Archive of Our Own ^beta

It’s Jungkook rather than Taehyung manning the front desk when Seokjin walks into the hotel lobby, chatting animatedly with the young couple in front of him. It’s still early, just a little past eight in the morning, and normally Jungkook wouldn’t even be awake—much less coherent—at this time, but here he is, all smiles and bright eyes as he checks out the couple and deals with their last few concerns.

Seokjin waits until he waves them off with a big smile before sidling up the counter, pasting a bright, clearly-meant-to-annoy smile on his face. 

“Hi,” he says, then winks at Jungkook. “I’d like a room, please.”

And just as he’d expected, Jungkook huffs, then rolls his eyes a little. “Get it yourself, hyung,” he retorts, although there’s no malice in his voice. He stretches, yawning a bit before leaning forward on the counter. “It’s your hotel.”

Seokjin hums at that. “Why are you here?” He asks, reaching over to pinch Jungkook at the back of his neck. “I’m pretty sure the shift schedule had Kim Taehyung written on it for this morning.”

“Taehyungie-hyung asked to switch,” Jungkook replies. He slaps Seokjin’s hand off him, and Seokjin is a little embarrassed by how much he flinches at that movement. There's absolutely no reason for Jungkook to be this strong, and yet. “Said he wanted to sleep in.”

“And that was okay with you?”

“Yeah, I guess,” Jungkook says, shrugging. “I was already awake anyway.”

“Already awake, or still awake?”

Jungkook grins. “If you don’t ever sleep, you can’t ever get tired.”

Hm. “I’m pretty sure there’s something very wrong with that logic,” Seokjin replies, and barely manages to dodge the neck slice Jungkook sends his way. “But I can’t seem to figure out what it is.” 

The grin on Jungkook’s face widens. “Just say that you’re old and go,” he says sagely, and then he’s gone before Seokjin can retort, giggling and ducking into the back office.

. . .

If he’s being very honest, owning a tiny hotel in the middle of Seoul was probably not the future he envisioned for himself when he was little. Heck, it probably wasn’t even the future Seokjin envisioned for himself while he was in university. He’d thought he’d be an actor, or do something related to film and entertainment.

But fate seemed to have other plans, and well. Here he is. A tiny hotel in his name (bed-and-breakfast, Jungkook calls it, when he wants to be particularly annoying), and a job in the tourism sector, having to smile politely at guests every single day and attend to their every whim. It’s just as taxing as it sounds, especially since he’s only got about eight people in his employ and has to do a bunch of things himself, but it’s, well. It’s not bad. He might call it nice, even. And somewhat rewarding, really, at least after the first three years of what felt like hell getting this business up and running. 

And okay, maybe his hotel is a little too tiny and a little too worn and his parents might still sometimes roll their eyes at his refusal to do literally anything else, but at this point Seokjin couldn’t care less. He’s worked for it and invested in it and he may love it just a tiny bit.

It also helps that he’s somehow managed to hire the best employees.

. . .

Taehyung barges into his office at around one in the afternoon, which is about an hour later than Seokjin expected. “Hyung,” he says, tone audibly excited. “It’s been an hour. Did you hear it? You have to have heard it, it’s so good.”

Seokjin doesn’t look up from where he’s squinting at an excel sheet. “What is?” he asks the little numbers in the cells. “Accounting?”

“The song!” Taehyung bursts, his voice far too loud for the quality of the walls in the office. Seokjin hears a few footsteps, and then suddenly there’s a Taehyung-sized thing right beside him. “The new song. It’s amazing.”

It’s difficult to ignore him, especially when he’s practically vibrating, looming over his desk like that, but Seokjin tries anyway. “I have heard amazing songs before,” he says, clicking on a cell. “I don’t know why this is so different. Or urgent, for that matter.”

Seokjin can practically feel the way Taehyung rolls his eyes. “Because it’s Agust D,” Taehyung emphasizes, like that’s supposed to mean something to Seokjin. “SUGA. Literally Korea’s national pride.”

Contrary to what Taehyung thinks, Seokjin does know who SUGA is. “And?”

“And, and—what do you mean and?” Taehyung blurts, crossing his arms. “This man is a literal rap genius—the whole country wants to suck his dick, and you—you’re not even a little bit curious?”

Not really. “I don’t know,” Seokjin says. He seems to have mistyped a number somewhere; his whole balance sheet is showing he’s missing about fifty-thousand won on one side. Or did he accidentally add an extra fifty-thousand? “I don’t really like rap.”

“You don’t like—this isn’t just rap, this is Agust D,” Taehyung says, like it’s brand new information. “This is different.”

“He rhymes and he speaks fast. So does everyone else.”

“You’re so—” Taehyung breaks off, sighing. “Someday. Literally someday, you, too, will be on your knees for Agust D, and you’ll come crawling back to me to apologize.”

“I really don’t think I will.”

“That’s because your opinion is uninformed,” Taehyung says pointedly. 

“What does that mean?”

