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smilerri · 2 months

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many thoughts about epic: the musical...

i am once again in the middle of essay writing but plautus is boring and my friend introduced me to this album so u already know I binged the entire thing

(quick warning for spoilers of homer's odyssey? if that's necessary?? man idk whatever)

first thoughts naturally concerned odysseus. i have hated this man with a burning passion ever since I started studying classics - i think he is irredeemably selfish, a liar masquerading as a 'resourceful hero,' and basically just a twat all around. that being said, i respect that epic is not an exact replica. in fact, i like that about it!

readings of odysseus as a loving husband and father, and a man who cares deeply for his crew and fellow warriors is one i would love to see reflected in the source text (though i admit i have only read two different translations so far, so this is subject to change depending on translators choice!), if only because it would be so so refreshing. and epic does that extremely well! i find epic's odysseus to be far more likeable, insofar as he is fueled not by greed for glory (kleos for the nerds out there) but rather the desire to return to his wife and son. (I personally would argue that, while homer's odysseus is indeed fueled by a desire for homecoming (nostos), it is not for the sake of penelope and telemachus, but rather concern over the security of his status and position within the household (oikos))

i also very much enjoy that the love he holds for his family is not an inherently positive trait. in the aeneid, and often in myth, it is achilles' son, neoptolemus/pyrrhus who kills the son of hector and andromache, astyanax by throwing him from the walls of troy - less common, it is odysseus (which i did not know until i googled it just now oops). homer's odysseus does not reject the gods. he is beloved by some, hated by others - he receives their boons and curses as they come. he revels in the attention of the divine, no matter positive or negative, for it is proof of his kleos. epic's odysseus is so much more... human. he doesn't vie for glory that reaches the skies. if anything, he rues it. in the horse and the infant he supplicates himself to (who i assume is) zeus - which is such a loaded act i am genuinely struggling to think of how to articulate it, but boy am I gonna try my darndest.

the act of supplication and guest-friendship (xenia) is a very key theme within the odyssey, and to a point in the iliad also - essentially, if a traveller were to arrive at your doorstep, you were obliged to let them in and provide food, drink, and lodgings to that traveller, no questions asked. in return (because reciprocity is VERY important in homer especially), the guest would provide entertainment, tales of their travels, etc, and would be respectful of their host. the patron of these travellers was zeus. any violation of these terms, on part of the guest or host, would be met with divine scorn. for odysseus to supplicate himself to zeus is therefore meta as hell, but I would instead bring attention to the echoing lyric "hes bringing you down to your knees." 'he,' assumedly, is astyanax. his father, hector, is dead; as is his grandfather, priam, and all of priam's other sons. at this point, one could assume that it is astyanax who is ruling troy, who is now the host of the city that odysseus, a traveller from another land, has entered and ransacked. zeus' 'prophecy' of astyanax growing old and seeking revenge (reciprocity! homeric greece had a 'revenge culture' - essentially 'an eye for an eye' as well as 'you scratch my back, I'll scratch yours,' though not always so clear-cut), therefore, would be odysseus' punishment for violating the terms of xenia.

supplication, however, is not limited to guest-friendship alone. for example, in odyssey 22, when odysseus slaughters the suitors occupying his home (is that spoilers?), their priest leodes supplicates himself at odysseus' feet, begging to be spared. odysseus takes his head from his neck in an instant. odysseus' kneeling before astyanax, therefore, is no simple act between a guest and his host - perhaps he is begging the infant for mercy, for forgiveness, or perhaps he is positioning himself for punishment; in killing astyanax, odysseus accepts his own death. perhaps this means his fate (which, in case of homeric epic, refers to the time and manner of one's death), or perhaps it is a part of him that has died. in just a man, odysseus asks "when does a man become a monster?" his killing astyanax prevents the boy from ever becoming a man, and spares him from a life fueled only by revenge and the need to regain his glorious birthright, and it turns him into a monster. just as he says he would, he trades in the world where he is 'just a man' for a world where he is a cruel beast, all for sake of his family.

(quick detour but i really like how odysseus' focus is primarily on penelope rather than telemachus. [insert deadbeat dad joke here], but in reality, he doesn't even know the boy. penelope he chose to marry and fall in love with - it's no question that he loves telemachus, but after ten years, it is only natural that he would miss his beautiful, tricky wife with more fervour than the child he never had the chance to love. it shows he is imperfect, even illogical - the son is the father's entire legacy. just as odysseus is 'son of laertes', so will telemachus be 'son of odysseus', the protector of his immortal heroic legacy. yet it is penelope whom odysseus yearns for.)

(another detour but "i'm just a man" is such a juicy lyric, because the entire message of homer's odyssey is that odysseus is not any man - he is a man that the muses deem worthy to inspire great poets to compose epic poems that persist through thousands of years and a million different voices - a hero. but epic's odysseus is not that hero. he is a man, trying to go home, craving comfort and the warmth of the hearth. these 'flaws' humanise him more than homer's odysseus could ever imagine.)

skipping over to polyphemus, odysseus violates xenia once again by killing polyphemus' sheep, albeit unwittingly. homer makes this violation very obvious - odysseus and crew eat polyphemus' cheese and wine while polyphemus tends to his sheep, knowing that the cave is obviously inhabited, and they even wait for polyphemus to return to ask for more. it is worth noting as well that, at this point, odysseus and crew are still jubilant about their victory, and unlike in epic, these 'detours' are purposeful, specifically so that odysseus can scope out the islands for anything of interest he can snatch and add to his spoils of war, adding to his kleos by means of physical wealth (timē) - which makes odysseus' offer of treasure to appease polyphemus all the more baffling in epic. this odysseus is a leader who prioritises the lives of his men over his own kleos, which makes the final lines - "you shall be the final man to die" // "what?" // "watch out!" - all the more heartbreaking. he wants to protect his men, so that they too may return to their families back on ithaca; the prospect of watching them die before his eyes after he already witnessed so many lose their lives in battle must be so utterly terrifying.

polyphemus is so excellently creepy as well! i loved him in the odyssey - this was where I really started to dislike odysseus, actually. he's a cyclops, obviously inhuman, yet he rears sheep and makes cheese and wine and weaves wicker baskets to keep them in, trying to play at humanity. i really did sympathise with him from the first time I read it. epic's polyphemus is similar, so very calm in his anger yet ruthless all the same, and demonstrates great restraint in comparison to his counterpart in the odyssey, who gets filthy drunk after mashing six men dead and allows odysseus+co. to fashion a stake with which to blind him. much of the violence against polyphemus, as well as the violation of xenia in homer's odyssey is 'excused' by the fact that polyphemus is a 'barbarian', to whom concepts of civilised people do not belong.

(very quick detour but polyphemus' first admonishment of odysseus - "you killed my sheep" up to "take from you like you took from me" - makes such heartbreaking parallels to astyanax's murder and the sack of troy. it almost provides a visualisation of the guilt that odysseus must still be battling. i would have loved to have been in his brain when he heard polyphemus say that.)

the mercy odysseus shows polyphemus is particularly interesting - homer's odysseus leaves him alive and tells him his name purely so that his name will spread and his kleos will grow. but epic's odysseus, despite his conviction to kill in survive and to avenge is fallen comrades in remember them, spares him. in part, this is to assure them an escape, so that the cyclops' giant body does not block their exit - but athena's interruption makes clear that this is not all. she criticises him, remarks "he is still a threat until he's dead." no doubt this calls back to zeus' warnings about astyanax, hence his refusal (or inability?) to commit to slaughter. for a homeric greek hero to allow a foe to live on after his allies had been slaughtered is a grave failure of reciprocity, casting shame on both the hero and their enemy. homer's odysseus escapes this with his reputation intact, since as a result polyphemus curses him to face poseidon's wrath - as I mentioned, for a hero, even negative attention from the gods is a good thing as it proves that their reputation/glory is known all over, even in olympus. but, as we have established, epic's odysseus cares not for kleos. the decision to tell polyphemus his name is entirely impulsive and irrational, grieving his comrades, hence athena's outrage.

the relationship between athena and odysseus is founded entirely on the principles they share, described in warrior of the mind (if anyone can lmk whereabouts this song fits in the timeline I will be so grateful, I'm stupid unfortunately :/). they value wisdom, reason, and rationality over brute strength and bloodlust. epic's athena becomes odysseus' patron goddess with the goal to "make a greater tomorrow" and "change the world" - aspirations that are entirely foreign to any homeric god. gods in homer do not care about the wellbeing of humans unless they are directly related to them, and they certainly don't care about the wellness of humanity as a whole. humans are toys and tools of the gods. the amount that athena cares for odysseus, even in the odyssey, is unusual, demonstrative of how much she cares for him, yet epic makes their comradery more obvious, even going as far as to (tentatively) call them friends. my goodbye frames athena's anger as disappointment at an experiment failed - calling back to warrior of the mind, where she claims to have "designed" him - but odysseus' replies to her makes clear that it is far more personal. perhaps, to her, odysseus acting so irrationally is even a betrayal; odysseus is abandoning the principles of reason they both once held and thus is forsaking all that they once shared and that she, as the goddess of wisdom, stands for.

