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mypersonmyg · 4 years

Text

Colors | MYG

*thanks @namluve for the amazing banner!!

Pairing: Yoongi x reader

Genre: angst, fluff, flipped au

WC: 11k

Warnings: angst, some of the boys being stinky jerks :-( (even tho they’re the softest bunch uwu), cursing, mentions of anxiety (nothing too deep yet, but it’s there), NOT EDITED AT ALL OMG IT’S PROBS SO BAD

Summary: When you meet your new neighbor Min Yoongi you immediately fall for him and have no issue telling him how you feel. Yoongi does not feel the same and makes that very clear. Just when you decide that maybe you were wrong about him, Yoongi starts to have his own change of heart.

a/n: Oof, this one is rough and I’m not really sure how I feel about it. I decided that, for the sake of time, this is going to be a two-shot rather than a one-shot. It could probs be read as a one-shot tho, but it would have a lot of loose ends so...Anyways, this is my angst entry for bangtanhq’s summer boardwalk collab! Depending on how I’m feeling this might undergo major reconstruction before I post the second one-shot, but for now it is here and ready to be heavily criticized ahahaha...also I’m not really sure how angsty the angst is :\

The sun beats down against exposed skin, the bucket hat perched atop your head doing very little to protect you from the sweltering heat. Your mud coated fingers glide over the baseball sized clump of dirt, once filled with tiny pieces of sediment, now smoothed over as much as you could manage. You gently place it in with the two others you’d been able to scrounge with the mud you collected earlier in the day.

You hum at your progress, swiping the remaining grime onto your shorts, already soiled from hours of crafting.

Your thighs have settled comfortably against the ground, the grass beneath you smushed against bare skin, the earthy scent settling into your nostrils. Despite the glowering sun the day is perfect, the chirp of birds and the rustle of luscious leaves floating in and out like a melodious tune.

Glancing to the sky, clouds few and far between, you make accidental shapes against the blue backdrop. Fingers come to swipe your cheek, a streak of mud left against damp skin. Were it not for your ill equipped supplies and dirt stained palms you’d whip out a blank canvas ready to explore the perfect subject glinting from above. Instead you’re busied with the arrangement and rearrangement of brushes and buckets until the dark of a looming shadow pulls you from your task.

Peering down at you with a smile rivaling the pearly white of freshly waxed marble is Park Jimin, his hair a flattering blue and his brows furrowed in amusement. “Thought I’d find you here.”

“How perceptive of you.” His arm extends enough for you to grab hold, the muscles flexing at your added weight as he pulls you to your feet. He grimaces at the slip of mud gliding against his skin, “It’s just a little dirt you pansy.”

“I personally prefer not to walk around covered in it.”

“It’s not like I prance around slinging mud everywhere! You knew what you were walking into, sir.” You quip with the toss of a towel blindly in his general direction, “Did you need something?”

“Yes actually,” He replaces the towel, trading in the soiled rag for a stray paintbrush. You watch as he traces shapes into the air with childlike amusement, “I just wanted to remind you that my roommate is moving in tomorrow.”

“Okay...why? He’s not my roommate.”

“But you’re my friend and I want you to meet him. Preferably not looking like you just army crawled through the woods.” Jimin taps the brush to the tip of your nose, the rough edges of the bristles causing a crinkle amidst the onslaught of a sneeze.

“You’re quite the nuisance, Park Jimin”

“Lucky for you,” He adds, hefting your supplies into his arms with a grunt. “Now come on, I’m starving and you’re definitely gonna collapse from heat stroke if you don’t get inside.”

“So tell me about your new roomie,” You fall into step, easily keeping pace with Jimin’s strut. He glances over with a tilt of his head, the grip of his stubbed fingers nearly slipping from your overflowing bin.

“Well, his name is Yoongi and he’s a little older than me. We were cool back in college, we met through Taehyung because they’re from the same city.” Your head dips, acknowledgement seeping from the gesture meant to encourage his continuance, but it never follows suit.

“Is that it?”

“Huh?”

“Is that all you know about him? His name is Yoongi and you guys were kinda friends in college?” The words come in a scoff, your hand nearly halting Jimin from walking into the building, though the grimace of concentration tugging at his lips pulls you back. “This guy could be waiting to kill you in your sleep and you’re all ‘hey I’ve got a spare room, you should have it’!”

“I think you’re missing the part where I said he’s friends with Taehyung. You like Taehyung, remember?”

“That’s not the point,” You huff, elbow shoving against the elevator key. You glance down, groaning at dirt fallen from the heels of your boots.

“This is why we don’t play in the mud,” Jimin pokes with a click of his tongue.

“Oh, ha ha. But seriously, Jimin, what did you ask this guy before you just offered him a key?”

“To be fair he doesn’t have a key yet, I had to make copies.” You look deadpan, hands gripping the mud soaked towel and scooping the wasted goop from the freshly polished tile, “I know he’s opening a restaurant in town and he needs a place to stay. Tae knows him really well and he really is a cool guy from what I can remember.”

“I just don’t want you getting yourself into something you’re not prepared for.”

“Don’t worry, I’d never let some random psycho come to live with me, I’d definitely point them in your direction first.” The two of you step into the elevator, you coming to shove Jimin, his feet stumbling off course and nearly sending him crashing against the adjacent wall.

“Well aren’t you sweet,” Your finger nudges the fourth floor button and the two of you fall to a relative silence, the lack of chatter a welcome addition to the cool of the tiny space. “So, if he and Tae are such good friends why isn’t this Yoongi guy staying with him?”

“Taehyung is letting another friend of ours crash with him and since I’ve been looking for someone anyways he suggested I let Yoongi move in and I agreed.”

“Oh, I didn’t know he’d found a new roommate already. Last he told me he was still trying to convince Hoseok to move in with him.” You both chuckle, shoulders brushing together. When Hoseok had lived with Jimin the place had never been cleaner. It became commonplace for you and Taehyung to routinely convince him to trade up.

“Yeah, guess he doesn’t have it in him to replace me just yet.”

“I would agree if it weren’t for the fact that he left you to go live with Jin.” You don’t miss the pout on Jimin’s plump lips, but you choose to ignore him when the elevator doors once again slide open. “My place or yours?”

“Yours, it’s closer.”

“You live right across the hall,” You don’t earn a response, Jimin’s stride already carrying him toward your front door. Once inside he’s quick to deposit his added weight, hand sliding into his pocket to retrieve his cell. He’s concentrated on the screen of his phone, all pinched brows and pursed lips. You study his delicate features, Jimin’s beauty, not something easily ignored.

His hair is freshly died, the icy blue happily underwhelming after the highlighter pink that shocked you weeks prior. The habit is new, his desire to experiment with different hues sparking the interest of the artist within, but also your concern as his friend. Following the draw of your lips and the card of your hands through his fluffy pink locks it had become your mission to uncover what had caused him to commit the extreme. The details remain unclear, but it’s difficult to ignore the itch telling you this concerns Taehyung.

When you first moved the two introduced themselves in tandem and you immediately picked up on the profound bond they shared. You fell in with them easily, but there was always something untouchable surrounding them. Stars that could never truly be grasped, only gazed upon in hopes of one day having something so beautifully impenetrable. You were then shocked to find out that Hoseok was the one sharing a space with Jimin rather than Taehyung whose apartment was blocks away.

It didn’t stop him from popping up at all hours and staying for as long as he pleased. He would crash on Jimin’s couch, a blanket and pillow always nestled off to the side for just such an occasion. So it came as a surprise to you when you received a knock on your door nearing midnight all those weeks ago.

You weren’t sure who you were expecting but it certainly wasn’t Taehyung, bags under his eyes and a frown tugging at the corners of his lips. He asked if he could stay and you showed him to your extra room, the door closing in your face before you could investigate any further.

You’d texted Jimin, sure that Taehyung was meant to stay there and the two must have had a petty fight, but Jimin simply told you that he didn’t know what Taehyung’s problem was. Taehyung’s visits have been scarce since then and even when he did stop by Jimin was nowhere in sight. Jimin on the other hand came knocking at your door the next day to surprise you with his vibrant pink hair. You’d nearly choked on your tea when you saw him, fearing he was going through a quarter life crisis.

“It’s fine, I’m just trying something new. I’m tired of the same old thing,” He’d explained to you when you dragged him to your bathroom ready to attempt to fix his head. After he continued to spew about all of the colors he wanted to try, simply ignoring you when you asked what Taehyung thought of this, you decided to leave him be.

“Do you like it?”

“Hm?”

“The color, I assume that’s what you were looking at.” He heads to the kitchen, sights set on your stocked fridge.

“Yeah, I think it’s actually very nice. But you know if you dye your hair so close together you’re gonna fry your scalp.” He chucks a water bottle in your direction and you gladly accept it. You press the bottle to your forehead, sighing at the refreshing contrast in temperature. The ice cold condensation drips down the sides of the plastic feeling like heaven against your sweaty skin.

“I didn’t know you were a hair stylist, why the hell am I paying someone to do this for me?”

“I don’t know, because you could just do it yourself.” You take a long satisfying sip, watching Jimin run his fingers through his hair. You’d think he was just fascinated by the new coloring if you didn’t know him so well, but you do and the stress induced habit is readily recognizable. The cling of the rings decorating his hand draws your eyes from him, though your curiosity remains.

“Nah, I’d fuck it up. You on the other hand, are a true artist and I would be lucky to have your hands grace my scalp.” Jimin bows his head, his hands pressed together before him.

“Oh? I thought my hands were gross and dirty from all of that army crawling.”

“Oh yeah, you definitely need a shower. You do that and I will order us some food while also continuing to raid your fridge.” You send your eyes rolling but don’t disagree, sending him one last look before you head back to rid yourself of your muddied clothes.

The smile that Jimin sends you is almost genuine.

“I don’t see why you don’t just come over here and tell him yourself.” The door to your apartment slams, bags swaying along with your unsteady stride. The phone cradled to your ear, sticking to sweat coated skin. You nearly collapse against the kitchen floor, the cool of the counters a welcome relief from the unrelenting heat of summer.

“I can’t.”

“And why is that?” You challenge, the sigh coming from the other end rivaling the gentle breeze of the air conditioning. “Tae, I know that there’s something going on here and I refuse to be your messenger when you won’t tell me what it is.”

Your arms push against cool granite, forcing your weight to your feet for fear of the ice cream resting against the counter melting after time spent in the sun. Finger pushing against your phone, you slide it against the tabletop as Tae’s voice flows from the speaker.

“There’s nothing going on, I’ve just been busy.”

“That’s not what Jimin said,” The line goes silent, your lip quirking at your white lie. You wait with baited breath, Tae’s words coming beats later and shades away from his earlier tone.