“Whatever you think it means.” There’s a pause. “Jungkook and I will be going on our lunch break now.”

Seokjin’s head shoots up. “At the same time?” He asks. “Who’ll be manning the front desk then?”

There’s a suspicious glint in Taehyung’s eye. “You.”

“Me?” Seokjin asks, incredulous. “What do you mean, me? I hired you two so you could switch off, not—” a light bulb goes off in his head. “...you looped the song in the hotel lobby, didn’t you.” It's not really a question.

A grin forms on Taehyung’s face. “Not telling,” he sing-songs, then darts out of Seokjin’s office. His head pops back in a split second later though, grin still taking up half of his face. “Also whatever happens in the lobby is all Jungkookie’s fault.”

“Hey!” Seokjin can hear Jungkook protest, as Taehyung closes the door. “It was your idea.”

The silence that comes after Taehyung’s energy is both a little strange and comforting. Seokjin gives himself thirty seconds to sit with it, to enjoy its quiet, before pasting a smile on his face and pushing himself off the chair.

. . .

Here’s a small math problem for you:

How many times can Daechwita by SUGA be played in the span of two hours if the song lasts around four minutes each time and is set to play on a loop?

Answer: Thirty times, supposedly. But eighteen times until Seokjin’s head starts hurting and he has to go unplug the whole sound system.

(But okay, fine. Taehyung’s right. The song’s really good.)

. . .

“I can’t believe you hate this song,” Jungkook says, spinning around on the chair in the back office. From the speaker, Daechwita is playing once again, not from Jungkook or Taehyung’s phone, but from a random radio show he’d put on. It’s probably the hundredth time he’s heard it today. Seokjin thinks he might be going crazy.

“I don’t hate it,” Seokjin replies. “I would just like to listen to something else.”

Jungkook gives him a look. “You’re the only person who wants to listen to a song other than SUGA’s on the day he drops a new song.”

“I don’t think I’m a rare breed,” Seokjin says, just as Taehyung’s voice wafts from the barely-even-a-bar hotel bar, belting out the chorus. “There are others, I’m sure.”

“Only person I know,” Jungkook amends, and spins himself around. 

It’s a little slow today, and for that, Seokjin is grateful. Most of the guests had been out of their rooms by around noon, which means that they mostly had free reign of the hotel and were able to do a bunch of things they really shouldn’t be. Seokjin had managed to get a decent amount of headway into his spreadsheet, Jungkook had managed to sneak in games of Overwatch in the back office, and Taehyung had managed to lie down on one of the couches and binge an anime.

And absolutely none of the guests were witness to the hotel lobby being turned into an Daechwita streaming party. Thank God.

“I don’t know,” Seokjin says. “He’s a bit much, don’t you think?”

Jungkook blinks. “What?"

Seokjin shrugs. “He just doesn’t seem all that...genuine to me.”

“Not genuine?” Jungkook looks confused. “Have you heard his lyrics?”

“Yeah, and he’s incredibly honest, I’ll give him that. But he’s just—” and the rest of his sentence is lost as the song tapers out and the familiar drum pattern of Agust D comes blasting at full volume, the sound bouncing against the walls.

“They call me new thang ,” Jungkook yells at the top of his lungs, the conversation all but forgotten. From the doorway, Taehyung pops his head into the back office, a far too mischievous grin on his face.

“Hyung,” he says, not even looking the slightest bit remorseful. “Here’s a different song.”

One day, Seokjin is going to fire them.

. . .

The thing is, unlike what Jungkook and Taehyung think, Seokjin doesn’t really actively hate Agust D. Or SUGA. Or whatever the guy chooses to go by normally. He really doesn’t. 

He just...doesn’t see the hype?

In his head it’s like this: this man SUGA goes and writes a bunch of rap songs that are like fuck capitalism and the education system is so toxic, and everyone goes head over heels for him and his tongue technology and the way he strings words together, paints him as this loud anarchist with bad boy tendencies. He’s always trending on Twitter or the Naver searches, his face is on every single tabloid, his new song is always playing somewhere, and it seems to have gotten to that point where he’s untouchable, where literally everything he touches turns to gold, whether it’s a rap feature or a producing feature or even an endorsement for fried fucking chicken. He’s an actual god, to the point that people worship the ground he walks on and all, and, okay, Seokjin’s not one to criticize what other people do but it’s just. He just seems larger than life, is all. A little too much, a little too loud.

His bad boy image also just doesn’t seem real. If the tabloids are to be believed, SUGA goes out partying almost every night, gets really drunk and starts fights.Takes home people—sometimes boys, sometimes girls—and allegedly does things with them. He’s got a rumor mill the size of a factory dedicated to him, with every single person watching his every move, every single bad ass story said to be him. He’s a contradiction—an asshole but a lovable asshole, a bad reputation but somehow still topping the brand index, and Seokjin just.

Refuses to believe it’s all real, is all.

. . .