ive always considered athena to be a very interesting goddess. she is a patron of both war, which in homer is only carried out by men, and weaving, the traditional work of women within the household - her very nature is a contradiction of masculine and feminine. although it is ares who is considered the 'black sheep' of the olympians for his brutality in war, epic's portrayal of athena through odysseus' lens paints her as lonely and ostracised - "since you claim you're so much wiser // why's your life spent all alone? // you're alone." It is clear that odysseus here does not view her as his patron at all, rather as a friend - and to that she takes offence, because she is a goddess, eternal and all-powerful. she does not need friendship or comradery; those are mortal concerns alone. personally, I see epic's athena as incredibly insecure. she cuts odysseus off because she cannot bare that a mortal has been able to read her so clearly, to see all the ugly parts of herself that she keeps hidden to retain the facade of the perfect goddess. she knows the paradox within herself - warrior and woman, immortal and alone - and rues that odysseus was able to see it as well. the cruellest part, the most ironic, is that his being able to figure out the true, imperfect nature of a god shows that he has not abandoned the path of the warrior of the mind. in fact, his wisdom extends beyond mortality into the realm of the divine. but athena is blinded by her anger and insecurity, and she says her goodbyes. she disappears from there, only to appear again to try to warn odysseus of his crew opening the bag of winds given to him by aeolus in keep your friends close, once again demonstrating her care for him, despite her anger.

the amount that odysseus cares for his crew is demonstrated time and again throughout the album, yet in the end, he still slowly loses their trust. aeolus' winds are the first sign. his crew betrays his orders upon the first whisper on the wind that he might be keeping treasure from them. the next sign, in puppeteer, is eurylochus' confession upon arrival to aeaea (circe's island), which odysseus brushes off, much as he brushed off eurylochus' concerns in luck runs out. then, in a matter of moments, 600 men are reduced to forty by the wrath of poseidon - which in itself is a significant change. while odysseus in epic is explicitly blamed for failing to kill polyphemus, homer's odysseus takes no responsibility for the deaths of hundreds of his men. it happens when they arrive at telepylos, which, unbeknownst to them, is home to the laestrygonians, a race of cannibalistic giants. odysseus, apparently sensing something off (who tf does he think he is, spiderman?), allows his entire fleet to enter the bay of telepylos while his ship alone remains outside - and when those ships are attacked and trapped, he alone takes his single ship and escapes, allowing twelve ships of men to be ripped apart and eaten by cannibals. an act which he shows no remorse for.

in my interpretation of homer's odyssey, it is this slowly slipping trust that eventually leads to his men ignoring his warnings and feasting on the cows of helios which leads to the deaths of all his remaining crew, including eurylochus and polites (spoilers? idk). so, once epic: the musical catches up to book 12 of the odyssey you WILL be seeing me again I hope ur excited.

there is definitely more i could say here, especially about the circe saga bcs ohhh my god I love circe and I love this circe especially (a female character with actual motive other than being a victim? homer could never) but unfortunately I'm running out of steam and I do in fact have 3 essays due this month (help) so I will probably return to this later !! hopefully its readable bcs I'm not going back to edit any of this ;)

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sofysta · 11 days

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Nostos ~ The Return

#filmography

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thefirstknife · 5 months

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Ishtar updated so some stuff is on there finally. Didn't want to spam with too many huge posts with just walls of text.

Absolutely losing it about Chivalric Fire seasonal sword. We finally have a canon reason for ornaments from each vendor. It's becuse they argue what the weapon should look like.

"It should be elegant," says Zavala, striking his breastplate with a fist.

Shaxx isn't having it:

Shaxx's firm gesture of denial drives the side of his hand into a shelf. An Omolon-branded canister falls off and rolls across the floor. "It must be an unstoppable force in sword form! It should spit fire! Also, it should be red."

And then Drifter:

"No, no," the Drifter says from the doorway. He kicks the rolling canister away without looking down. "I'm a law-abiding citizen. I pay my taxes. You can trust me. It needs to look mean. You want people thinking: 'They're madder, badder, and hungrier than me. I'm not tangling with them.'"

I'm losing it over him emphasising that he's a law-abiding citizen. It makes him least likely to be a law-abiding citizen. Then poor Banshee is like can you guys settle on a single design and they continue arguing. Absolutely incredible.

A lot of people already posted about the exotic sparrow Nostos. It's about Eramis reminiscing about her wife Athrys and their children and thinking where she might be now. And then she just basically more or less decides to go to them:

It was the same map that Eramis's mate, Athrys, had followed out of Sol. It even included the habitable zones she'd tabbed as potential landing sites. By now, Athrys might be Kell of her own settlement, living happily alongside their grown hatchlings. Or they might all be long-dead. In truth, Eramis hadn't wondered at either possibility for decades. But ever since she saw the Witness disappear into its portal, Eramis could think of little else. All her prior aspirations were made suddenly small. Eliksni solidarity, revenge against the Traveler, enmity with the Humans… they were all irrelevant. If a second Whirlwind was her fate, Eramis would suffer it as she had the first: with Athrys by her side.

Btw, "nostos" is a theme in Ancient Greek stories, about a hero heroically returning home.

Gloaming Journeyer has also been posted by pretty much everyone. It's about Drifter and Eris sharing an incredibly tender moment and finding peace with each other. Just read it.

Wyrmguard seasonal arm piece has a devastating update on Shaw Han's lore in which it is revealed that the Ahamkara exotic he wears is what he made a wish to. He wanted to have his own fireteam. At the end, he gets a call from "Caster-3" aka Cas, one of the members of his fireteam (alongside Maeve) that ended up dying to Navota. The backfire of a wish. Man.

And one more funny for the end, for Dragon's Breath. A return of Marcus Ren and Enoch Bast! They're doing fine and they're being dumbasses together with their friend, Ariadne Gris. Ariadne might be familiar to people who remember obscure lore from the vanilla sparrow lore Dinas Emrys in which Ariadne was called to the Vanguard to explain why she has a dragon symbol painted on her sparrow. She was being suspected of having an Ahamkara. Ikora found this whole thing ridiculous and Ariadne defended herself by saying a dragon painted on a sparrow was "cool."

And she's back at it again in Dragon's Breath, offended that it's called Dragon's Breath but not having a dragon painted on it. Enoch and Marcus then get a deal with her: she'll race her sparrow against the speed of the rocket. What happens next will shock you. Also, important:

Enoch says. At his side, Marcus studies the case.

Not beating the allegations that they're partners.

#destiny 2 #destiny 2 spoilers #season of the wish #season of the wish spoilers #zavala #shaxx #drifter #eramis #eris #shaw #marcus #enoch #just lore.#so many cool little tidbits

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bodhranwriting · 11 months

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Tocktick - Anxious single father Emmett Askren agrees to enter a prestigious airship race to clear his debts and save his home, but every member of his crew has deadly ghosts on their tail, his foster father has returned from the dead after vanishing mysteriously four years prior, and their revolutionary engine is a time-bomb waiting to explode.

Nostos & the Filigree Lantern - The day the mines burst open, deaf goat herder Nostos was only one to escape capture by the denizens of the underground. With no help forthcoming and the chosen heroes apparently defeated, Nostos descends into a nightmare with nothing but his wits and the hope of a fabled light to save his brother from eternal darkness.

Flies in Amber - Archeology students Flora Beckett and Flora Avery are honoured when they are chosen to embark on the most important expedition in history. If they succeed they could turn back time and bring back the magic that held civilisation together. But the deep caverns at the end of the world hold far more than any of them could have ever imagined…

#writeblr #arcane skies #deaf #queer #writing #pride month #happy pride

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murakamijeva-muza · 2 months

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“The Greek word for "return" is nostos. Algos means "suffering." So nostalgia is the suffering caused by an unappeased yearning to return. To express that fundamental notion most Europeans can utilize a word derived from the Greek (nostalgia, nostalgie) as well as other words with roots in their national languages: añoranza, say the Spaniards; saudade, say the Portuguese. In each language these words have a different semantic nuance. Often they mean only the sadness caused by the impossibility of returning to one's country: a longing for country, for home. What in English is called "homesickness." Or in German: Heimweh. In Dutch: heimwee. But this reduces that great notion to just its spatial element. One of the oldest European languages, Icelandic (like English) makes a distinction between two terms: söknuour: nostalgia in its general sense; and heimprá: longing for the homeland. Czechs have the Greek-derived nostalgie as well as their own noun, stesk, and their own verb; the most moving, Czech expression of love: styska se mi po tobe ("I yearn for you," "I'm nostalgic for you"; "I cannot bear the pain of your absence"). In Spanish añoranza comes from the verb añorar (to feel nostalgia), which comes from the Catalan enyorar, itself derived from the Latin word ignorare (to be unaware of, not know, not experience; to lack or miss), In that etymological light nostalgia seems something like the pain of ignorance, of not knowing. You are far away, and I don't know what has become of you. My country is far away, and I don't know what is happening there. Certain languages have problems with nostalgia: the French can only express it by the noun from the Greek root, and have no verb for it; they can say Je m'ennuie de toi (I miss you), but the word s'ennuyer is weak, cold -- anyhow too light for so grave a feeling. The Germans rarely use the Greek-derived term Nostalgie, and tend to say Sehnsucht in speaking of the desire for an absent thing. But Sehnsucht can refer both to something that has existed and to something that has never existed (a new adventure), and therefore it does not necessarily imply the nostos idea; to include in Sehnsucht the obsession with returning would require adding a complementary phrase: Sehnsucht nach der Vergangenheit, nach der verlorenen Kindheit, nach der ersten Liebe (longing for the past, for lost childhood, for a first love).” ― Milan Kundera, Ignorance

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moni-logues · 7 months

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Kintsugi 8

Pairing: Yoongi x reader

Genre: strangers-to-friends-to-lovers, non-idol!au, angst, smut, eventual fluff

Summary: In a fit of spiteful, post-break-up self-improvement, you sign up to a baking class. Yoongi, in a bid to appease his demanding girlfriend, signs up, too. Determined to make him your friend, you end up with more than you ever imagined.