“What did Jimin say?” He’s painted with worry and a hint of something you can’t quite grasp. His reaction isn’t quite what you were expecting, the pregnant pause cluing you in on the severity of the new normal between your closest friends, “Y/n?”

“Do you know he’s been dying his hair?” You steer the conversation away, the potential topic you had been prodding at now seeming too raw for a phone conversation.

“What?”

“Yeah, he’s like trying out the entire rainbow on his head. He’s currently sporting blue, which is actually very nice and it’s certainly not fair how he can make everything work, but I don’t know what’s up with him.”

“Uh....no i didn’t know that. We haven’t really had much of a chance to talk lately.”

“Hm, I’ll send you pics. Anyways, I’m telling you now that you’re coming to the next movie night. I need to see all of my boys, plus I need a buffer in case this Min Yoongi is actually a killer.” You muse emptying all of your groceries onto the counter. Per Jimin’s request you’re stopping over at his place later to meet Yoongi and you refuse to go empty handed. You eye the ingredients before you, hoping that making cookies is as easy as molding clay.

“He’s not a serial killer.”

“If you say so,” Your eyes scan the length of the recipe in front of you, hand reaching for your newly purchased bag of chocolate chips, breaking the seal. A handful is shoved past eager lips, “Hey, what do you call chocolate chip cookies without the chocolate chips?”

“Iーwhat?”

“Cause that’s what I’m gonna be baking if my taste buds have anything to say.”

“I don’t know, just cookies I guess?” From your lips falls a hum, thoughts focused on the melt of the chocolate when your fingers retreat once more into the bag. “I gotta go.”

“Yah, see you, love you, bye!” Taehyung manages before the click of the line.

You trot over to the sink, the chocolate coating your fingers already grossly sticking together. Your tongue runs against the roof of your mouth and over chip covered teeth, savoring the taste whilst your hands rinse clean. Despite the craving biting at your buds you seal the bag of chocolate, shoving it into the freezer in hopes the chips will retain their shape in time to mix in with the dough.

“Okay, now letsー” Three sharp taps against the door halt the roll of your shirt, your sleeves now uneven in appearance. “Let’s answer that I guess.”

You move to the door, knowing that it must be someone other than Jimin, his manners null when he pounds his fist incessantly against the wood demanding entrance. Your reluctance to provide him with a key is out of pure spite, the natural pout of his lips always a source of amusement. You pull the door, the trick hinge catching for the briefest moment before you’re met with a figure of unfamiliarity.

“Hello...can I help you?” Your smile is polite, though your eyes are not shy when they wander the form of the man before you. His hair is covered with a snapback, the blonde peeking out from the edges and his brows are highlighted by their contrasting darkness in color. He wears a t-shirt of white and black skinny jeans, worn converse attached to his feet. When your eyes slide back to his, the apples of his cheeks are coated in a faint blush.

“Um, do you happen to know Park Jimin?”

“Sadly, yes. What did he do?” Your shoulder drags against the frame of the door, head cocked in exasperation. The man shrugs, lip quirking upwards and his hand rubbing against the base of his neck.

“Well...nothing. I’m Min Yoongi, I don’t know if he told you, but I’m moving in today.” He shifts on his feet, the plains of his chest stretching the material of his shirt enough to display his pecks.

“Hmm, so you’re the suspected killer then…”

“Excuse me?”

“...yeah he told me about you,” You cover with a half convincing cough. “I’m Y/n, it’s nice to meet you.”

Your hand extends, the long fingers of Min Yoongi clasping yours, warmth enveloping the skin. You don’t miss the slight rough of his palms, no doubt the buildup of callouses from...whatever it is he does. He pulls away following a brief shake, the two of you falling to relative silence once again.

“Was there something you needed help with?” You prompt when any sign of his stepping forth remains absent.

“Oh, sorry,” There goes that blush again. Cute. “Jimin isn’t home and he isn’t answering his phone. He hasn’t given me a key yet so I was hoping you’d know where he is?”

��Ah, I can’t say I do,” You watch the fall of his features, any qualms that you had upon opening the door momentarily dissipating. “But I can sure as hell try to find out. You wanna come in?”

Yoongi looks unsure, whether it be for fear of imposing or, perhaps, his own suspicions of impending murder you aren’t sure. Though after what feels an eternity of contemplation, and what only serves in reality a few seconds, he nods. He steps through the threshold, the moment feeling altogether symbolic, your initial fears holding no bearing over your desire to help Yoongi in his time of need.

Your feet guide to the kitchen, legs almost tripping under the watchful stare of a curious stranger. You almost chuckle at the absurdity of your physical anxiety, not fooled into believing it’s lingering fear, but aware that you're not blind to the attractive man following in your wake.

You waste no time scooping your discarded cell, dialing Jimin and shoving the device to your ear. You glance to Yoongi with a strained grin, the tap of your foot audible against glinting tile. You wince at the automated beep, Jimin’s voicemail reciting in your ear.

“Jimin! You wonderful, wonderful man...you sent me to voicemail. Well, in case it somehow slipped your mind your new roommate is here and you’re not! He’s currently sitting in my kitchen, so if he does happen to be here to kill me he’ll succeed because I am very sore today and there’s no way I can take him!”

Your voice falls to a ramble, no mind paid to Yoongi who watches with raised brows, shifting in discomfort. You hang up the phone, all smiles when your eyes once again meet your new neighbor.

“Well, he didn’t answer so I’m not really sure where he is.” You summarize, well aware of the odd look bestowed from the opposite side of the counter.

“Ah, well I could just come back later…” He’s already risen halfway, stool wobbling under the shift in weight.

“No, you don’t have to go!” You cringe, tone eager and hands extended as if reaching for Yoongi. You immediately dial back, busying with the meaningless movement of empty bowls and fresh ingredients. “Sorry, I just mean, there’s no point in you leaving when Jimin could be back any minute. You’re free to hang out here until he shows up, I promise I don’t bite.”

You’re sure he’ll say no, nothing thus far indicating the potential for fast friends. A ridiculous notion, you note, as your conversation consisted of nothing but a helpful hand and hurried introductions. Yoongi must feel a tad awkward and under prepared to have met you without much pretense. You’re surprised when he lowers back to the chair, eyes darting to the supplies resting before you.

“Baking something?”

“Oh, I was actually just about to bake cookies for you.” You mutter, hand grabbing for the measuring cup to wave for extra emphasis. “I’m pretty horrifying in the kitchen though, so not really sure how they would’ve turned out.”

“Would’ve?”

“Oh, well I was planning on making them for when we first met but clearly that’s off the table.” You chuckle, though Yoongi rises from his chair, rounding the counter.

“I could help you…” His lessened proximity catches you off guard, and you nearly knock the sugar from the counter. “With the cookies I mean, if you want.”

“You bake?”

“Something like that,” Yoongi chuckles rolling his sleeves. His elbow comes to cheekily nudge yours, gesturing to your still half-rolled appearance. Quickly you comply, watching him saunter over to the sink and wet his hands under the faucet, making sure to work in the suds. You avert at the sudden stop of the water, prodding at the unopened flour.

You follow suit, the short venture to the door and back seeming reason enough to rewash. It serves the perfect distraction from your wildly wandering gaze.

“What kind of cookies are we making?” Yoongi calls you to attention, once again observing the ingredients, “I would guess chocolate chip, but I don’t see any.”

“I put them in the freezer, they got a little gooey on the ride home and I’m hoping they’ll be ready to go in a bit.” You shrug, nursing a kitchen towel to dry your hands. You feel suddenly out of place in your own kitchen, Yoongi’s presence irrevocably demanding as he moves around searching for various items. You suddenly realize he could use your expertise as the owner of said items.

You easily fall into routine, Yoongi guiding you to assistance, sure not to bestow a task too taxing. His faith seems to have dwindled when you mistook sugar for flower despite your hurried, and valid, explanation of paying half attention. What had been difficult was explaining where the other half remained focused.

You aren’t opposed to blunt honesty, but you suppose Jimin would prefer if you kept your candor to a minimum so early on. So you easily complied, the goal of freshly baked goods guiding you to the halfway mark of a twelve minute cook time.

“The cookies will still be all soft and gooey after ten minutes, right? I love to feel like I’m still eating the dough,” You muse, eyes focused on the oven, a cookie’s kiln. You drag your gaze back to Yoongi, his own focus on the painting in the far corner. His head rests at a tilt, eyes widened and mouth ajar.

“Did you paint that?” You take in the aged swirls of purple and blue, the blackened rim sending a jolt down your chilled spine.

“Yeah...a long time ago.” Your response is hushed, an accidental tell that drags Yoongi back to the counter, covered in white. “So about the cookies...gooey?”

“I’m not sure who’s been feeding you half raw cookies, butー”

“I’m here!” Jimin’s shrill cry penetrates the closed door, floating down the hall and to your peeled ears. To the back of your head your eyes roll as your feet lead to the front door, swinging it open. Jimin stands with labored breath, his hands braced against his hips and his hair dangling across his forehead in sweat soaked strands. “I’m here.”

“So you are, and where have you been?” Jimin shoves his way past you, the moment reminiscent of just a few days prior. You whirl around, shoving the door back into place. “And why are you sweating like a pig?”

“It’s hot as shit outside,” The words are dismissive, Jimin brushing a hand to his forehead, sweeping hair back to perfection. He straightens his posture, breath finally evened, “Did Yoongi say he was coming back later?”

“No, he’s in the kitchen. I told him he could just wait it out here.”

“Really? You let a potential killer into your home and I’m the crazy one?” You shove him forward, stepping past to make your way back to where Yoongi waits. He’s pulling the tray of cookies from the oven when you arrive, eyeing the baked goods as if he can see through them.

“Look who finally showed up,” You joke, falling back as Jimin steps into the room.

“Sorry about that, I got caught up and completely lost track of time.” Jimin hurriedly explains, hand showing to his front pocket to produce his keys. He clumsily removes one, handing it over to Yoongi, the freshly pressed metal a contrast to the light rust of the rest.

“Thanks, it’s no problem Jimin-ah, it was a nice chance to get to know my new neighbor.” Yoongi sends you a smile, amicable enough given the little time you’ve spent. He then turns back to the cookies with a satisfied click of his tongue. “I don’t know if they’re gooey enough, but they’re definitely finished.”

“You made him make you cookies?” Jimin expresses in exasperation, his tone not keeping him from his gentle steps forward as Yoongi transfers the treats to a cooling rack.

“I didn’t make him do anything! He offered to help and I so gratefully accepted,” You scoff, sneaking a hand to a cookie only to receive a light tap from Yoongi’s free one. Your lips pull to a pout, the delectable scent leaving you to salivate with want. Instead you turn to the fridge, offering Jimin a bottle of water. He downs the contents in no time, his still damp skin glistening like the ocean in the sun under the light shining through the open window.

