s walking ahead like he hasn’t just turned your world on its axis, throwing you completely off-balance. He doesn’t even offer a glance back, halfway down the block by the time you come to your senses.
You jog to catch up, fingers eager to close the distance you quickly eat up. You settle into a measured pace behind him, though your mouth moves at a mile a minute. You can feel the maddening persistence in your bones, hear it as it carves demands into what was once comfortable silence.
“Why did you say that?” No response. “Yoongi!” He doesn’t even flinch, gaze trained ahead as if he’s never been in Apgujeong before and he’s terribly interested in everything but you.
The distinct urge to stomp your foot fizzles through your limbs and you almost do. You’re rooting yourself to the spot, sneaker raised comically, when he rounds on you. Brows have disappeared into his swath of dark hair and his chin tilts just so, studying you quizzically. It looks like he’’s having an internal debate as to whether he should rib you further.
He decides against it - returning to the conversation you’re so adamant to have. “You know, for being a Kim, you’re not that bright.”
“Excuse me?” Indignation bursts out your mouth. You’re focusing too hard on the words he’s spoken than the implication behind them. They sail over your head, lost to the pretty coral that streaks across the sky and eats up the horizon.
To Yoongi, it’s like watching his literal heart fly out the window. He’s a little exasperated when he speaks again. “You’re my best friend’s little sister. I don’t know what you expect me to say.”
“What’re you saying?” Because you’re really confused now. You think Namjoon would be too.
Are you even having the same conversation?
“Do I need to spell it out for you?” The line of his mouth quirks, corner stretching into something that borders on a smirk. It’s devilish - decidedly not something you’re used to - and you imagine your stomach kickflips before wrecking itself on the pavement.
Your silence seems to be answer enough.
He heaves a sigh as if he’s been terribly inconvenienced, arms folding over his chest. The gesture should read as don’t come near me! but you have the very distinct urge to fold yourself under his arms. You resist it by biting down hard on your bottom lip.
“I’ve had feelings for you since we were kids. Specifically since you had your 10th grade ballet recital and you kept the bear I got you.”
You remember the day like it was yesterday. You’d been lucky enough to land the coveted spot in the winter showcase and he’d been there, shoulder to shoulder with your brother, when you’d taken your bow. The bouquet of peonies he’d brought you - in soft shades of blush and violet, your favourite colours - had nearly engulfed your frame and you’d had trouble holding both it and the sweet brown bear that came with it.
The same bear that still sat on your bedside table, propped up beside your charging cable and yearly planner. The one you’d cried yourself hoarse over after you thought you lost it during your freshman year of college.
“I don’t understand.” You frown, deeply. You can feel the little dent between your brows. It comes out when you’re stressed or confused or, in this instance, both.
He’s more teasing than unkind: “Like I said - not that bright.”
You ignore the dig. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I couldn’t do that to Joon. I promised I wouldn’t.”
Somehow, that’s more of a revelation than Yoongi’s confession.
“He knows?” You can’t help the gasp that ricochets out of your mouth, belligerent and betrayed. You’re already running through the 100 different ways you’re going to kill your brother. Because he’d known! While you’d pined, Namjoon had known and simply stood by. “He knows how I feel about you and he didn't say anything?”
You know if you think about it, you can’t blame him. You’d given him a hard time too when he and Sora seemed to get along a little too well. Call it a sibling thing.
In the heat of the moment though, you’re livid. So Yoongi does what he does best and redirects effortlessly.
“—feel?”
The prompt reassigns all focus back to him, your anger toward your brother all but forgotten. You think you could give Pikachu a run for his money by the surprise that works itself into your expression. Heat licks itself across your cheeks, rolling like a steam engine over the exposed skin of your neck and up past your ears. Had it suddenly jumped 20 degrees?
“I mean felt.”
When Yoongi steps forward, you’re hyper fixated on the way his mouth bends and bows, gums and neat white enamel revealed by the motion. You’re rooted to the spot as he’s suddenly all you can see, crown of dark hair blocking the light from behind him, narrow shoulders curling in on you. He’s near enough you can smell his comforting, woody scent.
You haven’t been this close in - well, ever, you think.
Then he kisses you - a chaste thing, right on the cheek - and you forget how to breathe.
“I guess we’ll need to change that.”
SIX MONTHS LATER
“I’m honestly surprised,” your boyfriend drawls, the picture of disinterest as he leans himself against the packed counter top, elbows propping himself up. He’s staring out at the sea of people swarming the apartment, a comfortable group of new and old coming together to celebrate something very important.
He watches as your brother narrowly misses knocking over the beer pong table, earning a groan from the participants. Jungkook yells something about his shot being messed up; Jimin denies a re-throw. There’s more incoherent shouting.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
You’re at his back, arms twined neatly around his slender waist as you press your face into the warm expanse of his back. The sweater he wears is overly soft from years of wear and it feels good under your reddened cheek.
You’d had a bit to drink and you were feeling exceptionally affectionate.
“You actually kept it a secret.” Not that he hadn’t figured it out himself. It was in your nature to throw surprise parties - you did for Namjoon and Jin and that loud best friend of yours - so he’d only figured he would get one when the time came.
“We’re very good at keeping secrets in this family, remember?” Your voice carries past the cotton of his clothes, filtering through laughter to kick his beating heart into overdrive.
“Oh, how could I forget.” He snorts quietly, turning in the same instance you unlatch yourself from him. He has to fight the look of disappointment that threatens to pull his mouth into a pout, brow knitting in disapproval as you round on the refrigerator.
It’s only when you spin back to face him that his expression cracks and re-sets itself with glee. Now he’s actually surprised.
Because you’ve got a cake box from the same bakeshop you’d gone cake tasting at. He recognizes the logo on the front and the pretty frosting behind the plastic cover. It’s shades of cream and citrus and decorated with cherries. Your - and his - favourite cake from that day.
“You’re not supposed to see the cake ahead of time!” It’s Namjoon bursting into the kitchen looking alarmed.
You laugh first, bright and sunny. “It’s a birthday cake, not a wedding dress.”
But as you kiss him, cake cradled gingerly between your bodies, Yoongi thinks he wouldn’t mind seeing you in that, either.