It’s almost one in the morning when Seokjin spots him, dressed in all black and standing outside the hotel. He almost blends in with the night, if not for how pale his skin is, reflecting the light from the streetlamps.

Taehyung and Jungkook had gone home a few hours earlier, and now it’s just him and Moonbyul, who is sitting in the back office preparing the check-outs for tomorrow. The hotel is quiet, almost peaceful in the nighttime, a direct contrast from the SUGA streaming party during the daytime.

Seokjin quickly finishes checking in the young lady at the counter, giving her a winning smile, and waits for her to turn away before meeting the guy's eye and gesturing for him to come in. He does, but a little cautiously; Seokjin can see his eyes scan the room, as if there might be a fan hiding behind the monstera.

It’s the first time he’s dropped by in a month. Seokjin knows he’s been very busy.

“Crazy day?” Seokjin asks, coming out from behind the front desk. He heads over to the bar, waves him over to the seat in the corner—his designated seat, for whenever he drops by. “You look like you could use a drink.”

He looks around again, scanning the hotel again as if to make sure that he wasn't followed. When he’s satisfied, he takes off his cap and runs a hand through his matted hair. “Please,” Yoongi says. “It was pretty crazy today.”

Seokjin hops over the bar, pours him a whiskey, neat. Pushes it towards him. “Anything interesting happen?”

Yoongi picks it up and swirls it around, the amber liquid sloshing against the side of the glass. “Released a song,” he replies. His eyes are far away. “People liked it, I think.”

Seokjin raises an eyebrow. “An understatement,” he says. “In the hotel alone I heard it almost a hundred times today.”

At that, Yoongi’s eyes dart to him. “And what did you think?” He asks, voice almost light enough to mask the earnestness in his tone.  “Was it...okay?”

It’s hard to believe that this is the same boy that everyone calls Korea’s national pride, the same boy that decorates tabloid headlines and blows up social media. Even sitting in Seokjin’s barely-a-bar bar he looks small, much tinier and frailer than you would expect.

Much gentler and quieter too. Barely looks like he would pick a fight at the bar.

“I mean, I don’t know,” Seokjin demurs, looking down at the tabletop. There’s a ring stain that Jungkook must’ve missed when he was cleaning up. “I’ve been told my opinion is uninformed, whatever that means in this context.”

Yoongi huffs, apparently finding that amusing. “Let me guess, that one employee from Daegu…?”

“Taehyung, yeah,” Seokjin finishes. “His opinion probably counts for more, and he thinks you’re brilliant. Looped it about eighty times for everyone to hear.”

“That must have been a headache,” Yoongi murmurs, but there’s a smile in his voice. From the corner of his eye, Seokjin sees Yoongi take a sip of his drink. “But I want to hear your opinion, hyung.”

His sincerity is a quiet thing, but it makes Seokjin smile nonetheless. He busies himself with wiping down the ring stain, thinking. “Let’s just say that from the hundred times I heard it today, I enjoyed it about...I don’t know, seventy times.”

He doesn’t see it, but he thinks Yoongi smiles. “Seventy times, ” he murmurs. “Not bad.” He takes a sip of his drink. “Nice to see that I can get my own hater to enjoy my song seventy times.”

“Not a hater,” Seokjin says, flinging the rag in the general direction of the sink. “I just don’t get your hype.”

“Best that you don’t,” Yoongi replies. There’s a moment of silence while Seokjin tops off his whiskey glass, puts away the whiskey. “Now, come on, hyung. I’m one hundred percent sure you’ve fucked up all your balance sheets again.”

“Accounting is ugly and should be abolished,” Seokjin replies, crossing over the bar. “It should be as simple as I provide a service, I get paid, I have money.” Seokjin watches as Yoongi drinks half of his whiskey in one gulp. “And if, Min Yoongi, my sheets are all messed up tomorrow—”

“Then what?”

“Then you’ll have to pay me the difference.”

“Please,” Yoongi says, as he follows Seokjin into his office. “That’ll never happen.”

. . .

And Jungkook and Taehyung can say what they want, show him as many videos and make him listen to as many songs as they like, but the truth of the matter is that Seokjin’s opinion is not uninformed and that SUGA and his bad-boy-anarchist-rap-god image is just not real. 

Not when Seokjin’s been witness to Yoongi.

. . .

“Hyung, did your friend come over again last night?” Taehyung asks when Seokjin enters the lobby the next day. He’s pouring over something by the counter—pieces of paper with Yoongi’s math calculations scribbled all over it. Seokjin must’ve left it at the back office desk by accident. “Did he do the accounting again?”

“Yes,” Seokjin replies. “And yes, because God definitely did not make me with accounting in mind.”

Taehyung looks at him. “No, definitely not,” he says. “Definitely drama actor though.”

“Oh, look at that,” Seokjin says flippantly. “I even surprised God with my career choices.” He pauses, watches as Taehyung looks down at the paper, his eyes flitting around. “Are you checking it? Is it right?”

Taehyung has always been rather good at math. Or at least, better than both him and Jungkook, who tends to space out when he sees a lot of numbers. 