“I was glad to do it, I mean, the gesture was enough, but I’d like my cookies to be edible.” Yoongi pulls the oven mit that still rests over his hand and tosses it to the side. He turns to Jimin gesturing toward the exit, “I think I should probably move in soon. Don’t wanna bother the new neighbors with unnecessary noise, plus I have a meeting early tomorrow.”

“Oh, yeah sure! Hoseok is on his way to help and he might be bringing Jin.” Jimin mutters, tossing his bottle into the bin. You push off to the side with the intent to clean the substantial mess coating the counter. You wager how much more of a mess it would have been had Yoongi not knocked at the perfect time. “We’ll see you later, Y/n.”

“You should take your cookies,” You call when the two look ready to split. Yoongi turns with a half smile.

“You keep ‘em, think of it as my present to you.” You’re prepared to tell him that isn’t how it works, but he’s already rounded the corner, Jimin sending you a knowing look before he does the same.

Despite the little time allowed for cooling you pull a cookie from the tray, wincing at the slight burn, and take a bite. Immediately you’re moaning in satisfaction, a smile upon your lips when you realize that they’re just perfectly under baked.

“How’s the new neighbor?” Namjoon wonders, hand absently tracing the edges of his notebook. His glasses push against the bridge of his nose, his concentration on the page before him long gone since your entrance.

“He’s fine...nice,” You chirp, gathering your own notebook and pencils ready for sketching. Though you’re wholly focused on the task before you, it’s difficult to ignore the gaze burning through you. “What?”

“Fine? Nice? Could you give me a little more? Last I heard you were worried about the guy and now you have nothing to say. I think I deserve a little explanation.” Namjoon urges, pen tapping against the expanse of the wooden table, his mug, half filled, light clinking against its dish.

You’re no fool, his act of procrastination not lost on you, but you think it’ll be good to voice your thoughts and opinions. You haven’t actually spoken to Yoongi since that first day, but you’re still holding onto that unfamiliar feeling that unknowingly crawled into your chest and set up camp.

“I don’t really know him, but he seems nice enough. He baked me cookies,” You smile at the thought, half of the batch unhealthily consumed that very night. You begin to doodle absentmindedly, your goal lost in a cloud of undecipherable emotions. “I don’t know what it is, but I can’t stop thinking about him, it’s actually kind of crazy.”

“I’m inclined to agree,” Namjoon huffs, sipping what’s left of his drink. He watches the steady movement of your hand, gliding back and forth without care, lines and edges mixing perfectly. “I hope this isn’t some adolescent love at first sight kind of thing. Those never end well.”

“Love at first sight sounds so juvenile,” You groan, nearly smudging a heavy line of lead. “It’s more like an unexplored attraction.”

“You’ve met him once,” Namjoon deadpans, his pen falling back into his grip.

“And it was nice, there wasn’t much substance, but it felt like there could be.” You ignore the outlandish look being sent your way, continuing on with your spontaneous drawing. Instead you redirect the conversation, mood not ripe for being scrutinized by your supposed friend. You know that his words hold some truth, but it’s been a while since you’ve allowed yourself to accept your feelings so openly.

“Are you coming to movie night? Yes, of course you are, I don’t know why I asked.” You answer your own question, Namjoon’s mouth left to flounder like a fish. “Everyone’s gonna be there, you’ll finally have the chance to meet Yoongi and have all of your questions answered.”

“Of course I’ll be there, why is this the first I’m hearing of it?” He seems offended, your hands coming to rest at the edge of the table.

“Oh, I’m sorry, but your whole ‘don’t bother me when I’m in the middle of a breakthrough’ rule kind of limited my window. Plus, I’m not even sure when it’ll be yet.”

“Fair enough. Is Taehyung coming?”

“Of course Taehyung is coming, why wouldn’t he come?” Your mind has momentarily decided to block the memory of your possibly feuding friends, the thought that Taehyung wouldn’t come never even crossing your mind. You almost reach for your phone, half a mind to dial him right then, but the potential of his response is low.

“Aren’t you the one convinced that he and Jimin are on the fritz?”

“On the fritz? What are you, eighty?” You tease, nudging at Namjoon’s calf underneath the table. His ears tint slightly and he takes to rolling his pen along the table top. You chuckle, clasping the top of his hand with your own, “I’m kidding, but yes, they’re still not really speaking. I’ll just stop by to see Taehyung later, force him to come and maybe get a little more out of him.”

“Ah yes, your powers of persuasion.” He chuckles chasing the sound with a sudden groan, his hands coming to encase his head.

“What’s up?”

“This story, I’ve got nothing, which means that I’ve got nothing for you to illustrate.” He removes his glasses, the frames falling to the table. “I thought when I came to you with this idea that things would just fall into place. I can barely formulate a coherent sentence, let alone a whole novel.”

“Hey, you’ll get there. What is it that people say, Rome wasn’t built in a day? It’s a little obvious, but true nonetheless.” You encourage, a small smile already playing on Namjoon’s lips, “We aren’t in a rush, we want to enjoy the process, not feel like we’re being pushed to the finish line.”

“I know you’re right, but that doesn’t make it any less frustrating.” He sighs, head shaking at his frustration. “You should go ahead and head out, I don’t really think I’m gonna need much on your end today.”

You glance down at your sketch, a mess of lines and shapes that somehow appeared pleasing to the eye. You offer one more glance in Namjoon’s direction, his own eyes on your page.

“It’s nice, I think maybe you should add a little color to it.”

It’s only seconds before Taehyung is letting you into his apartment, his hair slightly damp letting you know he’s just showered. Your trip to his place follows a two hour session, your mood substantially brightened, only adding to your delighted mood from earlier. You follow Taehyung to the living room, plopping onto the sofa with a relieved sigh. The cool leather squishes beneath your thighs, a feeling as close as you’ll get to diving into a pool.

“What’s up?” Taehyung asks, legs lifting to rest against the coffee table. He seems altogether different from that day he’d knocked on your door seeking refuge. As a matter of fact, he seems unbothered, like there’s nothing plaguing him as of late. He finds himself flipping through various channels on the television, paying no mind to your lack of response as you stare into the side of his head.

“You’re coming to movie night, right?”

“Huh?”

“Movie night, we’re having one. Are you coming still? We talked the other day, but I just wanna make sure.” You explain, eyes falling to the screen, the channel stopped on some news station. You know Taehyung is thinking on your words rather than listening to the evening weather report, your lip falling between your teeth.

“I don’t know…”

“Why not?”

“Jimin and I haven’t really talked lately and I just think it’d be weird.” He shrugs, his outward demeanor showing lack of impact, though you know that inside he’s wrestling with his own words. The two of them haven’t seriously fought since you’ve known them and it’s clear that whatever the issue is it’s eating at both of them.

“And why is that?” You once again try your hand, tired of having to dance around the topic. Taehyung shifts, his hand clenching around the remote to match the movement of his jaw. “You two are apparently having this huge thing and not speaking to each other and I’m just standing here wondering what could possibly be so terrible that you’re shutting out your best friend.”

“Just drop it, Y/n.” You ignore his dismissal, determined to get him to open up.

“Tae, you need to talk about this! If not with Jimin then you could at least confide in me, let me try to help. I’m so tired of having to work around the two of you just so we can hang out! Besides, your friend is now living with him, don’t you think it would be weird if you didn’t show up to movie night or come around ever?”

“I can make plans with Yoongi here.”

You groan at Taehyung’s inability to see your point of view, the ever growing tear between him and Jimin seeming so fragile from where you’re standing.

“Taehyung, I justー”

“Let it go, Y/n! It’s none of your business and I’m a little sick of you trying to worm your way into the middle of things,” You start at Tae’s sudden outburst, his anger lifting him from his position on the couch. He cards a hand roughly through his hair, heaving in anger. You slightly cower when his attention once again settles on you, “You know, I actually find it pretty damn ironic that you think you’ve got some magical powers to fix this.”

“What do you mean,” You manage, voice a low mumble.

“You know what I mean,” He chuckles, a sound lacking his usual glee. “If Jimin and I hadn’t knocked on your door two years ago you’d still be sitting alone in your apartment nursing half finished paintings and crusted piles of dirt. So please don’t sit here like you know anything about what’s happening and maybe learn how to handle your own problems before you get in the middle of mine.”

You sit, stunned by his sudden words. The sharpness of his tone stabs through your heart, a fragile ecosystem only just beginning to embrace recovery. Taehyung seems to realize his words, the unshed tears threatening your ducts bring your hand to subconsciously swipe at your dry cheeks.

“Y/n Iー”

“Heyo!” You jump at the intrusion of a third party, twisting to see who must be Taehyung’s new roommate walking in. He handles a bag of takeout, the scent, something that would normally have you ready to pounce on this unfamiliar character, but right now it fuels your sudden need to vomit. The pounding in your ears accompanies the rapid beat of your heart as you stand. “Oh, hi. Sorry, I didn’t know you were having company. I bought extra if you’re interested.”

“No no, I just came to remind Tae about the movie night I’m having in the near future. You’re invited of course, I wanna get to know my friends’ new roommates. I’m Y/n by the way, you must be Jeongguk.” You extend your hand ignoring the feeling of Taehyung still watching you, gaze remorseful.

“Oh yeah, Taehyung’s mentioned you. You’re an artist, right? I’d love to see your stuff sometime.” Jeongguk is quick to deposit the bags, eagerly gripping your hand in his own, his smile enough to pull one with actual meaning from yourself. “Like I said, you’re welcome to join us if you want.”

“No thank you, I’ve gotta get going, but I’ll see you two soon?”

“Wouldn’t miss it!” Jeongguk responds, letting your hand fall to your side. You offer Taehyung one last nod of acknowledgement, your eyes barely resting on his for a second before you make your escape.

Upon collapse into the front seat of your car, you wait for the arrival of a sob or a stray tear, but find nothing and that’s what truly pains you. It’s almost as if Taehyung’s words triggered a numbness within you, the factual nature behind his verbal assault enough to leave you in a spiral. You force your key into the ignition, hands braced against the wheel.

Your mind is a confusing loop of everything and nothing, no clear focus to ground you to the moving vehicle. You were unprepared for the sudden events and now you feel the urge to cry and empty the little content that rolls around inside of you, but you do none of that when you finally step into your home.

The lights remain off, the dim of the place somehow a comfort in the midst of your emotional turmoil. You toss your keys, the clatter of your lucky throw to the table only slightly startling you. You begin your trek to your bedroom, stopping momentarily to eye the painting that Yoongi had been caught on the other day.

