Chapter Text
"You want me to what?"
The way he's looking at you makes you want to sink six feet under ground and bury yourself among the roots and bugs. There's so much judgment in the feline turn of his stare, the depths of his irises and the pupils that disappear among the hue. Still, his voice remains decidedly bored. Apathetic, even.
If you were anyone else - hell, if he were anyone else - you think you might've slunk off, proverbial tail tucked between your legs. But you aren't and he isn't, so you repeat yourself, louder this time.
"I want you to come to the cake tasting with me." You're proud of yourself for how the words don't waver, clipping off your tongue and teeth in short bursts. You're even more proud of how you meet his intimidating gaze, chin jutted out in something like defiance but admittedly softer, a little more vulnerable.
His expression is inscrutable, a palette of greys that only further the uncertainty that sinks like a stone in your chest. Every second that passes feels like an eon and you think you might crumble into dust by the time his lips move, though sound is slow to come.
It seems even he's having second thoughts.
"So, you want me to pretend to be your fiancé." A pause, incredulity written into every syllable. "For cake."
When he puts it like that, it feels like nails on a chalkboard or cardboard against cardboard. It raises the little hairs on the back of your neck and has you gritting your teeth, lids sliding over eyes in what can only be called distress. It fits onto your face - curving lips and tensing your jaw all at once. You remind yourself to breathe around the discomfort that lodges into your airway and within your skull.
Why had you thought this was a good idea? Why couldn't you have asked someone else?
Anyone but Min Yoongi.
"Everyone else is busy," you retort, though it's not quite as hard as you mean it to be. It falls like a stone in the ocean - inconsequential. "If you don't want to, just say so. I'll go on my own."
Your own, because you'd called off your engagement months ago and had forgotten to cancel this. Or rather, you'd put it off. You'd put a lot of stuff off. It kind of came with discovering your boyfriend - your knight in shining armour soon-to-be husband - was a philanderer. Still, you'd felt a little silly when you'd gotten the two-week reminder text (and email, because oh, you'd been excited!).
When you'd approached your best friend about it, she'd reacted in her patented Lee Sora way. A derisive snort - for that piece of shit ex of yours - and then a sweeter cloying laugh, insisting you go. After all, you'd booked things on his dime. 'Better to eat your cake, even if you can't have it!' were her words.
Honestly, you'd forgotten about it again - purposely pushed it to the furthest recesses of your mind - until you'd gotten the call the day before. Imagine your surprise when the assistant was chirping all over the phone line, completely oblivious to your stunned silence.
Why did you have to have the memory of something with really bad memory? Your brother wasn't like this.
So here you were, asking his best friend to take some sort of pity on you. It felt worse than tripping during your university graduation. (Because yes, you had done that, nearly face planting in front of hundreds of your peers. Clumsiness ran in the Kim family.) You hated it with every fibre of your being. Not because you had too much pride - god no - but because you'd had to ask him. Yoongi.
On a good day, he was gracious, if not distantly quiet. On a bad day, he could cut you down with just one look.
Frankly, you couldn't tell what kind of day this was.
"You know I'm not making you go alone." The man in question sounds exasperated, though it's barely hidden, an undercurrent of frustration that peeks around the edges of consonants. His expression betrays nothing as he turns back to face the array of monitors, nimble fingers already resuming their previous actions. You feel a pang of guilt - you know how much he hates being bothered when he's working. Namjoon's drilled it into your head since you were old enough to barge in without asking and though they'd taken a lunch break, it still feels a little clandestine.
You ignore the hope that sparks to life in your chest and the way your fingers curl around the door frame. Or, at least, you try to ignore it. You're grateful that his back is to you when you speak. "Is that a yes?"
"Yes." For a moment, you think he might turn by the way his shoulders shift, hands stilling. But then he thinks better of it and slides his headphones over his mop of carefully styled smoke - a clear indication the conversation is over.
Before his right ear is fully covered, you're rushing to speak. "It's at 3:30! I'll come grab you before we have to leave!" And then you're gone.
You'd thought it would be easier with someone else. Appearances and all that.
But as you're walking up to the pretty storefront - all unassuming whites to showcase the brilliant confections in the window - you somehow feel even more nervous. What if they knew? What if they could tell you two were polar opposites and you'd come to swindle them out of their painstakingly crafted cakes? Would they tell you to get out? Would they not say anything, even if they knew?