“I know nothing about accounting,” Taehyung lies, his eyes still glued on the paper. “I’m not good at math.”

Seokjin raises an eyebrow. “Will you be good at math if I let you choose the playlist for this morning?”

Taehyung’s head shoots up far too quickly for it to be normal. “Well,” he says. “I can make an attempt.”

Seokjin shakes his head, gestures to the sound system, and resigns himself to another morning of SUGA music.

. . .

Jungkook walks in at around four in the afternoon, shoot-dancing to UGH. He’s incredibly lucky that half of Seokjin’s guests have a crush on him.

. . .

“Taehyungie-hyung tells me your friend came over again last night,” Jungkook says a little later. “That’s, what, how many times this week?”

Seokjin rolls his eyes. “One,” he says. “He didn’t come by for about a month.”

“Why not?”

Seokjin shrugs. “He was busy, I guess. He looks like the type who would be.”

Seokjin doesn’t know much about the schedule of an idol, but he imagines it would be crazy, jam-packed with promotions and endorsements and filmings. Add to that the pressure of the whole country watching your every move and it would probably get exhausting. Suffocating.

“Taehyungie-hyung says that he finally fixed the accounting you messed up last week.”

“He likes doing that kind of stuff.” Seokjin says. “I think it’s therapeutic for him.”

Jungkook hums. “What does your friend do for a living?”

Seokjin shrugs. “Something with music,” he says. “I’ve never really thought to ask.”

. . .

The hotel’s got twenty rooms and threadbare couches and a rather questionable lobby layout but it’s got an authentic grand piano, something Seokjin had inherited from his grandmother. It’s white and pristine, and it doesn’t fit at all with the entire “homely-shabby” look the hotel is sporting, but Seokjin keeps it anyway, tucked against the wall on the left side. Sometimes Taehyung plays it, sometimes Jungkook presses a few notes, but mostly it’s Yoongi who uses it, likes to sit there and press whatever keys come to mind, compose melodies to go with his late night thoughts and musings.

Or so Seokjin assumes.

He’s never really asked, because the days Yoongi plays the piano are the same days when he doesn’t say much, tiredness seeping from every pore. He tends to keep his eyes closed, getting lost in the music, his fingers doing all the talking for him, while Seokjin sits at the front desk, working on things for the hotel.

Tonight it’s a checklist of things the hotel needs to order, while the background music wafting from the piano is slow and a little bit sad. It’s a strange juxtaposition—the quiet tinkling of the ivory keys set to the rhythm of Seokjin mundanely writing bulk orders into his notebook. Still, there’s something about its strangeness that he appreciates, the sheer ridiculousness of it all—the hotel lobby, after all, is a transient space after midnight, a world that feels far removed from his everydays.

Soaps: 150 pieces, Seokjin writes as Yoongi plays. Shampoos: 150 pieces.

He only speaks when Yoongi stops playing, the notes falling slowly, then trickling to a stop. “That one sounded tired."

Yoongi doesn’t turn to face him. “Is that your official review for the song of the evening?”

“And sad,” Seokjin adds. 

“Well, I am tired, I guess,” Yoongi allows. He presses down on the middle C. “Promoting is hectic.”

“I guess so.”

There’s a moment wherein Seokjin turns back to his checklist and Yoongi plays a scale. Seokjin scribbles down Towels: 20 pieces, then changes his mind and makes it 30. “I liked listening to it though.”

“You don’t even listen to my music.”

“I listen to everything you put out,” Seokjin says flippantly. He looks up, watches Yoongi’s back. “Sometimes against my own will.”

It has the intended effect: Yoongi’s shoulders go up and down, like he’s choking out a quiet laugh. When he speaks, his voice is a little more lively. “Very honest, thank you.” 

“You’re welcome.” Seokjin pauses. “Hey, how many water bottles do you think I should order for this month?”

“How many do you usually get?”

“Eight hundred for the month.”

Yoongi turns around. “Only?” It takes less than a minute for Yoongi to make it to the front desk, pulling Seokjin’s notebook from under his pen and turning it towards him. He clicks his tongue, studying what Seokjin has written so far. “You need more,” he says, and he grabs Seokjin’s pen and begins writing.

. . .

Yoongi’s visits to the hotel started as an accident.

The first time they met it was four in the morning, and Seokjin was sitting by the lobby, making a list of things he needed Jungkook and Taehyung to do the next day. SUGA had stumbled inside, hair a strange mint color, and—very clearly drunk—he'd headed straight to the piano in the corner.

“Hey—” Seokjin had said, but it had been lost under a sudden flurry of chords spilling out of the piano.

It was a mess. SUGA clearly wasn’t sober enough to have enough control over his fingers, and the song was all over the place; dissonant notes peppered in between and key changes where there shouldn’t have been any. He’d banged on the keys a few times throughout, loud enough that it had made Seokjin wince.