A begonia, blues and purples bursting from the cursed flower like spilled ink. Your fingers come to brush the frame of the canvas, wrapping around with the intent to remove. Something stops you, internal refrain pulling your lead-like limbs back to task.

You fall to your bed with a thud, hands resting against your stomach, eyes trained on the ceiling. You note the ping of your phone, the vibration from nearby seeming a great distance from your current state.

There’s a tugging in your brain, like muscles yanking tangled vines, an annoyance that makes little sense, but still remains constant. You wish the effect of words were like the saying, your physicality all but unharmed unlike your bruised psyche.

You have half a mind to ignore the sound just outside of your door, unsure who could be in need of your presence. A small portion of you imagines it’s Taehyung, equipped with a half meaningful apology, but your limbs are too tired to satisfy your curiosity.

“Y/n, you home?” You shoot forward at the sound of Yoongi’s voice, faint through the edges and corners through which it travels, but still recognizable. You find yourself hurrying to the door, the desire to see Yoongi somehow working past your dormant state. You answer just in time, his heel in a half turned state, as if he was prepared to step away. “Ah, I thought I heard you come home...not that I was listening for you.”

“Hmm, shame,” You find yourself joking, even with the lack of enthusiasm in your tone. Yoongi seems to sense your demeanor, his brows scrunching in question.

“Are you okay? I can come back if this is a bad time.”

“No, it’s fine. As good a time as any. Did you need something?”

Yoongi seems to falter a little, as if he’s suddenly nervous about his impromptu visit. Your hands raps against the cool of the doorknob, the other bracing against the wood doorframe. You wait patiently, watching as Yoongi seemingly tries to find the correct words.

He’s different from the first time you met him. His posture is more comfortable, he exudes the confidence radiating from his very impressive outfit, though as he inhales through his teeth you wonder if you’d gotten it wrong.

“Do you wanna go out with me? I mean, go out somewhere with me, not go out, we barely know each other.” You both fall to awkward chuckles, your own thoughts not sure whether to soar or fall at the misstep in his words. Your force away the desire to over analyze, remembering the words spoken to you not an hour prior. “I wanna show you something.”

“Then show me something.”

When Yoongi dragged you from the building, leading you to his car you hadn’t expected him to drive into the city. You don’t often frequent the hustle and bustle, but you don’t miss a chance to appreciate it when you do. The lights of buildings and the various shapes and designs draw you in. It’s flashy and busy, completely gobbling up the stars that you’re used to twinkling above.

“I always forget how beautiful the city can be at night.” You muse aloud, head resting against the side of the car.

Yoongi paints a faint smile with his lips, eyes focused on the road whilst you remain entranced by the passing scenery. Though it’s not unusual you’re surprised by the number of people still out and about. It makes you want to blend with the crowd even with the knowledge that your chest would be pounding with each step.

“So, where is it that you’re taking me?” You ask, for what must be far too many times not to cause Yoongi annoyance, but he only chuckles at your enthusiasm.

“Here.” He pulls to a stop in front of a building lining the street with dozens of others, though this one doesn’t hold the same life, no lights or people decorating the interior. You glance at the sign in curiosity.

“Gochyeo Goshi,” You say to yourself before turning to Yoongi. “It’s closed.”

“Yeah, it’s not ready yet. We’re hoping to open the doors by next month.”

“Oh, I completely spaced! You and Jeongguk are opening a restaurant, that’s amazing.” You squeal, your hand grabbing Yoongi’s in your excited stupor. You unbuckle, hopping out of the car. You’re eager to see the inside, what it will look like when people are packed from wall to wall.

Yoongi follows your lead, though you notice a slow to his step, his nervous energy from earlier returning full force. You think it’s endearing, the way he becomes so bashful when it comes to his accomplishments. You recall when he neglected to speak on his cooking prowess when he insisted on helping you bake.

“It’s a little unimpressive right now, we’ve been busy working on the more logistical side of things…” He hastily explains, sifting through his keys to find the right one.

“I’m sure it’s great, the fact that you guys are even doing this is already impressive.”

He clumsily slides the key in, pushing the door open for you to enter. Your gait is slow, excited to see the space that Yoongi and Jeongguk were able to call their own. You and Namjoon have been toying with the idea of acquiring your own space for a few years and knowing someone who’s done it gives you more drive to follow through.

Yoongi steps in behind you, hurrying to find a light switch for fear of you tripping over an ill timed chair. When he does, the overheads flood the building, the bare white walls and the low beamed ceiling simple, but still drawing the place together nicely. The dining area is just the perfect size for a medium crowd, decorated just enough to get a feel for the vibe they’re going for.

“I love it,” You turn to Yoongi, your toothy smile on full display to match his own gummy grin. “What made you guys want to open a restaurant together?”

Yoongi makes his way to one of the tables, taking a seat. You follow suit, still eyeing the space, but focused on Yoongi’s words just the same.

“Well, I’ve loved lamb skewers for as long as I can remember and I introduced them to Jeongguk when we were younger. He was the only one that always wanted to go with me, so it became our thing.” He explains, a fond look in his faraway eyes. “We started talking about what it’d be like to open our own restaurant and here we are.”

“Wow, I guess dreams really do spark reality.” The two of you lock gazes, your eyes drinking his in like a woman dehydrated. “You have really nice eyes.”

“Oh...thanks,” Yoongi ducks his head, a faint blush creeping to his cheeks. “You have a really nice smile.”

“You know, you don’t have to pay a compliment with a compliment.” You tease, embarrassing him even more. “I’m telling you because I like you, not because I want you to pay it forward.”

You hope he’s able to grasp the deeper meaning behind your words, a part of you begging to elaborate, but the other part knowing that it’d probably scare him off. Yoongi clears his throat, shifting under your gaze.

“The reason I called you here actually,” His tone shifts to something more serious given the environment. You internally sigh, the moment clearly past without much success in your attempt at half confession. “Jimin told me that you’re an artist and I remember that painting I saw at your place.”

“Yeah, I like to think I’m pretty good.”

“Well, I’m sure you’ve noticed that this place could stand for some decoration,” He gestures to the walls, the plain white nothing to draw an ordinary gaze. “I was hoping that you’d be interested in painting a mural for me, well Jeongguk and I.”

“Me?”

“Yeah, you’re very good and we’d be happy to have you do it. That is, if you want. We’ll pay you of course and you can set your own hours just as long as it’s finished in time for opening.” Yoongi hurriedly fills in, stumbling over words as you watch him with widened eyes.

You find it hard to hide your surprise, the thought of Yoongi asking you to do something so important absolutely astounding.

“I mean, I’d love to do it, but are you sure?”

“Positive. So, are you in?”

“Absolutely, you just made a very bad night a whole lot better. Now, do you happen to have actual food here yet? Because I am actually very hungry and I’m surprised you haven’t heard my stomach growling.” You clutch your midsection, the emptiness within gnawing away at you.

“Oh I heard it, I just thought it would be better not to say anything.” You shove at his arm with a scoff.

“Ow, sorry! I don’t have food here, but there’s this really amazing takeout place just around the corner.”

“Lead the way.”

“I don’t understand why I have to come.” Jimin whines from the front seat, sipping on his drink in feigned annoyance.

This morning when you’d awoken, eager to get started on your new project you exited your apartment to find Jimin about to enter his, grocery bag in hand. You were able to intercept it before he could get away, extracting a brand new dye kit and staring down a sheepish Jimin.

“You can’t keep dying your hair Jimin, there’s no way this is healthy!” You exclaim, your eyes darting over to him before your focus falls back to the road. He only grumbles, no reason for argument as you’ve already confiscated his purchase. “I’m just saying, I like the blue and you should keep it going a bit longer before you bleach your scalp to pieces.”

“That’s not a thing.”

“It is if I say it is,” You counter, tongue poking in his direction. “Besides, don’t you think it would do you some good to hang out with me?”

“You specifically?” You hum and Jimin grips the point of his chin in silent contemplation, “No, not really.”

You choose to ignore his comment, focus on pulling into the nearest available parking spot.

“What do you think of Yoongi?”

Jimin is hopping out of the car before you’ve had the chance to come to a complete stop, his sights already set on the entrance.

“Yoongi? I mean, he’s my friend, my roommate...he’s a cool guy. I’m not sure what you’re asking,” Jimin leans against the hood of the car, immediately pulling back at the burn of his skin. A sigh escapes you, arms folding over your chest.

“I don’t know...I just…”

“Wait…” Jimin trails, scanning you with suspicion. “Do you like Yoongi?”

You don’t respond and that's enough for Jimin. He chuckles at your avoidance of his gaze, feet shifting against the pavement.

“Shut up.” You mumble, moving to the back of your car, throwing the trunk open.

“Can I be honest here?” He asks, moving closer, tone even. You nod, straightening from where you leaned to the back of your car. “I don’t think you two are really a good fit.”

“Why not?”

“You’re just too different,” He shrugs, feeling that’s enough explanation. You however press him for more, not understanding his quick dismissal of the idea. “It’s like...would you date Namjoon?”

“No!” Is your immediate response, not in a disgusted sort of way, but you can’t see yourself as anything more than friends with him for a number of reasons.

“But you don’t hate Namjoon or think that he’s unattractive, right?”

“Of course not.”

“Well that’s how I see you and Yoongi. You don’t strike me as compatible as anything more than friends, sure he’s handsome and a pretty cool guy, but you just don’t fit.” He finishes, “I’m not saying that I don’t support you in whatever you do, but that’s just my opinion. There are plenty of other guys that would fit you perfectly.”

You nod, no words coming to mind. You hadn’t expected Jimin to be so blunt, a common thread with your friends as of late. He offers a quick pat to the shoulder before turning to the entrance.

“You could at least help me with my things!” You call after him to which he only waves you off with a shrug. You get to work unloading your trunk, sighing at the number of things you have to carry. You inwardly curse your absent friend, reminding yourself to outwardly curse him later.

You’re distracted by a sudden text from Namjoon, who only wonders how things are going, his chain of messages resembling those of a nosey younger sibling. He’s been pestering you about your crush since you filled him in, your recount of the night Yoongi showed up only fueling his tease filled ramblings. You send him a short, sweet reply, sure to include a kindly worded threat about his behavior.

You imagine for a moment if this were Yoongi instead, trying to make sense of Jimin’s perspective.

“Need some help?” You jump, finding Jeongguk waiting just inches from you, hands resting in his pockets. You eye your growing pile and turn back to him with hopeful eyes.

“Would you mind? It seems someone has no interest in helping me out,” You send a glare to where Jimin leans against the door. He shoots you a wink and you return it with an unkind gesture to which he only cackles.