Word count: 9.4k

Content: Yoongi POV!!, death (Yoongi's granddad), yet more talk about suicide

A/N: un-beta'd!! honestly wanted to call this 'Nostalgia' (based entirely on the Greek, nostos, return, algia, pain) but like, nostalgia is an actual English word now that doesn't really mean that so I couldn't, but them's the vibes!!!

Chapter Seven | Masterlist | Chapter Nine

Chapter Eight – Nostos

You liked Friday nights at Yoongi’s. For one thing, he was, by far and away, a better cook than you were and food always tasted better when you didn’t have to cook it. There was also the cat (though she did spend most of her time curled up on his bed, ignoring everyone and everything). Somewhere around third was Yoongi himself.

He cleared his throat and put his spoon down.

“I think I have to cancel dinners, by the way.”

“Oh-” you clutched your invisible pearls with a fake gasp and a mouth full of rice, “are you friend-breaking up with me?”

It was a joke as you said it, but as soon as you heard the words and paired them with Yoongi’s quietness—different from his usual kind—and the way he was fidgeting, you felt a prick of anxiety.

“I’m going back to Daegu.”

“Like, moving?”

You quickly swallowed your mouthful before all the food turned to ash. Yoongi couldn’t leave Seoul; he wouldn’t. Couldn’t. No-

He shook his head.

“My grandfather had a fall. My dad called. Said I should go back there.”

“Oh shit.”

He shrugged. You reached out and placed your hand over his; he looked at them, your hand and his, for a moment, then he shrugged again and shook his head.

“It’s alright. I haven’t been back for a while so it’s probably overdue anyway.”

“How long will you be there for?”

Yet another shrug.

“Not sure yet. Depends what happens to my grandfather, I suppose. My dad didn’t say much – never does – so I’m not entirely sure what I’ll be greeted with when I get down there but I’ll stay until he’s back on his feet. No idea how long that will be.”

You said nothing. You said nothing because you were not going to actually say any of the things that you were thinking; things like ‘do you have to go?’, ‘can’t you just stay?’, and ‘please don’t leave’. You knew he had to go; you knew that you wouldn’t really have wanted him to stay because who stays when their father calls and tells them that his father is in hospital and they need your help? No one good. You knew, also, that you could survive without him, that you didn’t need him to keep you afloat or anything like that. You just wanted him around. And that wasn’t enough to make you ask him to stay when he had to go.

“Well, I hope he’s ok,” you offered instead. “Do you have to take time off work?”

“No, I can work from home. For a while at least. I don’t know if they’ll put a time limit on it or just let me keep going.”

You didn’t like this. All this uncertainty, the indefiniteness of his absence. Some things take a long time to recover from; he could be gone for months. You shivered, even in the warmth of Yoongi’s apartment, with a stomach full of hot stew.

“What about Cherry?”

Yoongi was already eating again, the disquiet that had hung over him dispelled now that he’d spat it out, said the thing he had obviously been harbouring uncomfortably all evening.

“Oh, Namjoon’s going to look after her,” he answered. “She has an automatic feeder and water bowl, so she’ll mostly be taken care of anyway but he said he’ll come over and hang out with her.”

“Can I?”

“Can you what?”

“Can I come and hang out with Cherry, too?”

Yoongi looked surprised, then amused, and then he got that smile on his face that said he was going to indulge you in whatever stupid thing you were talking about now.

“Yeah, if you want. I can hardly stop you; you know the codes.”

“How many times do I have to tell you that you can change them?”

He rolled his eyes with a grin.

“Yeah but then I’d have to tell everyone else the new ones... It’s too much bother.”

“Hear that, Cherry?” you called to the bedroom. “You and I are going to be best fucking friends! Just you wait!”

“Are you threatening my cat?”

You threw a napkin at him.

You stared at your phone. Your still, silent phone.

“You know a watched pot never boils, princess. Your boyfriend isn’t going to call if you just stare at it.”

“He’s not my fucking boyfriend,” you snapped back, more viciously than you’d intended. “I thought you’d stopped making those jokes.”

Taehyung just shrugged.

“You seem very het up about not hearing from him, that’s all. You certainly never miss my contact that much.”

“As if I would ever go that long without your contact. I can barely get away from you.”

“As if you would have it any other way.”

You were crabby. Out of sorts. Yoongi wasn’t great at keeping in touch over the phone—not even at the best of times and this was certainly not that. You had exercised what you thought was extreme restraint, waiting until he had replied before texting him again (most of the time...), not wanting to bug him while he was with his family, going through something.

You weren’t one hundred percent sure what exactly it was they were going through because Yoongi’s updates were sparse on detail (like father, like son, apparently), but it was looking likely that you wouldn’t be seeing him again before the end of the year so it couldn’t have been good. It made you sad, that you wouldn’t see him over Christmas, that he had disappeared as the winter had arrived. Did the cold suit Yoongi? Did his cheeks get flushed and his nose turn pink? Did he like the cold weather? The dark and cosy nights?

You supposed that that was it. That was what was making you miss him all the more: the cosiness of winter is a lot less cosy when you are spending it by yourself. Taehyung was there, sure, but it wasn’t the same. Yoongi was yours. You and he had your own little club; you were dark and twisty. Now you had to be dark and twisty all on your own. And so did he, miles and miles away. You hoped he wasn’t getting too dark and twisty, that things weren’t getting capital-B Bad down there, that his family were supporting him.

You still didn’t know much about them, about his relationship with them. Yoongi played all his cards close to his chest, but these were on lockdown. You hadn’t known his grandparents were still alive. You weren’t sure exactly how many of them were. You hadn’t pushed him on it. It hadn't seemed to matter much before, though it certainly did now and you wished you had asked when you’d had the chance.

It was less than 200 miles—not far, not really. You could easily get there and back in a day. But it stretched out long in front of you, this distance. Maybe it was healthy. Or rather, maybe it was unhealthy, your attachment to him. Maybe this would do you good, do your friendship good. It was just a break. Not even really a break—he was still at the other end of a phone. You’d spent so much time and effort getting to a place where you felt self-sufficient, independent, capable; if you couldn’t be those things without holding Yoongi’s hand, were you those things at all?

You sighed and put your phone in your bag; it was easier not to think about it if it were out of sight. If only the same could be said of people.

It was weeks before you made your first visit to Yoongi’s almost empty apartment. Regardless of what you had said, it didn’t feel right to go there without him, to be in his space unsupervised. The thought of it made you miss him more, at first, but then he was away for longer and longer and you could no longer remember what his apartment smelt like. So you went.

You opened the door and shucked off your shoes and jumped half a mile in the air when you looked up to see a tall, dark, and handsome stranger, looking at you with confusion writ large across his face.

You laughed nervously, a relieved, breathy chuckle and you knew who it was immediately. You pointed at him.

“Namjoon?”

“Uh, yeah?” More confused than before. “You... are?”

“Oh!”

You introduced yourself, surprised that Yoongi hadn’t let him know you might be coming over (or maybe he just hadn’t believed that you would go). Namjoon responded to your name with a long, knowing ‘ah’.

“What is ‘ahhh’? What does ‘ahhh’ mean?”

Namjoon’s dimples made craters in his cheeks as he grinned widely.

“Nothing! Honestly, nothing; Yoongi has told me about you, obviously. Wasn’t expecting to see you.”

You didn’t believe him, but you did believe he meant well. He had a kind face, you thought, and he was looking after Yoongi’s cat on a potentially indefinite basis, so that gained him marks, too.

At the sound of voices, Cherry had skittered, yowling, towards you, stopping with a skid in front of you and meowing plaintively. You crouched down and held out a hand to you, but she merely continued meowing.

“Wow, she must like you; for me, she usually just disappears,” Namjoon said. “I think she hears people and thinks it might be Yoongi and she’s disappointed when it’s not. I think she misses him.”