When it ended, there was nothing but the sound of SUGA’s raw breathing echoing through the lobby. Seokjin had taken one look at him, at his hunched back and his head hanging, and decided to say something.

“Wow,” he’d said. “That was really bad.”

In hindsight, it probably hadn't been the best thing to say—Seokjin could tell that SUGA had been going through something because the song, underneath all the dissonant chords and angry banging, had been honest, filled with raw emotion.

It might not have been the best thing to say, but SUGA’s head had whipped up anyway, his eyes scanning the lobby until his eyes landed on Seokjin.

“What?”

“It was bad,” Seokjin replied. In for a penny, and all that. “Doesn’t seem like an appropriate ‘middle of the night’ hotel lobby song.”

Something in Seokjin’s words seemed to clear the drunken haze in SUGA's eyes, and he looked around, as if taking in his surroundings for the first time. Seokjin had already turned back to his list when SUGA spoke again.

“Do you know...who I am?”

Of course, Seokjin knew. “Don’t worry, SUGA-ssi,” he replied, looking up to shoot Yoongi a reassuring smile. “I won’t tell anyone you dropped by.”

“No that’s not...” SUGA shook his head, running another hand through his hair. “You...you’re the only one who’s ever said that to me.”

“Which?”

“That my song was bad.”

“It was,” Seokjin said, turning back to his spreadsheet. “Sorry.”

When SUGA spoke again, his voice was small. “Aren’t you going to tell me to leave?”

“Why would I?”

“My piano playing was bad and it’s not an appropriate ‘middle of the night’ hotel lobby song.”

“I said that it didn’t seem appropriate, not that you had to stop,” Seokjin said, not looking away from his list. “Or leave, for that matter. By all means, stay as long as you want. Make as much terrible music as you’d like.” Seokjin met his eye. “You look like you need it.”

SUGA, Seokjin thought, looked far younger in person than he did on the internet, a lot smaller. Looked a lot more human too; his usual cocky expression replaced with something almost sad.

SUGA held his gaze for a few moments, then nodded. “Yoongi,” he said, before turning around on the piano stool and placing his fingers on the keys. “My name is Yoongi.”

And the next evening, at around three in the morning, Seokjin had looked up, and Yoongi had been standing outside.

He kept coming back after that.

. . .

Daechwita is a brilliant song, but within a week, Seokjin is convinced that it haunts him. He hears it literally everywhere—in the supermarket, in his car, in the coffee shop down the street from his apartment, and even as his own brother’s ringback tone. It’s like wherever he goes, the melody seems to follow him, like the soundtrack to his very own movie.

When he brings this idea up to Jungkook, the guy has the audacity to laugh in his face and just slap his butt. Taehyung, when Seokjin tells him, just nods sagely. “Deserve,” is all he says.

When he tells Yoongi, who shows up again at the hotel on Friday, the man just blinks at him. “Well,” he says. “That’s what I intended for it to be.”

“What do you mean?”

“I wrote it to be a song that haunts you specifically, Seokjin-hyung.”

Yoongi is often deadpan when he’s joking, which Seokjin finds incredibly amusing. He’s so good at keeping his expression still that it makes everything that comes out of his mouth seem like the truth, even though he’s very clearly bullshitting.

“I’m touched, Yoongi-ssi,” Seokjin says. “Didn’t know the biggest hit of the year was written with me in mind.”

“Will you listen to it more now?”

“I listen to it enough,” Seokjin says. “Seventy million of the views on the YouTube video are single-handedly from my employees alone.”

“If you get it to a hundred million, I’ll send you a cake.”

“Speaking of a hundred million,” Seokjin replies. “Earlier Jungkook and Taehyung stole pots and pans from the kitchen and yelled about streaming.”

It’s not even an exaggeration. Taehyung and Jungkook had been sitting and talking about something or the other during a break, and the next thing Seokjin knew, Taehyung was on the sofa yelling about the song while Jungkook stood right beside him, banging a pot and ladle he’d stolen from the kitchen.

“Our streaming goals,” Taehyung had yelled into the empty hotel lobby while Jungkook tapped out a beat. “Daechwita only needs ten million more views to become the fastest Korean music video to reach a hundred million.”

It had been a moment where Seokjin had thanked whoever was up there that his hotel only had twenty rooms.

Yoongi keeps his deadpan expression, but Seokjin can see amusement in his eye. “You know, I’m starting to wonder what even goes on here during the day.”

“Not a lot, I’ll tell you that much,” Seokjin says earnestly. “The employees try to do things to make things a little more interesting.” He pauses. “Sometimes they do too much.”

“Was today interesting, then?”

“Interesting is a word for it. It got to the point where I wondered if I could quit my job.”

The amusement in Yoongi’s eyes grows. “But you own this hotel.”

“Sadly.”

Happiness, Seokjin thinks, looks good on Yoongi—he’s often melancholy when he drops by, looking as if he’s got the weight of the world on his shoulders. Seokjin can count on one hand the number of times he’s made Yoongi smile, so every time it happens, it feels like something private, like a privilege. 