“Not at all.” Jeongguk responds, already leaning down to collect your first two boxes.

With Jeongguk’s help you’re able to move things inside in no time. You note that there’s already tarp laid out for you and the furniture is pushed from the walls to allow you ample space.

“Have any idea what you wanna do?” Jeongguk asks from just over your shoulder. You eye the blank space before turning to him.

“Oh, I figured the two of you might have something in mind. I don’t wanna take over completely, it is your restaurant.”

“But it’s your mural. We trust you to make the right decision,” He assures you. You nod, turning back to your canvas.

“I see you’re already hard at work,” You spot Yoongi walking through the door, a box of donuts perched in one hand. You smile, very aware of Jimin’s eyes following your movements. “I assume Jeongguk filled you in on everything? Have any ideas on your big masterpiece?”

“Well...I was thinking, this place is in the midst of this city, the streets almost always filled with people, it can get crazy. Some people want nothing more than to be someone in the crowd, but they’d also just rather be somewhere cozy and without the stress of all the people and the lights.”

“I’m following,” Jimin cuts in, his hands collapsed before him as if his opinion is life or death. You toss an empty water cup his way hitting your mark with a resounding thud.

“As I was saying, I want to paint something that will make people feel like they belong here while also feeling like they’re out there,” Your hand comes to point in the direction of the front window, people rushing by as if to further prove your point. “A still city, something that still holds the absolute beauty of the exhilarating rush, while allowing those who enjoy it to take a breath and just relax while they enjoy some delicious skewers.”

You finish your small presentation, watching both of your new employers’ faces alight with enthusiasm.

“I love it,” Jeongguk is first to say, his eyes roaming the walls as if he can already picture the ornate design. You both turn to Yoongi, his expression a little less telling though he still allows a smirk to plant against his features. You wait, hopeful of his impending response, this somehow feeling worlds apart from Jeongguk’s readied approval.

“Me too.”

You spend the coming weeks working on various projects, your days spent at the restaurant only motivating you more in your venture with Namjoon. He doesn’t fully understand your fit of passion but he appreciates it all the same.

You spend your days furthering your mural and nights with Namjoon when his schedule allows. The two of you brainstorm and make rough drafts, the work feeling like mountains of progress even if half of your ideas seem less constructive in the light of day.

Most days you spend in relative silence save for the tunes you play in the background the more than occasional burst into song keeping you from getting too caught up. Jeongguk filters in more often than not, happy to keep you company. You’ve gotten to know him quite well, his eagerness to express his passions meshing well with your lack of desire to vocalize your own.

It’s rare that Yoongi is seen walking through the doors, the days that he does serving as an extra reward for your hard work. He usually only stops for a quick check-in, but today he finds himself pulling a chair. You send him a smile, sure to pull your brush from the wall for fear of an accidental stroke.

“Hi,” You hum, noting the slight slump in his posture. “Everything alright?”

“I’m fine, are you alright?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” You ask, tone soaked in confusion. He shrugs, sitting back in his chair, pinky lifting to scratch just beneath his blonde fringe.

“You never told me what was wrong.”

“Hm?”

“The night I asked you to do this. You were clearly upset about something, but you never told me what it was. Come to think of it, you don’t really share much about yourself at all.” You seem to shrink in on yourself at his words, the accusation too heavy for you to ignore.

“I mean, you can ask me whatever you want, but there’s not really much to tell. I don’t like talking much about me,” The truth, or half at least, but enough to keep him at bay.

“Why’s that?”

“Why does it matter all of a sudden?” Your tone is defensive, his words dragging it out of you.

“I’m just trying to figure you out. All I know about you so far as that you’re not a very good cook and you’re good at making art.”

“That’s all you need to know,” You counter with a growl. “Do you mind if I get back to this? Your opening is coming up soon and I’d like it if I wasn’t scrambling last minute.”

“No one’s stopping you,” He waves you forward. With a sigh you turn back to the wall, brush making a few new strokes against steadily drying paint before you stop once again.

“Do you know what hikaru dorodango is?” You ask, setting your brush to the side and finding a seat against the paint stained tarp. Unsurprisingly Yoongi responds with a negative shake of the head, his hands coming to clasp before him. “It’s basically turning mud into marble. It can take anywhere from a few days to a few weeks.”

You pick at paint half-dried to your shirt, silence stretching between you. You aren’t sure if Yoongi is processing or if he just finds no interest in your words, refusing to look up at him.

“It was the first form of art that I felt like I was really amazing at,” You chuckle, memories of millions of failed attempts come to mind, leading to your first success. “I never really had many friends growing up, I preferred it that way because it always seemed so much more difficult for me to open up to people, so I was always the odd one out.”

Yoongi still doesn’t speak, but you chance a glance to find that he’s listening with all of his attention. His posture has him leaning on his bouncing legs, eyes focused in a squint.

“The point is, like me, dorodango takes time. It’s always been hard for me to completely let people in, but that doesn’t mean I never will. You just have to be willing to take a chance on me.” You finish with a sigh.

You wait, stuck on an inhale, as Yoongi mulls over his response. You’re surprised at yourself for your surprising admission, taking over a month to even tell Taehyung and Jimin your favorite movie.

“Fair enough,” He finally says. “We’ve known each other for close to a month, do you think I’ve earned at least one fact?”

“I think I just served you a pretty big one, but I think maybe I can outdo myself.” You say the words before you can really think over what you’re about to do. The words of both Jimin and Namjoon ring in your head and you’re sure Taehyung would say much the same. You haven’t known Yoongi for terribly long, but you know that if you wait any longer you’ll psych yourself out.

“Do your worst.”

“I like you...a lot.” He’s visibly taken aback by your words, his eyes widening and his hands fidgeting in his lap. “It’s kind of crazy but I’ve liked you since the moment that I met you, of course then it was just blind attraction, but since I’ve gotten to know you I realize that I’m really interested in you.”

“I…” Yoongi clears his throat, trying to find words, mouth opening and closing more times than you can count.

“I know it probably seems so ridiculous, I mean, I said the words and I can barely wrap my head around it. But if you just give us a chance, I thinkー”

“No.” He cuts through your words, head shaking adamantly, “Don’t take this the wrong way, but you’re not really my type.” It’s your turn to be shocked by his words. Of all of the things that could’ve come from his mouth you hadn’t expected that.

“I’m not...your type? What does that even mean?”

“It means that I really like you as a friend, but I can’t really see us as anything more.” Fine, you think, you can respect that. “You can be overbearing and nosy yet in that same breath you lack self-confidence. You’re so afraid to bother people with your problems that you try to fight your way into theirs just to make yourself feel better.”

You realize where all of this is coming from. Since Yoongi stepped foot through those doors he’s been working under the knowledge of Taehyung. You aren’t surprised that Tae told someone, though it certainly wouldn’t be Jimin, the two still not on good terms. Why wouldn’t he tell Yoongi?

“So, you waltz in here and tell me that I’m almost a stranger to you, but now you suddenly know me so well? You’re making assumptions based on what you heard from Taehyung who is currently probably very pissed at me.” You argue, the fire beginning to rage inside of your chest causing the squeeze of lengthened nails into calloused palms.

“I know enough, and I’m truly not trying to hurt you, Y/n. I’m trying to tell you that you have your own issues that you need to work out and I’m not equipped to deal with them. Honestly I’m not looking for anything complicated right now and that’s exactly what you are.”

“A complicated problem that needs to be dealt with?”

“That’s not what I meant,” He rises from his chair at the same time you rise from the ground. While his attention remains on you, yours falls to putting away your supplies and making sure to rinse paint from each of your brushes.

“It honestly doesn’t matter, I get the hint and I’m so sorry to have inconvenienced you. But, here’s a tip,” You toss your last brush and whirl around to face him, the two of you closer than you anticipated. You can feel the heat radiating through you, anger consuming you to the point that you can’t even feel whatever attraction you have for him at this moment. He’s just a face, another person telling you everything that’s wrong. “You could’ve just stopped at no thanks.”

You don’t give him the chance to rebuttal, sights set on getting as far away as possible. You feel a slight wetness against your cheek, your hand coming to swipe at the irritating sensation. When you realize it’s the fall of a tear you're only thrown into an even further downward spiral. Angry that of all things this is what gets to you, someone who was never even interested.

“I know this probably isn’t what you wanna hear right now, but you have to get over him.” Namjoon speaks in a hushed tone, your tear stained cheek sticking to the skin of his arm.

You found yourself outside of his apartment soon after you left the restaurant, just needing a shoulder to cry on. He was surprised to see you, knowing that you’re usually routine left you paint stained and focused on your mural. When he saw the tears streaming from your ducts he was quick to usher you inside and has been attempting to soothe you since.

“I know, I don’t even know why I’m crying. It’s not like we were ever dating, according to Yoongi we’re practically perfect strangers.”

“I’m sure he didn’t mean it like that...it was probably just a heat of the moment thing. You did, kind of, spring this on him.”

You scoff, glancing up at Namjoon in betrayal. “I’m sorry, are you not on my side? What was I supposed to do, send him an invitation?”

“Look, I’m not saying that it's right what he said, but it’s fair to say that given the discussion at hand you smacked him with a ball out of left field. The bright side here is that you know that he doesn’t have feelings for you and you can give up this idea that you two are meant to be.” Namjoon explains, doing wonders to stop you from interrupting him, his hand coming to rest over your mouth. You fight the urge to lick his palm, recalling the way he’s spilled glue on himself just before you arrived.

“Stop making it sound like I’m some lovesick puppy, Joon. It just sucks to not even be given a chance, and to be rejected so harshly.” You groan, pulling one of his throw pillows against your chest.

“It’s kind of like that one movie…” He muses, clearly living in his own thoughts, eyes spaced out.

“What movie?”

“You know, the one with the girl and the guy that don’t end up together. It’s got some big life lessons that you don’t learn to respect until you’re older,” He informs you, having more faith in your knowledge than even makes sense.

“I don’t have time for your riddles, can I just sulk in peace?”

“As long as you promise that after you sulk you’ll try to get over him,” Namjoon pokes at your puffed cheeks, only pulling away to wipe your tears onto his shirt. You don’t respond, unsure if what pains is the thought of just moving on or the idea that moving on doesn’t sound so hard.

Something changed in you during your conversation with Yoongi. You feel it’s a number of things, but something has made Yoongi’s rejection seem a lot less detrimental than you previously thought. It begs the question of whether your feelings for Yoongi have already begun to dissipate or if they were truly feelings to begin with.

“Y/n?” Namjoon waves a hand before you, drawing your gaze back to him. “Promise me. I don’t want you falling back into this pattern. I don’t agree with everything that he said, but he was right about one thing. You should take time to heal yourself or find someone who accepts you and has the patience to heal with you.”