You looked up at Namjoon, aghast.

“How can you just say that?! You’re going to break my whole, entire heart! Oh god, I’m going to cry!”

You really almost were. You turned back to Cherry, who was sitting looking sadly at you, and scratched her head lightly. Namjoon chuckled.

“Sorry.”

There was a pregnant pause.

“I guess you miss him, too, huh?”

“Well, yeah, of course. But I do accept that Cherry has the greater claim to grief.”

You stood and smoothed your trousers out with lightly sweaty palms. You didn’t usually feel this awkward around new people, but this was Yoongi’s person and you were in Yoongi’s place and he wasn’t there. You followed after Namjoon as he padded back into the living room, Cherry slinking softly behind. He offered you a drink and you hadn’t really intended to stay that long but it felt rude refusing. You made polite small talk and drank your drink quickly.

“Well,” you began, putting your empty glass on the coffee table. “I came to hang out with Cherry and she has spent the whole time lying on Yoongi’s bed, so I guess I might as well go.”

Namjoon chuckled and moved to stand in view of Yoongi’s bedroom.

“Yeah,” he replied. “Yoongi left some laundry and I’ve been switching it out for her, so she always has something that smells like him, but I’m a little worried I’ll run out at this rate.”

You stopped in your tracks.

“Namjoon! What did I say about making me cry?!”

You carried on until you, too, could see into his bedroom and there she was, curled up on a black T-shirt. Coming here was supposed to be comforting, a Yoongi booster, something to tide you over until he could come back, but now you missed him more than ever.

Namjoon flung an arm around your shoulder and pulled you off-balance.

“He’ll be back!”

You couldn’t help falling into his side, letting your head drop.

“Yeah, not soon enough.”

[09:27] You: Merry christmas, bambino!!!

[09:27] You: I hope you are able to have a nice day

[09:28] You: Remember to eat, drink, and BE MERRY!!!

[09:28] You: I miss you!!!

[10:48] Yoongi: Merry Christmas :) I hope you have a good day, too.

[21:20] Yoongi: I miss you, too

You were in the supermarket with your mum and sister; they had sent you to find potato starch but instead, you found yourself staring blindly at a wall of breakfast cereals. Your mind was elsewhere and when you first heard your name being called, you assumed it was your family, about to chastise you for not being able to get even one thing right. Upon turning around, however, you saw a different familiar face. Chanmi, whom you met in your cooking classes, who also took the baking classes just like you did. She was newly married and wanted to stop her mother-in-law despairing over her lack of skill in the kitchen. If that hadn’t worked, you thought, the promise of a grandchild certainly would.

“Hi!” she cried, stopping her trolley nexct to you. “How have you been?! It’s been so long!”

“Yeah, it really has! Nine months, by the looks of it?”

You laughed; she had barely been showing at the end of the classes and now, there was absolutely no hiding that she was very great with child.

“Ugh, I know, I’m huge! She was due on Christmas day, actually; thank god that didn’t happen. I would not have wanted to spend all of Christmas in labour.”

“Well, sure, but I’m not sure I’d want to spend all of any day in labour, to be honest. I don’t envy you.”

“I’m in denial,” she said with a wave of her hand. “I know it has to happen but I’m just not thinking about it. I’m hoping she will hold out until New Year’s Eve, that way, when all the fireworks go off, I can scream as much as I like and no one will hear me.”

You laughed again; you hadn’t kept in touch with anyone from the classes (except Yoongi) but it was nice to see her and nice to see that her life was working out, that she was happy, that things were going just as they were planned.

“Well, you look amazing,” you told her. “Pregnancy suits you.”

“That’s so sweet of you. But how are you? How are you and, I’m so sorry, I’ve forgotten his name, your boyfriend?”

“Uh, I don’t have a boyfriend.”

“Oh no, you broke up? I’m so sorry!”

You were confused. You didn’t know who she could be talking about. It wasn’t San. Might she have meant Sungbin? Had you told her about that? You were frowning, trying to puzzle it out in your head and Chanmi spoke again.

“I’m sorry; have I put my foot in it? I meant the guy in the baking classes with you? Is t-”

“Yoongi?!” you exclaimed with more volume than was entirely necessary.

“Yes! Yoongi, that was his name!-”

“Oh my god, no, he is not my boyfriend!”

“No?”

“No! We met in the baking class!”

It was Chanmi’s turn to lose control of her volume.

“WHAT?” Her mouth gaped in disbelief. “You must be joking.”

You shook your head.

“You met in the baking classes? We all thought you were a couple!”

“‘We all’? All of you thought we were together? Why?”

“I don’t know, you just seemed so close. You had chemistry. Then there were the couple of times he didn’t show up and you seemed so upset, we assumed you must have had a fight or something. I don’t know; you just... looked like a couple. Sorry.”

“No, no, it’s fine,” you replied, distracted now. “I just had no idea we looked like that.”

She had blown your mind. You were sure you had told people when you started the classes that you had just been broken up with – you couldn’t shut up about it! You told anyone who would listen and some people who wouldn’t. She must have known. So how did Yoongi fit into that? Did she just forget?

You and Yoongi? Taehyung had been making the same comments, albeit as jokes, for as long as you had known Yoongi and you hadn’t taken a single one of them seriously. And yeah, ok, you did sleep together, but that was a one-time thing, an aberration. Did you really look like a couple? Seem like a couple? Behave like a couple?

The thought plagued you for the rest of the day and into the next day, too. Your friendship with Yoongi was special, yes. It was different from your friendship with Taehyung, or any of the friendships you’d had before, yes. But it was still a friendship, wasn’t it? Just a friendship. You played films in your head, imagining the two of you in baking class, what you might have looked like to others. You played them again and again, from different angles, trying to see through different eyes.

All of Taehyung’s jokes rattled around in your brain; he had just been being stupid and annoying. He wasn’t making a point. You didn’t think he was making a point anyway. He hadn’t been serious, at least. He didn’t actually think Yoongi should be your boyfriend. You were sure. You opened your phone and thought about texting him. Then you thought twice. You thought about texting Yoongi, almost as a test to prove that you were just friends. Then you thought twice because he had bigger issues to deal with. You scrolled your short list of contacts and found one that might help.

[13:45] You: Hey Taem! You remember Yoongi who I brought to Teddy’s Halloween party?

[13:49] Taem: sure, what about him?

[13:50] You: Did you think we were a couple?

[13:51] Taem: when I first saw you and you introduced me, yeah, I thought you might be. Why?

[13:51] You: do you think we COULD be a couple?

[13:53] Taem: why not? if that’s what you want

[13:57] You: no, I mean... did we seem like a couple? Like, do you think we like each other? If I’d said he was my boyfriend, would you have believed me?

[13:58] Taem: I don’t know, I mean.. Sure? I’d have believed you if you said he was your boyfriend, why wouldn’t I? What’s going on?

[14:02] You: nothing, sorry, it’s nothing.

[14:02] You: thank you

[14:09] You: I’m just confused I think

With Yoongi away, you decided the best thing for it was to just shove all of that into a bag and shove that bag to the very back of your mind. You were friends. That’s all. If that ever changed, well, then you could get the bag back out and have a look at it and see what you thought. If.

[00:00] You: HAPPY NEW YEAR!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

[00:00] You: STILL MISS YOU!!!! I HOPE YOU ARE HAING FUN!!

[00:01] You: HavE A DRINK OR LOTS N MEEE1!

[00:53] Yoongi: my grandfather died

[00:54] You: FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCckkkkkkkk

[04:51] You: are you ok? Shit, babe, I’m so sorry

[04:51] You: what a fucking terrible way to start the year

[04:53] Yoongi: yeah

[04:53] Yoongi: not exactly unexpected but not the best timing

[04:53] Yoongi: I guess it never is though

[04:54] You: 🫂🫂🫂🫂🫂🫂🫂🫂🫂🫂

[04:55] You: let me know if I can do anything

[04:56] Yoongi: actually I would really like a hug

[04:56] You: 🏃🏃🏃 on my way

Your mother had always taught you not to make decisions after 9pm or on an empty stomach. You hadn’t eaten since 8pm the previous night, nor had you slept, so 5am technically counted as after 9pm. Nevertheless, you were making a decision.

You rolled into a taxi and stumbled into your apartment. You grabbed an overnight bag and threw in all the necessary items and then a random selection of clothing (whatever was closest and whatever was clean). The you taxi’d to the intercity bus station and got on the first bus to Daegu.

It was a three-hour ride and you slept through the whole thing, which was just as well because, if you’d been conscious, you might have had time to second-guess this decision, to think better of it, to think it through at all. The driver politely nudged you awake at the Daegu bus terminal and you blinked, bleary-eyed and hungover, dry-mouthed and dry-eyed. You shuffled off the bus with your bag over your shoulder and headed straight to A Twosome Place where you downed one coffee and then another and ate three pastries.