He’s smiling now, his eyes crinkled in the corners. “You could always sell it.”

“Absolutely not,” Seokjin replies immediately. “This place will be mine forever until I die.”

Yoongi lets out a quiet laugh. “I hope so,” he says under his breath, and Seokjin pretends not to hear it.

. . .

It’s easy to tell that Yoongi uses Seokjin’s hotel as an escape, a refuge for when things get a little overwhelming. He only ever comes in late at night, when the world goes quiet and there’s nothing but him and his thoughts. And Seokjin.

Seokjin doesn’t mind, though; likes that their friendship only exists during the night, in the liminal space of the hotel. Stripped of everything it usually is, it becomes a liberation—a place where there’s no pressure on anything, where everything that's said will be forgotten in the daylight. 

. . .

“This should be a personality test,” Seokjin muses, as he’s checking the meat on the grill. In front of him, both Jungkook and Taehyung watch intently with their larger-than-average eyes, waiting patiently for the meat to cook. “In the family, are you the person who grills the meat, or the person who waits for the meat to be grilled?”

“The grillee,” Taehyung responds, clearly without thinking.

There’s a pause. “Well,” Seokjin says. “That’s an answer.”

They’re at a barbecue place for dinner simply because Jungkook whined for half the day about wanting to eat meat, enough so even Seokjin ended up craving it. Seokjin’s still got some work to do back ar the hotel, but he figures that it won't do much harm to take a break, to eat some good food and clear his mind before tackling his managerial duties again.

“Is it done?” Jungkook asks, bouncing in his chair. “Don’t overcook it, hyung, I want it medium rare.”

Seokjin just gestures to the grill. “If you think it’s done you can go ahead and grab it.”

At that, Taehyung and Jungkook spring into action, piling the meat onto their plate. “I’m so happy I could cry,” Jungkook says, while Taehyung carefully puts a piece of pork onto his spoonful of rice. “Thanks for the treat, Seokjin-hyung.”

Seokjin is literally going bankrupt from how often he treats these two. “You know how many times I’ve bought you food? I can’t even count it on my fingers.”

Jungkook ignores that statement.

It’s silent for a while, the three of them chowing down on their food happily. The meat is cooked just right, and Seokjin can’t help but let out an involuntary wow when he bites into his lettuce wrap. 

“By the way, hyung—” Seokjin has just finished eating all the meat on his plate, and is just about to grab more when Jungkook speaks up. “Ken-hyung was asking. Are we supposed to be ordering an extra three hundred water bottles this month?”

Seokjin shrugs. “Yeah. Why?”

“He just wasn’t sure.” Jungkook shrugs. “He said the list he got didn’t have your handwriting on it.”

“Oh, my friend wrote that list.”

It’s Taehyung who speaks this time. “He wrote the inventory list?” He asks, sounding confused.

“Yeah, and gave his...unwarranted opinion while doing it too.” Seokjin vividly remembers bickering with Yoongi, who’d insisted that they were ordering far less than what they actually needed. I’ve seen your income statements, hyung, he’d argued, crossing out Seokjin’s numbers and scrawling down his own. I know what you can afford.

Jungkook and Taehyung exchange a glance, obviously communicating something Seokjin isn’t privy too. Then they lean forward, matching hopeful expressions on their faces.

“So, this friend of yours,” Jungkook starts. “When are we meeting him?”

Seokjin looks between the two of them. Shrugs, and turns back to his food. “I don’t know.”

Taehyung’s face is the first to fall. “What do you mean ‘you don’t know’?”

“See, Taehyung...” Seokjin thinks of a way to word this tactfully; Taehyung has the tendency to be a little pouty when he thinks that Seokjin is keeping something from him. “It’s not really up to me when you get to meet.”

“What does that mean? Who is it up to, then?”

“Him. He’s a little…” Seokjin searches for the right word, “...shy.”

Somehow, it doesn’t seem to be the right word because Taehyung’s face falls even more, and Jungkook’s eyes get that shiny, puppy-dog quality to them. “But we’re nice people,” Jungkook says.

“I know, I know,” Seokjin placates, “but if he doesn’t want to meet, I can’t force him.”  Yoongi’s face flashes through his head—the way he always seems tired, overwhelmed when he’s at the hotel. “He has a lot going on in his life, and he just comes to the hotel for some peace and quiet.”

“And to do the accounting?”

“Especially for that,” Seokjin replies. “Like I said, God took one look at me and decided looks: 100 but accounting skill: 0.”

His statement serves its intended purpose, and both Taehyung and Jungkook laugh a little. Seokjin smiles at them brightly, fondly, and the conversation shifts.

. . .

“Personality test for you,” Seokjin starts, the instant Yoongi enters the lobby. “Are you the person who grills the meat, or the person who waits until the meat is grilled?”

Yoongi answers immediately. “The griller. What does that say about me?”

Seokjin thinks for a moment. “That you...grill the meat.”