“Fine, yeah, I hear you. No more Min Yoongi.”

Colors II

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goldenraeofsun · 4 years

Text

Remember Me, Honeybee

Part I

Two hours into the farmers market, and Dean’s had enough. Even the gorgeous day outside, sunlight streaming down from a cloudless sky, does nothing for him.

Next to him in their produce stall, Sam rearranges their vegetable display with all the intensity of Bobby Fischer facing off against the Soviets. He adjusts an eggplant a few inches to the left, eyes it critically, and moves it back where it was.

Yesterday, Dean got sunburned from too many hours in the sun harvesting. But before he could even think about a shower, a visitor pounded on their door because some neighbor ratted them out to local Fish and Wildlife. So on top of dealing with a peeling forehead and an aching back, Dean had to take care of Ms. Rosen nearly breaking and entering to get at Sam or his watercress - she wasn’t really clear on which was her priority.

Sam, the cowardly sasquatch, bolted the moment her car tires pulled up to their farm.

It took an hour to get Ms. Rosen to leave. First, Dean had to show her Sam’s pet watercress plants at the edge of their property. According to Ms. Rosen, they’re an invasive species, which Sam could’ve mentioned to Dean at some point. Then, Ms. Rosen explained the $150 fine - all the while heavily implying she could dock a few bucks if left alone in a room with Sam.

Dean forked over the money. Sam’s virtue got to live to see another day.

At least Becky gave Dean plenty of blackmail material. If Sam pisses him off one more time, guess who’s getting Sam’s phone number faxed straight to her field office?

Dean was looking forward to sharing the whole story with Cas when they pulled up to the farmer’s market that morning. But his favorite beekeeper, potter, and candlestick maker is notably absent again.

As Hannah steps away from her stall to replenish her display, Dean seizes his chance. “Be right back,” he calls to Sam as he darts out behind their table.

When she catches sight of him, Hannah turns her back to lift a crate of soaps that would’ve left Dean sore for days. Goddamn angel strength.

“I may be a dumb human,” Dean starts, “but even I know that angels don’t get sick.” His voice drips with disdain. “Where’s Cas? The real reason, this time. Not that BS you fed me last week.”

Hannah sighs, her normally refined tawny wings fluttering in barely-concealed agitation. “He’s… indisposed.”

Dean folds his arms over his chest. “Cas has been here, rain or shine, every market for two whole friggin’ years. Is he,” he forces out the words, dread trickling down his spine, “dying or something?”

“No.” Hannah shakes her head. “He’s not mortally ill. He’s just indisposed.”

Dean gawks at her. “What the hell does that mean?”

“You have customers,” Hannah says shortly.

Dean waves off a soccer mom armed with a bushel of kale and a hungry leer. “Sam’s handling the orders.” He points at the line in front of Sam, and the lady walks off in a huff.

“Is that right?” Hannah asks innocently once Dean’s attention darts back to her.

“Cut the crap,” Dean says sharply. “Why hasn’t Cas shown for the past two weeks? The real reason. None of that indisposed bullshit.”

Hannah sighs. “You’re keeping me from my own customers.”

Dean raises his eyebrows. “So you’d better talk fast.”

Hannah makes a face like she smelled Sam’s post-Chipotle farts. “Castiel was cursed.”

“What?”

“Keep it down,” Hannah hisses, leaning in. “He - well, it’s a long story. Our cousin, an archangel, cursed him.”

“For fuck’s sake, why?”

Hannah’s lips purse. “Gabriel has been very hard to contact for the details. He apparently thought Castiel was moping too loudly or too frequently. ”

“Moping?” Dean echoes, his brow furrowing. “Cas always seemed fine to me.”

Hannah shrugs. “Ask Gabriel. Now, if you don’t mind,” she lifts her nose into the air, wings straightening, “I have customers.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean retreats to his vegetable stand, his head swimming.

Dean never saw himself as a farmer until his health nut little brother decided to ditch his high-paying (and stressful) lawyer job to play Green Acres, and Dean, naturally, followed since there was no goddamn way Sam knew his way around a tractor. Sam was more likely to mow down his own gigantor foot than move a clod of dirt. Luckily, to Dean, an engine’s an engine.

At the farmers market, Sam’s booth was placed next to Cas’s. On their first day, Cas walked over with a complimentary jar of honey. He was stilted and awkward, sure, but he was also the first one to welcome them into the fold.

Lost in thoughts and worries about Cas, Dean almost gives a customer a twenty dollar bill instead of a one, blanks on when their summer squash will be in season, and accidentally rings up asparagus as broccoli.

“Look,” Sam says after apologizing for Dean’s latest mistake, “why don’t you head back and check on the tomatoes? It’s winding down here.”

Dean dubiously eyes the hubbub of people browsing vegetables.

Sam gives him a light shove towards their truck. “Just go. I know you don’t want to be here, anyway.”

Dean grimaces. “It’s that obvious?”

“To everyone and their grandmother,” Sam says under his breath.

Asparagus Man at the front of the line nods gravely.

“Thanks,” Dean says sourly to both of them.

“Go check on Cas,” Sam says as he gestures for the next customer to step up to the register. “Swing by and pick me up in a few hours.”

* * *

At the foot of the unpaved driveway up to Cas’s house, Dean cuts the engine. He taps his fingers on the steering wheel, debating with himself. Cas might not want visitors.

But Dean brought pie.

Homemade, of course. And if it was supposed to celebrate Sam’s birthday tomorrow, what Cas doesn’t know won’t hurt him. Sam likes cake better, anyway, because he’s a freak.

Dean grabs the pie, shoves open the door, and strides up the dirt road to Cas’s house before he can talk himself out of it for good.

This is what you do for sick friends, anyway. Charlie drove all the way up to the city with chicken noodle soup, Settlers of Catan, and prime gossip on Benny’s on-and-off-again thing with Andrea when Dean had the flu a few years ago.

Dean is just being a good friend. It’s not weird.

He knocks on Cas’s cobalt blue door, his heart beating double-time behind his ribs as the seconds wear on with no answer.

Dean dawdles on Cas’s welcome mat. He tries again. Cas’s house isn’t exactly small, with its pottery studio in the basement and wax room in the back. Cas might be in his nest, on the can, or in his garden by the hives. Hell, with this mysterious curse, Cas might not be home at all - but stuck in some angel hospital being poked and prodded by docs. He probably should have squeezed Hannah for more details.

The door opens as Dean contemplates, for the hundredth time, bailing with his tail between his legs.

“Hello?” Cas says, peering curiously at Dean.

“Cas,” Dean says, relieved. From one cursory look, Cas seems normal. His hair’s fucked up, of course. His dark wings are equally unkempt, feathers sticking out every which way. All typical Cas.

Cas blinks. His mouth opens, closes, and opens again. But no sound comes out.

“You’re up,” Dean says stupidly. Of course Cas is up, or he wouldn’t have been able to answer the damn door. Dean shifts his weight to his other foot. “Hannah mentioned you’d, uh, been cursed,” he says awkwardly.

Cas relaxes a fraction. “Ah, yes, I was.”

Dean gives Cas another once-over. “I just found out this morning, so I thought I’d stop by. Bring pie." He holds up the pie as evidence. "See how you are. But you look good.”

Cas squints at him, his head tilting. “Thank you?” he asks like he had a half-dozen responses in his head and chose that one at random.

“No prob.”

Cas’s gaze darts down to the pie in Dean’s hands for the first time. “Would you like to come in?”

Dean grins. “Yeah,” he says, stepping inside. “I’ll take this to the kitchen. I’m starving. Do you wanna eat it now?”

Cas gestures him forward. “This way.”

Dean throws him a funny look but follows him to the kitchen he’s been in about a hundred times before - for Cas’s annual Spring Equinox party, for a handful of dinners with other farmers in the area, for water breaks in between weeding Cas’s bee-friendly garden.

Afternoon sunlight from the beautiful day outside streams through the large windows that overlook the back porch and garden. It illuminates the kitchen table, absolutely covered with what looks like all of Cas’s beekeeping books.

Dean clears enough space for pie and strides over to the drawer for the baking utensils, saying over his shoulder, “I hope you’re hungry.”

When Cas doesn’t answer, Dean hastily turns back around - only to find himself practically nose-to-nose with Cas.

Dean takes an instinctive step backwards, his ass smacking the drawer closed again. “Dude,” he says in a strangled voice. His heart pounds in his chest at the close proximity and intense look in Cas’s eye. “We talked about this. Personal space.”

Cas retreats, his brow furrowing. “My apologies,” he mumbles. “I must have misread the situation.”

“I - yeah - I guess,” Dean stutters as he grabs plates and stacks two forks on top.

Cas falls heavily into a seat at the kitchen table. Silently, he moves enough books around for them to sit and eat.

Dean eyes the haphazard piles as he takes his own seat. “D’you have a problem with one of the hives or something?”

Cas shakes his head. “I don’t think so,” he says, his brow furrowing. “But it’s hard to tell.”

Dean snorts as he cuts them both slices. “I thought you knew everything about bees.”

Cas shoots him a dour look. “I did,” he says pointedly.

“Did?”

Cas fusses with a pamphlet on colony collapse. “I’m trying to catch up, but there is a lot of information to learn.”

Dean frowns. “Catch up to what?”

“To where I was,” Cas says, head tilting.

Dean sets the pie server down to focus on Cas, since he’s not making any goddamn sense. “What the hell are you talking about?”

Cas looks at him like Dean’s the one who lost his mind. “I don’t remember how to take care of them.” After a beat, he clarifies, “The bees. I’ve spent the better part of two weeks relearning how to maintain the hives, harvest honey, check if there is enough honey to harvest...” he drifts off, looking more than a little lost.

Dean blinks. “That’s the curse?” He grimaces as he forks off a generous corner of pie. “Dick move on Gabriel’s part. That’s your goddamn livelihood.”

Cas tilts his head, eyes narrowing. “He didn’t just make me forget the bees.”

Dean chews at Cas thoughtfully. “What else? Please tell me you forgot that time with the goat and a hooker.”

Cas stares at him. “I don’t remember anything.”

Dean’s next bite of pie freezes halfway to his mouth. “What do you mean anything?” he demands.

“I didn’t think it needed explaining,” Cas says waspishly, as all the pieces finally fall into place for Dean. “I thought Hannah told you about it.” His feathers rustle against the back of his chair.

“Hannah only said you were cursed!” Dean flails, “Not that you have goddamned amnesia. Do you know what pie is? Do you know who I am?”

Cas blinks, a little taken aback by Dean’s reaction. “I retain my general knowledge. I know what pie is,” he says. “I don’t remember eating it, but I know it is meat or fruit wrapped in pastry.”