It didn’t feel right to just show up at Yoongi’s parents’ house in your present state (not to mention that you also had no idea where it was). You brushed your hair and your teeth in the terminal bathroom and washed your face, changed out of your New Year’s party outfit. There was then nothing else to do without getting in touch with Yoongi; you stood in the concourse, feeling a little foolish.

Yoongi sat heavily in the chair at his parents’ dining table and sighed. It was littered with documents: letters, insurance paperwork, hospital paperwork, bank statements, pension statements, certificates for home ownership, car ownership, some appliance manuals for god knew what reason. Somehow, it had become his job to sort through them. To sort through everything. To organise a funeral, as if he had even the faintest idea how to do that. He couldn’t blame his father- he wasn’t blaming anyone; he just didn’t know how it ended up at his door.

He rubbed his eyes and picked up a piece of paper; he didn’t expect any government offices to be open on new year’s day so he wasn’t entirely sure what he was supposed to be achieving, but he could try.

He dropped his head into his hands. It wasn’t as if he didn’t ever think about death, but it was different when it wasn’t his own, when it wasn’t hypothetical, when it was his own family falling apart around him because of it. He looked down at the bank statements in front of him, the pension claimed, the savings dwindling. It made him feel sick. It churned in his guts, this feeling like tar in his blood. He knew he hadn’t slept; he was overtired; he was emotional; it was a difficult time; but he also looked at all this paperwork and thought about how much better off his family would be if he were dead.

He could sort all this out beforehand, get everything in order. Then he could die and everything would come to his parents. They would be set. No need to wait on him sending money each month; no need to work; they’d be taken care of. His sister, too, of course he’d provide for her. But then that would be it. There would be no obligation, no guilt, no awkwardness between him and his family.

He took a deep breath. He had to take a break, but how, when he was the only person who would get this stuff done?

His phone vibrated on the table next to him and he almost ignored it, but then he saw your name on the notification and it was in his hand in an instant.

[11:02] You: I'm here

Yoongi rubbed his eyes. He looked back at previous messages and still didn’t understand what you were saying. He couldn’t believe you were here, as in, in Daegu. You were joking when you’d said you were on your way. He knew that, even though he hadn’t been joking when he said he wanted a hug. You must have meant that message for someone else.

He put his phone back on the table, content to leave your message unanswered, but then he thought that you might not notice you sent it to the wrong person. He should reply. He looked at the blinking cursor and his mind was blank. He should ask something like, ‘did you mean to send that to me?’ or tell you that ‘I think you meant to send this to someone else’, but he didn’t have it in him. He didn’t want to know what you were doing, who you were meeting. His cup already overflowed with misery, loneliness, a dash of despair; he couldn’t miss you. Rather, he couldn’t engage with the fact that he did.

There was guilt there, too. He knew he’d been a little quiet, a little distant with you. It was only half intentional. He didn’t want to know what he was missing, didn’t want to acknowledge his life back in Seoul; it made it so much harder to be here, amongst this, being thrown back in time only to find you no longer belonged—though part of him felt like he never did.

His absence was all around him: in this house he bought but had never visited, in this neighbourhood he had never lived in, these streets he had never driven down. Daegu was a different place now; his family home wasn’t his family home anymore because it had been falling down around them until he bought them a new one, this one, new and bigger with all the mod-cons they could have asked for. He was sleeping in the spare bedroom – a spare bedroom. When he had last lived in this city, there weren’t enough bedrooms to go around and now they had extras.

All Yoongi could see was the places where he should have fit in but didn’t. The world was so much bigger now than it had been but there still wasn’t a place for him here.

He kept you, the thought of you, like a secret, and then he let it eat at him at night, when he lay in the spare bed and couldn’t sleep. He looked at his phone, the screen lighting up his face in the dark, and waited for you to message. Occasionally you did. Mostly you didn’t. He knew that was his fault, too; he hadn’t replied so why would you? But he looked all the same; he felt sad and pathetic when he checked your instagram again, unable to decide if he wanted you to have posted or if he wanted you not to have; the twist in his guts was sharp and long-lasting.

Right at that moment, he knew you’d be better off without him, too. But first he at least had to text you back.

[11:14] Yoongi: what?

[11:14] You:

Yoongi couldn’t believe what he was seeing. He knew that view; he knew that building; he knew where that was but you weren’t serious. This was a weird joke; it had to be.

[11:17] Yoongi: you’re in Daegu?

[11:17] You: new year’s day special: one hug, same day delivery for the low price of Nothing, It’s Absolutely Free

With his phone in both hands, he knocked his forehead against it, his eyes squeezed shut against the sting of tears, his jaw clenched. His heart was hiccuping in his chest. So you had come. You had come to Daegu. Because he had said he wanted a hug. You had come almost 200 miles. To see him.

He took in a deep breath, the biggest lungful he could manage, and then he blew it sharply out again.

[11:25] Yoongi: I’ll come and pick you up. Give me twenty minutes or so

[11:25] You: no need!

[11:25] You: I can get a taxi!

[11:25] You: I just need your address

Yoongi didn’t reply. He didn’t read your messages because he was already putting his phone in his pocket and walking towards the door.

He took a moment, once he was sitting in his car, to take another deep breath. This felt complicated and confusing and he was overwhelmed. He wanted to sit in a dark, quiet room. He wanted to get in his car, pick you up, and just keep driving. All the way to the coast maybe.

Then he thought about the beach and that day and he changed his mind. To the north-east perhaps. The forested hills of the Taebaek mountains could hide you both for a while. That might be nice. Everything here felt like too much but the trees and the hills and the coastline, that he thought he could manage.

He sighed and turned on the ignition, pulling smoothly into the road on his way to you.

You tapped your phone nervously. Yoongi hadn’t responded at all. You couldn’t go anywhere without some kind of confirmation from him: that he was coming or that he wasn’t. Your messages were unread. There was nothing you could do but wait. Wait and feel a little bit sicker with every minute that passed; your nerves were starting to get the better of you. Your stomach sank lower and your heart fell with it. You should not have come, you saw that now. What Yoongi didn’t need right now was a house guest. What Yoongi didn’t need was someone else to consider, to take into account; what Yoongi didn’t need was you, once again, inserting yourself into his (someone else’s) business. Like you always did.

It wasn’t about you. It shouldn’t have been about you, but there you were, hungover and probably still stinking of booze, making Yoongi leave his grieving family to come and pick you up. Making it about you. You groaned and put your head in your hands, in half a mind to just get on the next bus back to Seoul.

And all that was not to mention the bag of feelings you had shoved to the back of your mind. You didn’t know what to expect when you saw Yoongi again. It felt mad to expect that anything would be different just because someone had confused the two of you for a couple; you didn’t know how that could have changed anything but you were scared that it had. Scared that this was a mistake and that you were going to make more, that you were going to ruin this, even without knowing how.

Your phone buzzed.

[11:57] Yoongi: I’m here. There’s a pick-up zone; I’m parked there.

The relief almost made you cry.

You jogged to the car park and spotted him immediately. You knocked on his window and made him get out of the car so you could hug him properly. Your chest felt tight and you closed your eyes, praying you wouldn’t cry, holding on to him as tightly as you possibly could. He held you just the same. Your heart swelled and broke at the same time. It was so good to be back with him and so bad for it to be in these circumstances.

“Are you ok?” you asked, your voice muffled in his scarf.

You felt him nod.

It was you who eventually pulled back and then an awkward silence fell between you.

“One hug!” you said. “Delivered as promised.”

“Yeah.” Yoongi attempted a chuckle and rubbed his neck. “I guess you can go back to Seoul now.”

“Oh, I- yeah, I mean, I can go back, if you want me to go back-”

“No. I mean, you don’t have to stay, if you don’t want.”

“Well I can stay, but I don’t want to be a nuisance-”

“You’re not.”

“Ok... Uh, so... I’ll stay then?”

Yoongi nodded and ducked back into the car.

You looked at him as he drove; he looked pale and tired and skinnier than he had been. He hadn’t been taking care of himself and you knew it was because he was too busy trying to take care of everyone else; that was who he was. But you were there now. You could be a care-taker, too. You might not have had the experience, but you wanted it. You were capable now. You didn’t have to be taken care of anymore, not like before, so it was time to pass it forward properly. That was your task here, that was all. This wasn’t about you, you repeated to yourself. Everything else can go back to the corner you shoved it in for now. It was so not the time.

Yoongi pulled up to a large house and parked on the road. There were three cars in the driveway. He took your bag and led you up to the door. He opened it silently and slipped off his shoes, not announcing his return or your arrival, but his mother called from somewhere else in the house.

“Yoongi! Where have you been?” Her voice was getting closer and she soon appeared in the hallway from a room to the left. “Oh, who’s this? Is this your girlfriend?”

Yoongi took a steeling breath.

“No, I don’t have a girlfriend.”

“You don’t? I thought she was a model?”

“No, we broke up months ago. I told you.”

“Oh, well who’s this?”

Yoongi introduced you and you put your best foot forward.

“It’s nice to meet you; I’m so sorry it’s under such circumstances. I’m sorry for your loss. I’m here to help in any way I can—put me to work!”