Scenarios play in your mind like the climax of a Bond film and you don't even realize you're hovering five feet away until his voice cuts through your thoughts - a hot knife through butter.
"What're you waiting for?" There's that irritation again. You try not to take it personally. This was just who Yoongi was - had always been. He was someone who didn’t suffer fools gladly, no matter how they presented themselves. You know it isn’t directed at you necessarily, but just at the strange situation he now found himself in. You tell yourself that over and over as you find your words, plastering what you hope to be a genuine smile on your face.
By the way he looks at you, lips curled around disbelief, you know it's a poor effort. You were bad at hiding your emotions. It was like Namjoon had stolen all the emotional maturity, leaving you with wide-open eyes and a face like a billboard.
"What if they know?" You say it in a voice barely above a whisper, as if they might hear you through the intimidating glass door.
"Know what?" A brow quirks, disappearing into his fringe.
"That we aren't together!" The words explode out of you, a firecracker set off too close to curious hands. Your mouth draws into a thin line of apology and you're twisting a section of hair around your index finger. It's a nervous habit and he catches it immediately.
His expression softens, just barely, and he sighs, breath blown through his nose. "It'll be fine." The confidence he reassures you with is surprising but somehow, it calms you. Maybe it's the two decades of friendship rearing its pretty, often neglected head. Whatever it is, you cling to it like a security blanket, eyes the size of dinner plates as you follow the hand that suddenly rises and inches toward you.
"What're you doing?" You speak before you can help it, admiring the softness of his skin and the long fingers built from years of piano.
Rather than speak, he grips your own. It's loose but your knuckles knock together, palms flat and moulded into one. "You want it to be believable, don't you?" Despite the bemused inflection, you appreciate his gesture. It means a lot to you.
You squeeze his hand, nodding once. "Thanks, Yoongi." It's soft and shy, filled with all the things you don't say. He reads between the lines easily, years of platonic intimacy guiding him into what could almost be described as a smile but falls just short of revealing his gums. Still, it's as good as having him shout his understanding from the rooftops so you take it with grace, dutifully following after him when he pries open the door.
The smell is intoxicating. If your life were a cartoon movie, you're sure you'd be following the smell and floating into the kitchen with hearts in your eyes.
"You must be the soon-to-be Rims!"
She's a pretty young thing with big doll eyes and a sweetly upturned nose. You recognize her voice immediately as the girl that had confirmed your appointment. She oozes honey and kindness and you can't help but smile; she's sweet as apple pie. How fitting.
So swept up in her sunny greeting, you belatedly notice the way your not-fiancé stiffens at your side, his interlocked fingers tightening imperceptibly. There's a tick in his jaw, tension running the length of his bones and steeling around the column of his neck. For a second, you're tempted to reach out with your free hand, smooth whatever consternation has him grimacing, but in the next moment, he's a blank slate. His chin dips, nods in affirmation because you've been too caught up in him to answer the poor girl.
"That's us." He hides it well, but you can still see the flicker of annoyance just beyond the flat of his barely realized smile. It's the same ebb and flow that you've become familiar with over the years. (Especially since, during a particularly annoying time during your teens, you'd been the reason for it.)
"So nice to meet you finally. I'm Siyeon." It seems the assistant is completely oblivious to whatever displeasure lies beneath the surface of Yoongi’s carefully crafted facade, her beaming smile never faltering. You can even hear it in her voice when she turns and begins leading you past the front pastry case and toward the open space further back. "Come this way! We have everything set up."
You squeeze his hand again when the whites of his eyes grow prominent by the way they roll in their sockets. "Be nice," you chastise quietly, closing the distance just enough to keep the conversation between the two of you.
"I am nice." When your gaze meets, you're mirroring each other's expression. It makes you laugh; he simply shakes his head.
"You two are so sweet," comes Siyeon's meant-to-be kind observation. She's watching you two closely from the head of the long table where she waits. There are slices of cake laid across the top, three pieces in total. Place cards sit neatly behind each plate, another three placed off to the side. There are two forks, two pens, and a bare white notepad. "Please, take a seat. Would you like some champagne?"