“Oh my god.”

Cas’s gaze falls to the uneaten pie in front of him. “And, no, I don’t know who you are.”

Dean blinks, all the blood draining from his face. He forces out, “You’re serious.”

“I’d hardly joke with a stranger,” Cas says frankly.

Dean lets his fork drop back to the plate with a clatter.

Cas peers at him curiously. “The curse erased all my personal memories, but I was assuming we were friends, is this right? You know your way around my house, and Hannah wouldn’t have divulged my condition to just anyone.”

“Yeah,” Dean says gruffly, “we’re friends. I - my brother and me, we have a stand next to yours at the farmer’s market.”

“Oh,” Cas says. “Work colleagues, then.”

Dean snorts. “A little more than that.”

Cas bites his lip. “But you told me to respect your personal space. If we were -”

“Woah!” Dean cuts in before Memento can come up with any more bright ideas, “We’re close friends, alright?” he says before Cas can get another word out, “But not… like that.”

Dean doesn’t even know if Cas goes for humans. Most angels don’t. Cas never mentioned any romantic partners, and Dean never pressed. Better to keep that box locked up tight. Cas never shied away from giving his opinion to Dean or anyone else. He’s the most blunt, sincere person Dean knows - angel or human.

If he felt anything for Dean - the barest speck of more-than-friendly feelings, he’d have said something.

“Oh,” Cas says, and, behind him, his wings droop the smallest fraction.

Dean scans the table and pushes Cas’s worn copy of The How-To-Do-It Book of Bee-Keeping by Richard Taylor his way. “Test me.”

“What?”

Dean shovels more pie into his mouth. “As’ me anyfin’,” he mumbles.

Bemused, Cas opens the book to a random page. “How do you use a bee escape?” he reads aloud.

“Do you know what they are?” At Cas’s headshake, Dean holds his fingers about three inches apart, “They’re little plastic doodads with little bee-sized holes in the middle. You slide ‘em in the hive right before you’re about to harvest. Once they’re fitted, you smoke out the bees, one comb at a time. Once they’re out of the way, you can scrape off the honey.”

Cas’s eyes narrow. “Do you also keep bees?”

Dean can’t help his loud laugh. “God no,” he says as he closes his mouth around another bite of pie. “I’m just a farmer. But I’ve helped you out a few times.”

At least twice a month since Dean moved to this corner of semi-rural America, but who’s counting. Honey is only harvested once a year, but Cas can always use an extra set of hands in his garden. Or around the house. Dean’s worked off more than one argument with Sam by kneading clay in Cas’s pottery studio basement.

“So you know all this from me,” Cas says dubiously.

“Sure do,” Dean says, smacking his lips as he debates another slice of Cas’s get-well-soon pie. “You’re a good teacher, and once you get on a roll about the bees, it’s kinda hard to shut you up.”

“Sorry?”

“Don’t be,” Dean says as he cuts himself another (smallish) slice. “I look hot in a beekeeper suit, anyway.”

Cas frowns, confused. “Do most humans find baggy coveralls and heavy veils sexually appealing?”

Dean snorts. “That was a joke.”

Dean doesn’t mention that he finds the beekeeper getup hot as hell as long as it’s Cas wearing it.

It’s just - Cas doesn’t usually bother with the veil since he likes to have a full range of vision when caring for his bees. Dean once let a whole comb drop on his foot at the sight of Cas bent over, wholly concentrated on the hive, a barely-there smile hidden in the corners of his mouth. His blue eyes were luminous in the bright sunlight, and every few seconds he would lick his lips, probably to wipe away the beads of sweat gathering on his upper lip.

“Oh,” Cas says, a faint blush touching his cheeks. His gaze drops to his plate, and his wings sag behind him.

Dean mentally kicks himself. Cas might still have all a whole encyclopedia shoved in his brain, but jokes will fly right over his head like so many of Cas’s precious bees. Since Dean started hanging around, he had been getting better with the jokes and references, but Total Recall Cas got that goddamn factory reset, so Dean has to cool it for now.

“Forget it,” he tells Cas. “I’m an asshole.”

Cas squints across the table at him. “You are not.”

“Huh?”

Cas carefully spears off a bit of pie. “You came by to check on me, offer me food,” he slips his fork into his mouth, eyes closing as he savors the tart cherries and buttery pastry, “stay and talk.”

“I, mean, yeah,” Dean says, wrongfooted, “we’re friends. ‘S the least I could do.”

Cas has another bite. “This is really good.”

“Thanks,” Dean says before he crams the rest of his slice into his mouth. He studies Cas as they both eat, an uncomfortable foreboding settling deep in his stomach. Now he sees it, how Cas doesn’t look at him with any familiarity. It’s more like, to Cas, Dean is some fucked up jigsaw puzzle slash zoo animal. Eventually, Dean has to ask, “Are you going to get your memories back?”

Cas shakes his head, his expression hardening. “I’m not sure.”

Dean’s mouth falls open. “Are you serious?” He braces both elbows on the table. “But you were cursed - there’s gotta be a way to break it. That’s how curses work, right?”

Cas exhales a slow sigh. “Gabriel did say there was a way to break it.”

“And you haven’t yet?” Dean demands, almost offended on Cas’s - his Cas’s - behalf. “You’re okay forgetting your whole life?”

Cas’s eyes narrow. “Are you insane?” he hisses, his feathers puffing up like an angry cat. “Of course I am not ‘okay,’” he says, air quotes and all, which Dean hasn’t seen since he told Cas they were lame. (He felt bad about it for a week afterward and gave Cas a free apology pumpkin. First of the season.)

“I am able to navigate the outside world as well as a human toddler,” Cas continues heatedly. “What do you think I’ve been trying to do for the past two weeks?”

Dean huffs an impatient breath. “What have you tried so far?”

Cas grimaces. “Gabriel said it could be broken like all curses could be broken.”

“What the fuck does that mean?”

“I have no clue,” Cas says frankly. “I spent a week in Heaven’s archives and libraries. The most common way to break curses is by consuming a stone taken from the stomach of a goat -”

Dean makes a gagging noise.

“-or bathing in the blood of a virgin at the new moon.”

“Not any less gross,” Dean says emphatically. “Where the hell are you going to get virgin blood? Are they talking about, like, a whole virgin? Or does born again count?”

Cas shakes his head. “The new moon was four days ago.”

Dean frowns. “Did you have to do the blood thing?”

From the look on Cas’s face, Dean isn’t going to make him watch Carrie anytime soon.

“So I went to more obscure magic,” Cas continues. “I tried bathing in a natural source of water. And then I ran a bath and filled it with salt, since salt repels evil.”

“All I’m hearing is lots of bathing so far.”

Cas rolls his eyes. “I lit sage in every room and burned three types of wood. I wore an evil eye bracelet. I sprinkled consecrated water blended with honey over the threshold.”

“No dice?”

Cas throws him a baleful look. “I have ants now.”

Dean snorts. “Well that sucks,” he says, since what else can you say when your best friend swaps all his memories for a Bug's Life?

Cas sighs. “From my notes and research, I can’t leave the hives completely unattended, so I’ve spent the past few days trying to figure out how not to kill them,” he says, gesturing to the rest of the kitchen table. “Once I’ve determined if the bees will survive on their own, I can look back into the curse.”

Dean purses his lips. “Have you prayed to Gabriel? Tried to convince him to take it back?”

“Every day since it happened,” Cas says, his face somber.

“Alright,” Dean says, grabbing Cas’s empty plate, “I can’t help with the curse stuff since I save the teen witch adventures for Sabrina. I can help with the bees, though, if you want.” He gets to his feet and dumps the plates in the sink.

Once his back is turned, he frowns as he thinks his words over. Who knows if this Cas actually wants him around? This Cas doesn’t know him from Adam.

To the dishes Dean says, “The next beekeeper is a few towns over. I could give him a call for you, if you’d rather have him. Cain’s mostly retired, so he’d probably have the time to show you the ropes.”

“Is Cain an angel?”

Dean laughs over the splashing water. “No, he’s a crotchety old bastard who would rather live with bees than people. You get along.” He sets the rinsed plates out to dry and faces Cas. “I’m sure you have his number in your phone too, come to think of it.”

Cas meets Dean’s cautious gaze with his usual soul-searing stare. “I wouldn’t mind if you helped me. Maybe I could call Cain if there are any advanced problems we can’t figure out together.”

Dean smiles. “Sounds like a plan.” He jerks his head towards the backyard. “You wanna get suited up?”

“Now?” Cas asks, alarmed.

“No time like the present,” Dean says as he walks out of the kitchen without waiting for Cas to follow. “Come on, we’re wasting daylight.”

* * *

Cas stares at his beekeeper suit, hanging in its usual place on his screened back porch, next to his gardening gloves.

“You okay?” Dean asks. “You’ve got a spare in your shed, so I’ll grab it on the way.”

Cas picks up the suit like it’s about to bite him.

“’S a good thing I’m here,” Dean says as Cas slowly unzips the front. “It’s always a bitch to get your wings covered.”

Cas’s wings slump. “I have a feeling this is going to be more trouble than it’s worth.”

“Hey,” Dean says, taking a step forward, “no, it’s your bees. You love them.”

Cas frowns. “But I don’t remember how.”

Dean grins. “Then you’re a lucky son of a bitch who gets to fall in love with something all over again.” He sighs wistfully. “What I wouldn’t give to erase Star Wars from my brain and watch it again for the first time.”

“What is Star Wars?”

“A trilogy of movies from the 70s and 80s,” Dean says, his smile widening.

Cas nods. “I’ll have to rewatch them, then.”

“Damn right,” Dean says. “I gave you the DVDs for my birthday last year, so they should be around here somewhere.”

“For your birthday?” Cas asks, eyebrows rising. “Isn’t gift-giving normally the other way around?”

Dean shrugs. “But I’d been bugging you to watch ‘em with me for years. Trust me, it was an awesome birthday.”

Cas opens his mouth like he’s not sure where to poke holes in Dean’s story first, so Dean reaches for the wing covers. “I think we should do the hard part first.”

“You’re currently the expert,” Cas says as he sets the suit aside.

Dean frowns as he takes in Cas’s black wings, reflecting muted tones of magenta, purple, cobalt, and green. Normally, Cas rocks the sex wing look - a few feathers askew here and there like someone raked their fingers through them - but now his wings look more like Cas stuck his alulas in an electrical socket.

Without thinking, Dean says, “It’s gonna be hard to get them in the wing covers. They’re a little messed up, dude.” As Cas’s face falls, Dean adds quickly, “Nothing a little grooming can’t fix.”