His mother was already distracted, looking to her right; you weren’t sure if she was listening.

“Could you put some tea on?” she asked, turning sharply to you.

Yoongi frowned and you could see him open his mouth, so you jumped in.

“Yeah of course! I’m sure Yoongi can help me find everything, right?”

You grabbed hold of his sleeve and gave it a light tug. He moved forward and led you to the kitchen.

It was expansive, with chrome fittings and granite worktops and a double-sink the size of your coffee table. It was bright and modern and so different from what you had expected. You realised that your expectations had been coloured by Yoongi’s childhood, that you were expecting them to still be poor, but of course, they weren’t. Yoongi had seen to that.

This was a beautiful house, with a large entry way and tiled floors and both a breakfast bar and a dining table. It was the sort of house you fantasised about growing up in as a kid. You wondered how Yoongi felt about it. All this comfort and convenience that he had bought his family. You hoped it made him proud, made him happy that he could do things like this for his family. He should be proud; this house was nothing short of a show-home. Nothing looked out of place, even now, with everything going on. There were no dishes in the sink, no plates or cups left on the sides, nothing lying around waiting to be put away.

Yoongi indicated which cupboards held what you needed and he filled the kettle. There wasn’t awkwardness between you anymore but there was something. He felt far away. You didn’t know how people dealt with grief, or even death—is it grief when it’s still so close?—and were lucky that you had never had to, but you felt ill-equipped now. Ill-equipped and self-conscious. Of course he wasn’t going to be alone; it wasn’t going to just be the two of you. That was obvious, but you had managed to forget it and you felt inhibited by the presence of his family, everywhere in this house, despite the almost clinical neatness of it. There was no Yoongi there. It wasn’t like his apartment at all.

You busied yourself with the tea and pushed him out of the way as he tried to do it for you.

“You don’t have to make tea, you know,” he said, quietly.

“I said I was here to help and if making tea helps, then I’ll make tea. It’s ok.”

The next few days were confusing and draining. You had put your foot down and insisted you would stay in a hotel, so as not to put them out; Yoongi had retaliated by putting his foot down and paying for a room in a far fancier hotel than any you would have picked. You tried to be of use, and if not of use, then at least out of the way. This meant you spent most of your time entertaining Yoongi’s niece and nephew; this was easier on the third day, when it snowed, and you made snow animals in the garden and pushed them on taboggans down the hill.

You didn’t see all that much of Yoongi; the only times you were alone was when he picked you up in the morning and dropped you back at night. You didn’t talk much—he didn’t. You, on the other hand, found that you couldn’t stop.

“Sorry, I can’t stop talking,” you said on Tuesday as he stopped at a traffic light. “I know I’m being annoying. I just can’t shut up; I feel like I haven’t spoken to you forever.”

“No, it's ok. I’m sorry I’m not talking more; I’m just tired.”

“As long as I’m not bothering you.”

“No. I like listening to you talk.”

“Ok, then. Good.”

The funeral took place on Friday; Yoongi explained that it might be more traditional than you were used to. You had never been to any funerals so you had no expectations anyway. You had been tasked with making all the food, for an undetermined number of guests that Yoongi couldn’t guess at and no one else would tell you. You cobbled together an outfit with things borrowed from his sister. You felt out of place. You didn’t feel like you had any right to be there when you went with them to his grandparents’ house, when you watched him and his dad and his uncles carry his grandfather’s coffin out of the grounds, when his father trod on the earth above his father, when his uncle spoke eloquently about what his life had been and meant.

You hadn’t expected to be moved. You had rather hoped that you wouldn’t be. You were there to be a pillar of strength and support but there was weeping all around you and sadness and grey skies full of snow and you sniffled quietly to yourself, letting your tears fall as gently as you could. A hand snuck into yours, ice-cold fingers pressing into your palm. You turned to look at Yoongi as he continued to stare straight ahead. You squeezed back.

When he cut the engine outside your hotel that night, he slumped in his seat with his head tipped back. He sighed.

“Why don’t you come up for a drink or something?” you offered.

You were exhausted, so you had no idea how he was hanging on. He was already shaking his head but you cut him off.

“Come on, just a quick one. You look done in, my love. You look like you could use one.”

He gave in with no further fight and drove around the back of the building to the car park.

You kicked off your shoes and Yoongi followed you in, sitting heavily down on the bed, staring at his shoes.

“Come on,” you said, pushing his jacket off his shoulders and loosening his tie. He let you do it, let you lift his arms to get them out of the sleeves, let you slip the tie from under the shirt collar. He watched you, thoughtless, as you knelt down in front of the mini bar and picked a little bottle of whiskey. You dumped it into a glass and handed it to him.

“Do you want ice? I can get ice,” you offered.

He shook his head and then tipped it back, downing the drink in one. He didn’t need ice. He needed at least six more of these so he could pass the fuck out. That scraped-out feeling rang in him, hollow, resounding, all his surfaces scratched and sticky with guilt and misery.

He leant his whole body backwards, flopping onto his back.

“You know I haven’t been back here since I left?”

“What, Daegu?”

“Mm.”

“Since you left at 18?”

“Yep.”

“Wow.”

“I know.”

“Not to see your sister’s kids?”

He closed his eyes. It brought a sour taste to his mouth, acidic and stringent and metallic.

“No,” he admitted. “I know. That makes me a horrible person.”

“No, it doesn’t. That’s a long time to be away, though.”

“Yeah.”

“Do you wish you’d come back earlier?”

“No.”

“I guess this isn’t the best time to come back, is it? Not a happy time. If you come back again later, it’ll be better.”

You joined him on the bed. You lay next to him and took his hand. It was warm. He could smell your perfume.

The sigh he heaved next could’ve rumbled the very earth. He knew you were giving him space, to breathe, to think, to gather his thoughts. You were a motor-mouth; that was the very first thing he had learnt about you. You talked all the time, but you always gave him time to think. You didn’t rush him or push him or even comment on his quietness, his hesitation.

He shook his head because he couldn’t think about you at this moment. He had just about managed to keep that door shut while you had been here because there was so much to do and so much to busy himself with, but now it was just the two of you and you were holding his hand and giving him space and he needed to fill it. With something.

With another sigh of resignation and an inhale to steel himself, he decided to say the other things he didn’t want to talk about.

“Coming back has reminded me why I left. I think the money was just an excuse; it gave me a legitimate reason to leave but I think I would have found a way out somehow. Any way. No matter what. Even in a body bag.”

“Babe...”

“We really had nothing, y’know? When I was growing up. We had nothing and I was so angry. I hated my parents so much because they couldn’t provide; they couldn’t be what parents were supposed to be. They didn’t do what parents were supposed to do. I was responsible for myself almost as soon as I started school. I was cooking dinner for the whole family every night before I was in high school. That’s not a kid’s role. Kids shouldn’t have to do that.

“On my drive down here, I felt it all again. The anger. The resentment. I had to pull over and stop for a while to calm down or else I’d have turned the car into oncoming traffic.”

He’d started so he had to finish but he needed another second. He wasn’t used to saying these things out loud. It made it easier that it was you. It made it harder that it was you.

“I suppose I'm a black sheep,” he said eventually. “I thought they would never forgive me for leaving, for doing what I wanted to do when they had no choices. I don’t know if they have. I’m not... I’m not really a part of it anymore and that’s my fault; I understand that I removed myself. I got away. I got out. I did what I wanted. Coming back here and facing that, facing them... I’ve been a coward. All this time I stayed away, it’s because I was scared to come back and see what they thought of me.”

“They love you.”

“No. I’m not sure they do.”

“Yoongi.”

You very rarely took that tone with him, the one that said you weren’t playing and he shouldn’t be either. He couldn’t even think of arguing with you at that moment. He changed the subject.

“Can I have another drink?” he asked.

You stood wordlessly and retrieved another little bottle, poured it again into his glass. He drank it in one as he had the first and you returned to his side. There was one thing he still really wanted to say, that was weighing heavily on his chest at that moment, but he knew you wouldn’t want to hear it, knew you would say he was wrong.

As he felt his eyelids droop and sleep begin to tug at him, he realised he had to get it out, before this moment passed and he wouldn’t be able to step into this territory again.

“I just really want to kill myself today.”

You turned on your side, curling into him, and pressed a kiss to his temple.

“I’m not going to let you,” you whispered.

“I know.”

Yoongi fell asleep quickly after that and you did not. You watched him sleep for a while, making sure he was still breathing, as if there were a chance he might just will himself dead. You, admittedly, didn’t know anything about his family but you couldn’t understand how he could suggest that they didn’t love him, that he was a black sheep, that he didn’t belong here. Their house, their cars, the things they had, the three jobs they didn’t have anymore... He hadn’t just given them things; he had given them freedom; he had given them security and stability. Not all people are good at showing gratitude or expressing themselves, but he had to know they were grateful. They had to be grateful, right?