Yoongi blinks. “Amazing,” he deadpans, but Seokjin can see the beginnings of amusement bloom in the corners of his lips. “Unlocked something I didn’t know about myself.”

“When I asked, Taehyung said he was the ‘grillee’. So.”

Yoongi’s amusement grows. “Taehyung sounds like he’s onto something there.”

“More like on something.”

Seokjin can tell Yoongi is tired today too—he’s doing an admirable job of hiding it, but the bags under his eyes tell no lies.

“Well,” Yoongi muses, leaning against the front desk. “Technically, I cook because I think that none of my friends can do it properly. Hoseok would overcook the meat, Jimin would take forever to do it properly, and Namjoon would just set the whole restaurant on fire.”

“Namjoon sounds like great company,” Seokjin says. “Who doesn’t like a little burning? Like someone great once said, bultaoleune.”

“And you said you don’t like my music.”

“I said your drunken piano playing was bad once ,” Seokjin replies, a little indignant. “Literally once.”

“Okay, hater.” Yoongi is still smiling, though. “How about you, though? Do you grill or do you wait?” He pauses. “Or do you, perhaps, also prefer getting grilled…?”

“Bultaoleune, fiiiiire,” Seokjin sings. “Guess.”

Yoongi squints, runs a critical eye over Seokjin. Seokjin doesn’t know what he’s looking for or what he’s seeing, but he seems to find it eventually, a self-satisfied expression crossing his face. “You’re the griller.”

Seokjin grins at him. “Why do you say so?”

“It’s easy,” Yoongi says, shrugging. “From what you’ve told me, Taehyung and Jungkook sound far too excitable to be cooking.” He pauses. “Also, you. You kind of have this tendency to take care of people.”

It’s not really an answer Seokjin was expecting, nor something he’d expected Yoongi to say at all. “At least, you’ve been taking care of me,” Yoongi amends. He’s watching Seokjin’s expression closely.

Seokjin is aware of what this hotel represents for Yoongi—he’s never explicitly said anything about it, but Seokjin can read it in his expressions, in the set of his shoulders, in his different states of quiet. The hotel is his refuge, his safe space, where the mounting pressures of being an idol don’t exist, and Seokjin, during Yoongi’s short stays here, simply does his best to keep it that way. He does his best to provide a distraction and relief, lets Yoongi talk shit without the worry that his words will end up on a tabloid tomorrow, staves off the mounting pressure on his shoulders, at least for a few hours. It never occurred to him that it was something active, that he, was actually taking care of Yoongi.

“Does that mean I’m doing my job well, Yoongichi?”

“Yoongichi? Why call me Yoongichi all of a sudden?”

“If you feel taken care of,” Seokjin muses, “then as a hotelier, I feel a sense of pride.”

“Ah,” Yoongi says, sounding a little disappointed. “I take it you’re not the griller, then?”

Seokjin grins. “No, I am,” he replies. “But to hear that you feel taken care of in my presence...my heart just might cry. I guess my personality test really does tell you something new about yourself.”

“Shut up,” Yoongi says, but he’s smiling all the same.

. . .

Daechwita reaches its streaming goals. Seokjin knows this because Taehyung let out a loud yell, and then an hour later the news was full of stories about how SUGA’s song was the fastest Korean music video to reach a hundred million views on YouTube. Seokjin is a little embarrassed that he had no idea it was that big of a deal, but mentally congratulates Yoongi all the same.

He doesn’t think about it throughout the rest of the day, focusing more on the work in front of him. He’s in the middle of looking over Ken’s proposed restaurant menu for the week when there’s a knock on his office door.

“Seokjin-hyung,” Seokjin hears Jungkook’s voice, muffled through the door. “Did you order something? There’s something here for you.”

The box, when he sees it, is all black, plain and unassuming, with a little red ribbon tying it all together. The tag is short, only reads To Seokjin-hyung, in familiar, scratchy handwriting, and the instant Seokjin sees it, he knows exactly what it is.

“Oh,” is all he says.

Jungkook’s eyes are round. “What is it?” 

“It’s...hey, can you call Taehyung for me?”

Jungkook looks at him like he’s about to protest, but he obeys anyway, trudging up to the second floor where Taehyung is working, doing inventory. Seokjin waits until he’s gone before he unties the ribbon, and pulls off the lid.

It’s a cake, just as he’d expected. Strawberry, even.

The icing is pitch black, with two layers of strawberries dotting the edges. For all intents and purposes, it would look like an ordinary, all-black strawberry cake, if not for the writing on it. 

100M , it says in white icing in the middle. 

It makes Seokjin smile, makes him whip out his phone and snap a quick photo of it. Of course, this is the exact moment Jungkook returns, Taehyung trailing behind him.

“Did you order a cake for us?” Taehyung asks, his eyes lighting up. He peeks at it, stopping when he catches sight of the writing on the cake. “Hyung, why does it say 100M in the middle?”

Seokjin shakes his head. “Inside joke,” he says. “My friend sent it to us.”