Cas flushes. “I haven’t been able to reach my whole wingspan on my own. Hannah offered-” he breaks off, his gaze skittering around to settle just over Dean’s left shoulder. “But I don’t know her, not really, so I was uncomfortable accepting.”

Dean takes a step back. “I mean, you don’t need to do it. I’ll have to touch a couple feathers to get these on you, if you’re okay with that.”

Cas swallows. “No, you’re right. My wings are a mess.”

Dean’s fingers practically tingle with the urge to reach out and smooth down the closest feathers, but he shoves his free hand deep into his pocket instead.

“Can you help me?” Cas asks.

Dean quietly dies inside.

Cas’s wings flutter in anticipation, and Dean is so, so weak.

“Yeah,” Dean says gruffly as he drops the wing cover and approaches Cas’s back. “You sure, man? I - I’ve never done this before.”

Cas turns his head. “Never?”

Dean clenches his hands into fists. Don’t touch. Not until he says so. Dean can keep his goddamn hands to himself. Cas deserves that much.

“Do you want me to walk you through it?” Cas asks softly. “I know how, since it’s only personal memories about my life that seem to have been affected.”

“Ah,” Dean hesitates, a hundred and one wing kink porn videos flashing through his head like popup ads. “No,” he coughs, “I know the mechanics.”

Cas’s eyes narrow. “Are you sure?”

Dean fidgets in place. “‘S like picking beans, right? Don’t pull on them too hard. They’ll come off if they want to come off. Make sure nothing is sticking out at weird angles.”

Cas makes a face. “Did you just compare my wings to legumes?”

“Maybe?” Dean says defensively. “Look, I know vegetables, and I know what your wings are supposed to look like. What else do you want from me?”

Cas’s mouth opens, but no words come out. With a sigh, he faces forward, presenting his wings for Dean.

Dean inhales a deep breath. Christ, his hands are goddamn shaking. Get a fucking grip, Winchester. He lightly touches the base of Cas’s left wing.

Cas shivers, the feathers rippling.

Dean yanks his hand back.

“Sorry,” Cas says sheepishly. “You took me by surprise. Please continue.”

Gently, Dean grazes the base of the wing again. The feathers rustle like under a moderate breeze, but Cas doesn’t tell him to stop, so Dean keeps going. He feels along the surface of Cas’s wings, most of the feathers slipping, glossy smooth, under his fingertips - until he catches the first snag. Nerves rocketing up to eleven, Dean tugs lightly on the first feather out of place.

Cas sucks in a breath.

It comes loose, and Dean has a fleeting, stupid thought to steal it for himself. But he lets it flutter to the floor.

Dean soldiers on, biting his lip as he tries to keep himself from grabbing handfuls of feathers and burying his face in Cas’s wings. Meticulously, painstakingly, he combs through the mess. As he moves closer to the second joint, Cas’s feathers, which had been subtly shifting the whole time, stiffen.

“You okay?” Dean asks.

Cas nods, stilted. “Please continue,” he says, his voice rough.

Dean frowns. If Cas is uncomfortable and doesn’t want to tell him, Dean’s not going to be the asshole who turns a blind eye to the signs. He withdraws his hands, and Cas’s wings -

They flare out, seeking Dean’s touch.

Without thinking, Dean blurts an astounded, “Dude.”

“Apologies,” Cas says, and, from this angle, Dean has primetime viewing of the back of Cas’ traffic light-red neck. His wings retreat to fold stiff as a board behind Cas’s back.

“Hey, no,” Dean says as he lays a hand along Cas’s wing, petting it gently. “I just wanted to check in with you.” He grins lopsidedly, not that Cas can see him. “Communication is important.”

Cas coughs. “Indeed,” he says, and his voice still sounds off. “Please continue. I,” he breaks off, turning a little in place so Dean can see half of his face, “I was enjoying it.”

“Good,” Dean says with a little too much enthusiasm. “I - uh, me too.”

Cas blinks. “You were?” He frowns. “Grooming is… boring. A chore.”

“Not for humans,” Dean says as he picks up where he left off. “We don’t have big fancy wings to lug around everywhere. They’re-”

“What?” Cas waits, clearly expecting an answer.

Dean sighs. “Cool,” he supplies lamely. “Your wings are cool.”

Dean can’t see Cas’s face with his back turned, but his wings fluff up ever so slightly, so Dean counts it as a win. “I’m glad you think so,” Cas says quietly.

“’Course,” Dean says, easy as pie. He pulls on another feather, and, when it doesn’t come out, tucks it back into its proper place, “I’ve never seen an angel with wings like yours. Malachi’s got dark grey ones, and I thought they were your shade of black, but they’re not. Plus, he’s an asshole.”

Cas chuckles. “I don’t see how him being an asshole has anything to do with his wing color.”

“No, but, if you ever run into him - an angel with dark grey wings - now you know.”

“So you’re only looking out for me.”

“You don’t know this yet,” Dean tells him conspiratorially, “but I’m awesome.”

“Yes, I’m beginning to see that for myself.”

Thank God Cas can’t see Dean’s face. Equally embarrassed and pleased, Dean rambles, “You should also watch out for Metatron - the white-winged dude who runs the thrift shop down the road. He’s been angling to set up shop at the farmers market for fucking ever even though he has a storefront for all his crap. Whoever said white wings meant purity was full of shit because Metatron’s a douche.”

Cas laughs, and Dean nearly slumps over in relief.

He can still make Cas laugh.

“Hannah, she’s okay,” Dean continues as he combs through the rest of Cas’s secondaries and coverts before he gets to the primaries, large and built for flight, and completely within Cas’s reach to groom himself. “But her partner, Duma, hates you for some reason, so I’d steer clear of her.”

Cas’s wings dip a few inches. “It doesn’t sound like I’m on good terms with many angels.”

Dean lightly runs his palm over Cas’s flight feathers - while he’s back here, he might as well. “I guess not,” he admits because Cas is right, “but they’ve all got massive sticks up their asses, so you’re better off.”

“They’re family.”

“They’re dicks,” Dean corrects. “Come on, you’re goddamn cursed with amnesia , and not one is here helping you out? Dick move for dick angels,” he finishes.

“Hannah visited.”

“Like I said, Hannah’s okay,” Dean says as he straightens up.

“At least you’re here,” Cas points out.

“Yeah,” Dean says bitterly as he brushes out bits of fluffy down near the base of Cas other wing, “After two weeks.”

“You said you didn’t know.”

“I should’ve.”

“How?” Cas asks, sounding baffled.

Dean scoffs as he cards his fingers through the shorter feathers near the bone of Cas’s wing, “You didn’t show at the farmers market. You always show.”

“But-”

Dean shakes his head. “I should’ve known something was up.” He yanks a little too hard on a feather, and the brittle shaft breaks between his thumb and pointer finger. Dean lets it fall to the floor in disgust. “But Hannah said you were sick, and I didn’t know if you were the type who wanted company or everyone to stay the hell away. And then I talked to Sammy, and he said angels don’t really get sick like we do.” He exhales a slow breath, consciously holding himself back from tearing any more feathers out. Cas doesn’t deserve that, especially after all the shit he’s dealing with.

“We do get sick,” Cas says, his voice breaking through Dean’s morose reminiscing of the past week, “But never with the type of illnesses that can be treated outside of Heaven.”

“That’s what Sammy told me,” Dean says heavily.

“You were worried?”

Dean pokes him in the muscular part of the wing. “Of course I was worried.”

Cas’s head tilts, but not enough that Dean can make out his expression. “Because we’re friends.”

Dean swallows. “Yeah,” he says quietly, “because we’re friends.” He tugs on a few more feathers, and one comes loose. He holds it between his fingers for a beat, rubbing his thumb along the vane. With a sigh, he moves onto Cas’s other flight feathers. He gives them a few long strokes, unable to help his smile as he feels at the power, the potential, all hidden in Cas’s wings. But, eventually, he has to straighten up.

“All done,” he says with forced cheer as Cas turns around to face him.

Cas blinks a few times like he’s coming out of a trance. “Thank you,” he says gruffly.

He spreads his wings.

Dean’s breath catches in his chest, and his awe must show all over face, judging by Cas’s barely-there smirk. But, dammit, Dean’s going to enjoy the sight. Cas never puts himself on display like this, preferring to play the nerdy beekeeper in a trench coat rather than an almighty Angel of the Lord.

Cas turns his head to inspect Dean’s work. He gives an experimental flap, sweeping all the old feathers littering the floor up into the air. “Thank you, Dean,” he says sincerely. He folds his wings back, and Dean’s heart aches for something he never had in the first place.

“Don’t - don’t mention it,” Dean chokes out.

A fluffy piece of down drifts down to settle on Cas’s nose. He goes cross-eyed to keep it in view.

Dean cracks up. Grinning, he reaches up to brush away the offending bit of down.

Cas catches his arm in an iron grip, his own face oddly intense.

“Cas?”

But before Dean can finish his sentence, Cas pulls him closer and seals their mouths together.

Dean lets out a muffled (completely manly) noise of surprise against Cas’s lips before muscle memory takes over. As Dean kisses back, Cas makes a light soothing rumble in the back of his throat, his touch gentle and warm. Dean’s other hand grasps desperately at Cas’s shirt, anchoring him in place. An electric, bubbly feeling is exploding in his chest, a wild kind of joy Dean normally would tamp down, tell himself, watch out for the other shoe to drop.

Other shoes like Cas’s missing memory.

Dean freezes, and it takes him a long moment to realize Cas isn’t moving either. His grip on Dean’s arm has gone slack. Dean opens his eyes to find Cas’s eyes wide open and glowing with an electric blue light.

Fuck.

Dean’s watched his fair share of angel-on-angel porn and more than his fair share of angel-on-human porn, and kissing’s not supposed to do that.

Dean takes a stumbling step back. “Cas?” he tries.

But Cas doesn’t move. He doesn’t give any sign he heard Dean at all.

Dean falls forward, tripping over his feet. He grips Cas, hard, by the shoulders. With his heart in his throat, he gives Cas a small shake. “Cas?” he tries again, and his voice sounds alien to his own ears, loud and breathy with his panic. He shakes him harder. “Cas!”

Several agonizing seconds pass, and the light slowly dims from behind Cas’s eyes, leaving behind his normal blue.

“Dean?”

Dean’s knees nearly give out with relief. “Hey,” he says weakly, “Nice to have you back, buddy.”

Cas blinks a few times. He swallows, a strange expression coming over his face.

“You okay?” Dean demands. “What the fuck was that?”

Cas stares at him. “That was the curse breaking.”

Read Part II here!

#profoundnet #angel castiel #beekeper castiel #farmer dean #fluff #wing grooming #amnesia #mutual pining #friends to lovers #rae writes fic

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