The minutes ticked by and you were still watching him sleep. You resisted the urge to brush a strand of hair out of his face. You resisted the urge to trace his lips with your finger. You hadn’t had a chance to interrogate yourself, to notice what you were feeling until now. Now that he was asleep, his mouth just slightly ajar, his eyebrows pressed together, you could really look at him. You could really look inwards at yourself.

You didn’t want to ask yourself if you had overlooked him. You didn’t want to wonder what you might have been missing, not seeing, not noticing. It had been a tumultuous year and you were so proud of yourself for getting to where you were now; you didn’t want to find out you had still been getting something wrong.

Had you? Was it really wrong to think that you and Yoongi were just friends? What did he think?

It came back to you again, that thought. That thing that you had been trying to remind yourself of but also occasionally using as a weapon to beat yourself with: it’s not about you. All this time, it had been about you. You were recovering from a break-up, you were seeing someone, you were being broken-up with again, you you you you you. Where had Yoongi been in all this? Right by your side, of course, but where had he been in your consideration? He was recovering from a break-up, too. He had problems, too. He understood you and you had clung to that, sometimes for your very life. You felt your neediness begin to leak out your pores like oil, slick and staining and all over you. You could almost see it spill towards him, a contaminant, making you his problem, too, all your problems his, all your neediness his to carry.

You got off the bed and changed into your pyjamas; you washed your make-up off and brushed your teeth. You took your time so that you could be distracted and then you ran out of things to do. You looked at Yoongi, still passed out halfway down the bed, his shoes still on. You took them off for him; you undid his belt and pulled it through the loops; you considered him and wondered if you could pull him up the bed without waking him.

“What are you doing?” he mumbled, voice low and slurred with sleep as you grabbed him by the armpits and tried to pull him towards the head of the bed.

“Sorry! Sorry, I’m just trying to make you comfortable?”

You were standing over him, crouched on the pillow on his side of the bed, doing your best to let your weight do all the moving for you. Yoongi sat up and turned around to frown at you, his eyes narrow and the hair at the back of his head mussed. You moved out of the way and he shuffled himself backwards, lying back down with his head properly on the pillow. You settled next to him and he was still frowning at you.

“Sorry,” you repeated, an embarrassed giggle let slip.

Yoongi shrugged and turned on his side to face you.

“Is it ok if I stay here?” he asked, already closing his eyes again and getting comfortable.

“Duh.”

You woke earlier than usual and were unable to get back to sleep. What you did not want was more time alone with your thoughts. Definitely not time alone with your thoughts in bed next to Yoongi who was sleeping with a sweet pout on his face and giving you all kinds of confused feelings.

You picked up your phone and started looking at bus times back to Seoul. You didn’t know if Yoongi would be returning now, or soon, but it felt like the right time for you to leave. ‘Family emergenices’ only get you so much time off work and yours was running out. And you felt like you had to be in Seoul to think things through; that was where you life was; that was where your friendship with Yoongi was; you couldn’t make any conclusions away from home. It didn’t make sense.

Yoongi slept for a long time. You let him, because he had looked so tired and clearly needed the rest, but you were starting to feel claustrophobic in the room, claustrophobic in your determination to not think about things. You hated the thought of him waking up and thinking you’d left him, but you had to get out.

You scribbled a note, left it on your pillow and got the fuck out of there. The air was cold and fresh; even the wind, bitter and stinging, felt good. You took deep breaths and tried to follow the map on your phone to a café.

You reached it but it wasn’t open for another twenty minutes, which meant twenty more minutes in which you had nothing to do but think your thoughts. Desperate to get them out of you somehow, you did something you were almost certain you would regret.

[10:38] You: Teddy

[10:38] You: what if I have feelings for Yoongi?

[10:39] You: Do NOT call me

[10:39] You: I CANNOT talk about this

[10:39] You: I just,..

[10:39] You: I don’t know

[10:39] You: what if I do?

[10:45] Teddy 🐻: I don’t know what I can say if you don’t want to talk about it

[10:45] Teddy 🐻: but babygirl you are a catch and he’d be lucky to have you

[10:45] Teddy 🐻: don’t have a crisis rn. Come home and then you can have one, ok?

[10:45] Teddy 🐻: 😚😚😚

You sighed. You didn’t know what you were expecting him to say, or wanted him to say, but somehow, it wasn’t that.

You trudged back to the hotel with coffees in hand (one iced for Yoongi; one hot, but rapidly cooling, for you). Yoongi was half-pushed-up when you walked in, having been woken by the sound of the door. It made your stomach flip how small and cute he looked: still pouty, his face a little smushed from the pillow, his hair messy and on-end. He looked at you, trying to place himself, and then you saw his eyes flick to the coffee in your hand and alight there.

“Yes, I got one for you.”

He flipped onto his back with a satisfied groan and a long stretch.

“Thank you.”

You placed the cup onto the bedside table next to him and he took it immediately, pushing himself into a sitting position and leaning against the headboard. He took a long drink.

“This is good. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Um, do you need to let your family know where you are? Will they be worried?”

He shook his head, the quiet satisfaction slipping from it, a tight mask taking its place.

“No, they won’t. It’ll be fine.”

You didn’t want to argue with him. You changed the subject.

“How did you sleep?”

He nodded as he took another long draw of coffee through the straw.

“Good, actually.” Then he looked at his phone and grimaced. “Oh, late, too, haha.”

“I thought it would be better to let you sleep in, catch up a little. Should I have woken you?”

“No, no, it’s ok. The urgent work is done, I suppose.” He paused, still looking at his phone. “I guess this means I can leave?”

“I was planning to go back today, actually. I figured I’d get out of everyone’s hair-”

“You’re not in anyone’s hair.”

“Well, you know what I mean. I don’t want to overstay my welcome or make a nuisance of myself. I know I’m very good at inserting myself into other people’s business but even I have some sense of manners and propriety.”

There was a small pause as Yoongi continued to drink his coffee and stare straight ahead. Then he looked straight at you.

“I want you in my business. I like having you in my business.”

The nervous laugh that tried to bubble up from your throat got trapped there, and you choked, your cheeks flushing. You were the one who had to look away.

“Don’t encourage me, babe. You know I don’t need much!”

You forced your laugh, then, had to make it a joke. Yoongi’s sincerity was unpredictable and disarming at all times, but it was affecting you particularly strongly now.

“If you want to go, just let me know when and I’ll take you to the bus.”

You had opened your mouth to respond but he beat you to it.

“No, wait, you can come back with me. I’ll be driving anyway.”

“Today?”

He nodded.

“Are you sure? You don’t need to stay longer?”

He was resolute as he shook his head and drained the last of the coffee from his cup.

“That was quick.”

He grinned.

“Yeah, want to get another one? I have to go back to the house and clean up anyway, so we can stop on the way.”

“You go,” you answered. “I’ll pack and get sorted here. I’m sure you have stuff to sort out and want time to say your goodbyes and stuff.”

Yoongi shrugged and got out of bed.

He came back to pick you up later that afternoon. You were anxious at the prospect of three hours in the car with him; you were not skilled at keeping your thoughts and feelings to yourself, but he was the one person you really didn’t feel like you could talk to about this.

‘Hey, Yoongi, it’s possible that I’m discovering I have romantic feelings for you; what do you think about that?’

‘Hey, Yoongi, y’know how I said ages ago that I just wanted to be friends? What if I was wrong and I've actually changed my mind?’

‘Hey, Yoongi, quick question: do you think we should be together?’

Impossible.

“Are you ok?” he asked, somewhere around Chungju.

“Yeah, I’m fine! Are you ok?”

“Yeah. You’re just... quiet, that’s all.”

“Oh, no, uh, no I’m fine.”

“Sorry. I know it’s annoying to be told you’re being ‘quiet’; I get it all the time. Yeah, I am quiet sometimes, y’know? Leave me alone. But... You’re not quiet. Not usually.”

The weight of his words hit you because you knew what he meant, what he was referring to; you knew that you were at your quietest when you were at your worst. Or maybe that wasn’t what he was referring to, but it leapt into your mind all the same.

“I’m ok.”

You toyed with the idea of saying something, not the thing, but circling it, making the smallest inroads into that conversation. You thought about probing him about his family a little more, pushing him to say a bit more about it, to explain why he seemed to feel so bad about them. You wanted to know because you wanted to tell him he was wrong; you didn’t want him to feel excluded from his family, or unloved, or devalued, or unforgiven—even if it might possible be true. You would love, value, and forgive him enough for the lot of them.

“Do you think Cherry will be happy to see you?” you asked instead.

He smiled, a genuine, happy smile.

“She had better be.”

Chapter Seven | Masterlist | Chapter Nine tags: @chimmisbae, @idkjustlovingbts @miriamxsworld, @quarter-life-crisis2, @tarahardcore, @simp47koreancrackheads, @xyahrinx, @olyd, @diorh0seokie, @thelilbutifulthings

#yoongi x reader #yoongi angst #yoongi fic #bts x reader #bts angst #bts fic

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luciuscaelus · 22 days

Text

Our Story (Fanfic)

Chapter 1 Promises

“Now, sing O Muses, of that brave boy Odysseïdes, Sparta has he visit'd, Pylos twice, with Athena the wise queen…”

“Stop it,” Telemachus giggled. “You’re acting like your father.”