"Please!" You've answered before your companion has had a chance to and he levels you with a quirked brow and nothing else. You note the way Siyeon disappears with your answer, leaving you to stick your tongue out at him. "What?"
"Take it easy, party animal," he drawls, nonchalant as ever as he turns his attention to the offerings laid before him.
You know he's just teasing, so you say nothing, instead opting to do the same. Every slice is perfectly cut - a generous portion for two people - and so lovingly crafted that you almost feel bad thinking you'll never get to try it again.
"Here you go."
Two champagne flutes are presented, ice bucket with the orange label bottle set aside. You take a tentative sip, enjoying the way the liquid bursts across your tongue. You'd always been more of a beer girl, but this is nice. It feels a little like a treat to yourself - for getting through everything that's brought you here.
"So, we're pretty hands-off here." Siyeon is speaking again, the words rolling off her tongue like she's given this spiel a hundred times. You're sure she has. She's so confident, rattling off the process with practiced ease. You focus intently, grateful for the way Yoongi even leans forward - the picture of an attentive partner. "We've prepared six cakes for you. You'll taste them in groups of three, so your palate isn't overwhelmed. We leave you alone during this portion so you can discuss without any pressure or input and you can make notes on what you do and don't like. Once you're done all of the samples, you'll meet with one of our pâtissiers and discuss." There's a pause, then realization. “You also mentioned on the phone you wanted us to include a red velvet option, so that’s on the far right.” A hand gesticulates, though it’s impossible to miss. The cake is vivid maroon and off-white – a picture perfect slice presented on the minimalistic ceramic.
You don’t miss the way Yoongi’s brow knits together beneath his neatly styled crown of silk or the stare he levels you with. He doesn’t betray emotion easily, but you can feel it from your periphery, and it licks hot shame across your cheeks. You hated red velvet – called it bullshitter’s chocolate – but your stupid awful ex-fiancé had loved it, claiming it to be one of his favourite things in the world.
More than even you, you find yourself thinking bitterly before you can help it.
“Thanks.” The word is short and dismissive. Very clearly the complete opposite of how it should be but if Siyeon notices, she doesn’t comment on it. You have to applaud her self-restraint. Instead, she offers another winning smile, and retreats back a step.
“I’ll just be at the front, if you need anything.”
A part of you wants to ask to her to stay – save you from the scathing words you know are about to fire off of your pretend-partner’s tongue. You settle for returning her smile and watching as she departs, gaze trained diligently on her back as if that might protect you from the verbal barrage you know is coming.
“You hate red velvet.” It’s a statement that has you cringing because you can hear all of the implications behind it. The words he doesn’t speak but clearly thinks linger in the air between you, falling like rain drops that sink into your bones.
You don’t immediately answer, taking your time in turning your fork over in your fingers. You know this silent treatment won’t work. Yoongi’s the master of silence – and of death glares – but you push onwards, gliding tines into the nearest cake slice. It doesn’t crumble or break, held together by pure craftsmanship and quality ingredients. The pretty not-quite-purple, not-quite-red winks up at you.
Honey wine Moscato with triple berry mousse and seasonal berry compote.
A definite yes in your books. Or would be, if you were actually getting married. You take another bite, then another.
“Why the hell would you have asked for a red velvet wedding cake if you hate it?” He’s not about to let it go, though he follows suit once the question has left his lips. He’s also not about to let you leave him with crumbs when he was the one who’d been forced into coming here.
The way his jaw relaxes has you smiling just a little, an expectant gleam in the brown of your irises.
“Tasty, right?”
“Yeah, good.” But now that you’ve spoken – confirmed that you’re not mute, despite how quiet you’ve been since he’d poised his initial question – he repeats himself. “Seriously, why ask for a cake you hate?”
You know you have no reason to hold the words so tightly to your chest but you do nonetheless, not quite sure how to speak them without your voice cracking. “Red velvet was his favourite.” There. You’d thought the admission would be a weight lifted but it feels somehow worse. Like there’s shame draped across the concession, a heavy brocade that lingers in your throat once the words have left.
“You were going to have a wedding cake you’d hate? Because of him?”
It’s exactly what you’d been afraid of. The judgment that rolls off him in waves and crashes against you like a shore at hightide. Your eyes remain steadfastly trained on the next slice – almond cake soaked in Grand Marnier with honey-cream and Mariska cherries. Crimson fruit is speared on an individual tine and popped into your mouth as you continue your vow of silence.