“No, I’m not,” said Peisistratus. “You’re acting like your father.”

“No, I’m not,” said Telemachus. “Unlike him, I don’t have many deeds to brag about.”

“Doesn’t sailing for the first time count?” Peisistratus insisted. “And if you don’t like this song I can always make a new one for you.”

“No thanks, Peisis,” Telemachus said. “At least, leave it till my birthday.”

“That I can arrange,” Peisistratus replied, seriously.

And they locked their gazes for a long time, until Telemachus finally burst out laughing. Soon Peisistratus joined him, and their laughter quickly flooded the entire palace. It died down eventually, as the two young men slowly calmed down. Then Peisistratus started:

“I’m so glad you’re here, Tele. Had it been another usual day, I’d be hunting with my brothers in the fields. Not that I don’t like hunting, it’s just that I’ve so many things to talk about and my brothers always find them either boring or childish. You might be the only one I could chat with. Ah, I wish you could visit Pylos more often.”

“Yeah,” Telemachus nodded. “It feels like such a long time since we last met…has it been two years already?”

“One whole year plus nine months, to be exact.”

“Right, I’m not gonna doubt you. After all, you’re better with this than I am.”

“That’s about the time since your father returned home, yep.”

“Before he set out again, you mean.”

“He set out again? About when?”

Telemachus sighed. “About one year and eight months ago. Said it was something concerning a prophecy someone named Teiresias told him—”

“Teiresias? The Teiresias? But isn’t he already dead?”

“Yep. My father had visited the Underworld, literally.”

Peisistratus gasped. “What—Oh my, that was some nostos your father had. Anyway has he met any great hero there? Like Theseus? Or Heracles? Or even my brother Antilochus?”

“He saw your brother there alright,” said Telemachus. “And Heracles, who even talked to him…”

“That’s so sick!” Peisistratus exclaimed. “I wonder if we’ll be having an adventure like this in the future, say, just you and me, maybe plus someone else, I don’t know.”

“You know what? It would be great!” Telemachus blinked his eyes excitedly. Why have I never thought about it before? Hanging out with my friends? It’s such a great idea! And father is going to be proud of us…

proud…

He’s going to be proud, isn’t he?

Telemachus wasn’t so sure. He remembered basically everything in that day, when his father again departed from Ithaca, this time to somewhere unknown even to himself. He remembered that it was a sunny day, that the chanting of birds was glorious, that the sweet scent of olives was mesmerizing, that the airy dance of cloud was elegant. These he remembered well, but most vividly he could recall that very scene, that very conversation—

“Father, I want to come along,” he had said. “I want to be with you wherever you go, so we can at least share some thrills and fun together.”

“No, Tele,” his father had answered, shaking his head. “I’m sorry, but I can’t bring you on board, not this time.”

“Why?” He had been so confused. “But I’ve always wanted to explore the worlds outside Ithaca, to see the giant oak in Dodona, the reputable land of Calydon, the seven gates of the famous Cadmea…I want to have an adventure, father. Just like you did.”

He remembered that look well. That look his father had gave him, those eyes with such agony, such sadness. Is it panic, panicking at the thought of his son following him down the miserable path that was meant for his own to take? Is it fear, fearing for the life and sanity of his son? Or is it sorrow, sorrowful over the naïve and innocent spirit of his 20-year-old son? Or is it pain, painful about the fact that he doesn’t even qualify as being a father, who never had the chance to see his son through the childhood, and hadn’t gotten to know this brave young man his son has become, before his fate was calling him to sail out again?

For a long time both of them didn’t speak, and the look was growing wearier and wearier and…it seemed as if another decade had passed inside his father’s mind, another decade filled with tribulations and torments. Telemachus couldn’t help but feel his regret. Regret that he ever said those words, regret that he wasn’t with his father when he needed him. The hands. He could feel his father’s hands gripping his shoulders tightly. But finally his father had lower the head, and sighed heavily. In a low voice, Odysseus had begun. “Tele, you have to understand. This cruel world is not as entertaining as it may seem, or sound in those tales. It’s dangerous out there, filled with monsters, storms, ruthless gods, and…and things that can go beyond your very imagination. Things that are so terrible, so overwhelming…”

He hadn’t finished the sentence, instead he was choked with sobs, and Telemachus had felt so guilty, and so helpless. But he had tried his best to withhold his tears, and had started to comfort his father. “Then I’ll face them bravely, father, like you would do. Like a true son of Odysseus would do.” Telemachus had put up with a smile. “As a true Odysseïdes.”

“Oh Tele…” Odysseus had moaned with tears. “Oh…for ten years I haven’t seen your face, in one month I haven’t gotten to know you better, but look, what an undaunted man you have become, when I’m away!” Finally, he had cracked into a smile. “Yes, that’s my boy!” He had said with sincere happiness, though the pain was still present in his voice. But at least, Odysseus had smiled.

And Telemachus had exhaled with relief.

“Father,” he had continued. “I wouldn’t insist if you really don’t want me along, but I need to know where you’re going, what you’re going to do, and how long I should wait for your return. Could you please tell me, just for mom’s sake and mine?”

And Odysseus had nodded. “Don’t worry about your mother, Telemachus. Penelope knows about this, and you have every right to know it as well.” He had stopped, and looked towards the western sky. As Telemachus followed his gaze, Odysseus continued. “Do you remember the story I’ve told you, about that prophet Teiresias in the Underworld? I had asked him about my fate, and he had answered:

‘…When someone else runs into you and says you've got a shovel used for winnowing on your broad shoulders, then fix that fine oar in the ground there, and make rich sacrifice to lord Poseidon with a ram, a bull, and a boar that breeds with sows. Then leave. Go home, and there make sacred offerings to the immortal gods…’

“So you see, Telemachus, I don’t know where I’ll go to, but I know what I’ll find. It may be a long voyage, or it may be short. Who knows? But I’m going anyway, because I am Laërtiades, son of the honorable Laërtes—one of the legendary Argonauts.”

“I see,” Telemachus had said. “The blood of dauntlessness runs deep in our family.”

“Precisely.” Odysseus had laughed proudly. “You, my son, will also share this honor, in the future perhaps, when you take on a journey of your own, and build your fame with your own feats. But today, the journey is mine to undertake, and with the blessing of the prophet, I’m very certain that I will make it home again.”

“Okay.” With a serious face, Telemachus had nodded. “Then I’ll try not to surpass you.”

They were both grinning when an owl started to whoop from the forest.

“Wait, dad,” Telemachus had suddenly called. “If not this time, then when?”

Odysseus had given him a slight smile. “When I return, son, I shall take you to Dodona, where the oaks are august; then we’ll visit Calydon, where twenty two heroes had once gathered to slay that giant boar; then we shall go to Thebes, where twice had the Argives waged war against, one of them being the father of a king whom I have befriended; and then,” Odysseus had patted Telemachus’s right shoulder. “Then I will bring you to Pylos again. And know that I won’t be gone for long. This is a promise.”

“Swear it on the river of Styx?”

“I swear it, on the river of Styx.”

Gradually, Telemachus had returned the smile. “Thank you, dad.” He had said, voice cracked with the bittersweet taste in his throat. “Thank you so much.”

He remembered the hug, the kiss, and the departure of his father clearly. He remembered how often he had doubted that whether his father would ever make it back again. He remembered that worried look of his mother, who had often stood by the shores of Ithaca, waiting, waiting. But he also remembered, that Odysseus had made a promise.

And here they were, in Pylos again, weren’t they?

And it only took him eight months, didn’t it?

So, there’s nothing to worry about. After all, there’s nothing that can waver the resolve of Odysseus’s homecoming. And thus he shall always return. Always.

All because of his love, and his promise.

Telemachus nodded to this fact. Love, and promise. That’s what my father was proud of. And if I have found the courage to love, to make a promise, then will Odysseus be proud of me, even with the knowledge that I may travel afar, likely into an ocean of danger, and a sea of trouble?

Then will we get to have our adventure, and get back safely? Will we get to tell our tales, and make our own story?

So to Peisistratus he said these words, with all his heart:

“And I’m sure we will. Of this I give you my promise.”

#It has stayed in the drafts for days #it’s on discord now but since I did this on tumblr might as well post it #greek mythology #tagamemnon #odysseus #telemachus #pisistratus #fanfic #fanfiction #writing #epic the musical #I’ve thought about all the chapters and yes you’re gonna see many familiar places and people #Imma explain chap 1 here a little bit #Sing O Muses? Had to be done #And it’s in dactylic hexameter #One sad thing is that Ody cannot stick around until he made that sacrifice for Poseidon #Ody staying for one month is actually from his own idea (when he was still a Cretan who claimed to know himself)#And dw the course has been plotted using three maps #I’ll calculate the time later on cuz Imma try sth like the Captain’s Log recording #Oh and the winions are considered real here #so it’s also an epic fanfic lol #I’ll see how far I can go

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