You think the quiet is enough of an answer but when he doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, you finally look up. Whatever words of defence had been forming on your tongue die off, dragged into an abyss that opens up beneath your feet – a surprise, because you’ve never seen that look on his face before.
It’s equal parts frustration and something else but because it’s so new, you can’t quite place it in your catalog of memories.
He must realize, immediately rearranging his features into their usual stoic mask. Just the tilt of his mouth betrays him, corners turned down ever so slightly. It’s enough to know that he’s holding back, which is something he never does. Ever.
“Spit it out, Yoongi.” You don’t look at him, too afraid that both his words and stare will completely eviscerate you now that he has the go ahead. You fork a proper mouthful of cake past your lips, humming contentedly as the flavours spill over your tongue. You hadn’t expected it to taste like a creamsicle – okay, a very adult creamsicle – but it’s welcome, nonetheless.
Fork of his own spears a sizeable bite and you watch as the slice disappears before your eyes, under both of your measured ministrations. The red velvet plate sits untouched. You know Yoongi doesn’t mind it – enjoys it, in fact – but you think he must be refraining for your sake.
Solidarity in crisis, probably.
“You know you’re better off without him.”
Of course you know that. He’d cheated on you – in your home and more than once! You knew, just as you knew how to ride a bike or how to swim, that ending things was the best thing you’d ever done. Sure, it’d hurt like hell and sure, you’d had to move in with your brother until you found something else – you hadn’t yet – but it was all for the best.
So why can’t you say those three simple words? Why, instead of your usual barking hyena laugh meeting his words, was there nothing?
“How are the cakes?” Siyeon has materialized at your side as if summoned. The still intact slice draws her attention immediately, concern settling alongside the winning customer service that oozes out of her pores and fixes itself into her permanent smile. “Did you not like the red velvet?”
Before you have a chance to speak, Yoongi’s doing so for the both of you.
“She hates red velvet. She only asked for it for me.” There’s a shrug disrupting the ridge of his shoulders, shifting the soft cotton plaid that hugs his lithe frame. “Could you bring out the rest?” His tone is friendly, gentle even. It's at complete odds with the line of his mouth, terse and teetering dangerously on irate. Still, he's not unkind when his gaze meets Siyeon's and she simply nods, gathering up the plates and taking the disregarded slice in stride.
Silence stretches between the two of you but it isn't uncomfortable. It's the same quiet that's followed you throughout your lives, carried gracefully by years of close quarters.
"Which do you like best?" He breaks it first, with a gentle hand like a delicate sculptor.
"Is both an acceptable answer?"
There's a rueful tilt to your smile. It feels very you to him, so he knows it's okay to rib you, teasing colouring every syllable. "Two cakes, huh? Pretty greedy."
Whatever you're about to say falls off your tongue yet again, forgotten on the tip with the return of Siyeon.
With the same sunny smile she's adopted the entire visit, she sets the next three selections carefully before you. Just as before, they're beautifully crafted and effortlessly chic. You spy what looks like carrot cake - from the telltale chunks of golden raisins and fluffy whipped frosting - but you're not sure which the rest are.
"Their cards are right there," Siyeon supplies helpfully, noting your curiosity. You smile, grateful as she departs with another grin and a reminder. "Don't forget to take notes!"
Vanilla cake soaked in mandarin syrup and kumquat liqueur with mandarin vinegar from Jeju Island and mandarin curd.
Dark chocolate mud cake soaked in espresso with white chocolate and black truffle ganache.
You opt to start with what appears to the airiest of the three, gliding your fork through the pretty mosaic of orange and cream.
“You deserve someone who’d let you have any cake you want.” It’s soft - barely above a whisper - but kicks up gravel in its wake, drawing your attention with the grit that tracks over syllables.
You study him for a moment, masking curiosity as consideration of flavours as citrus bursts across your tongue.
“You mean someone like you?” What you’d thought to be deadpan comes across coaxing, like honey swathed in broad strokes. You’d only meant to tease - you don’t mean anything by it (or so you tell yourself). Because you’re definitely not there yet, and certainly not with him.
But when he looks at you with that inscrutable expression, you swear you’d give up any three magic wishes to read his mind.
“No, not like me.”