“The friend who does the accounting sometimes?”

“That’s the one.”

Taehyung looks at him, a little suspicious, and he opens his mouth to ask something else when—

“Can we eat it?” Jungkook interrupts, his face glowing like it always does when faced with the prospect of food. 

“Go ahead,” Seokjin says. “Get some plates from the kitchen, and tell Ken, Hani and Jisoo they can come and get a slice too if they want.”

“Awesome,” Jungkook says, skipping away. Taehyung, Seokjin finds, is still staring at him.

“Hey,” Seokjin says, pointing at the writing. “100M for SUGA’s streaming goals.”

Taehyung laughs a little, but his eyes are still curious. “I want to meet your friend, hyung.”

Seokjin feels a bit caught out. “Like I told you before, it’s not up to me when you get to meet.”

“You can’t just text him to come over during the day?”

“I don’t have his number. He just comes whenever he wants.”

“You don’t have his number?” Taehyung blinks at him, confused. “Is your friend...a cat that can do accounting?” He suddenly looks excited at the idea. “That’s cool. I’m not judgmental.”

That makes Seokjin laugh. “He’s an actual person.”

Taehyung thinks for a moment. “What’s his name?”

“Yoongi.”

“Sounds like a cat name,” Taehyung says, but then Jungkook returns with plastic plates and forks and a posse of three people following him, and that's the end of that conversation. For now, at least.

“Let’s eat it!” Jungkook yells, far too excited for cake, and begins cutting a slice with his fork.

The next hour turns into a tiny cake party.

. . .

Seokjin plans to thank Yoongi for the cake, but Yoongi doesn’t drop by that evening. Or the next.

. . .

When Seokjin does see him in person again, it’s three weeks later and he’s blond, standing under the rain. “Hi,” is the first thing he says, soaked to the bone.

“Oh my God,” is the first thing Seokjin replies, and goes to fetch him some towels. 

It’s been three weeks. In the grand scheme of things, it’s nothing—Seokjin hasn’t changed all that much, and neither has his hotel, its walls or its staff. But looking at Yoongi, it feels monumental, if only for how much thinner he’s gotten, his arms much smaller and his cheekbones more prominent. 

“Sorry I haven’t dropped by,” Yoongi says, as if it’s something to apologize for. “I’ve been kind of busy.”

“You don’t have to apologize for that.” Seokjin rubs the towel through Yoongi’s still-wet hair, ignoring the way Yoongi tries to swat his hands away. “I know how busy you are.”

He doesn’t really have direct contact with Yoongi outside of when they see each other, but he’s seen the news—Yoongi has had performances and interviews and press conferences, and the moments he wasn’t in the public eye Seokjin imagines he’s been rehearsing in the practice room or holed up in the studio. Or out at industry events; there had been news of some idols at a party or something the other day.

“But still,” Yoongi insists, finally successfully swatting Seokjin’s hands away from his head. He takes the towel from Seokjin, drapes it over his shoulders. “You probably thought I died.”

“Yoongi, your face is very often all over the news. I’m sure I would've known if you had died.” He pauses. “And if I'd somehow missed the news, Taehyung would’ve told me.”

That makes Yoongi smile, wiping a stray droplet from his temple. “How did you like the cake, by the way?”

“Right, you sent one.”

“I told you I would if I reached a hundred million.”

He did, but Seokjin didn’t think he was being serious. “It was delicious,” he says. “All gone in seconds. I would’ve saved a slice for you if I’d known how thin you were getting, though.”

Yoongi looks down at himself, pouting a little. “I don’t look that bad,” he replies. “My mom said I don’t look like a boiled dumpling anymore.”

“But I think boiled dumpling size makes you look healthiest,” Seokjin replies. “You look like you must be starving. Are you hungry? We have some stuff in the kitchen, I can cook for you.”

“No, I—”

Seokjin fixes him a look. “Yoongi. Please. To make me feel better, at least.”

They’re definitely not at that level of closeness where Seokjin has the right to demand Yoongi of anything—in fact, some days Seokjin wonders if he even has the right to call Yoongi his friend—but Yoongi is here, looking frail and tired, and—

Maybe Yoongi was right, psychoanalyzing him. He has the tendency to take care of people. 

Yoongi opens his mouth, looking like he’s about to protest, but he seems to spot something in Seokjin’s expression, and backs down at that last minute, slumping a little in his seat. “Kimchi-jjigae,” he replies quietly. “But only if I can help you cook it.”

That’s a win, at least. Seokjin smiles at him, saccharine sweet. “Fine.”

. . .

Cooking with Yoongi is, strangely, ridiculously easy.

They orbit around each other smoothly, slicing and prepping the ingredients in almost perfect synchronization. Whenever Seokjin has his hands full Yoongi steps in, without being told or asked to, and it’s not long until they have a pot full of bubbling, hot stew.

“You know,” Yoongi says, scooping a little bit out with his spoon. “Kimchi-jjigae is my favorite food. Specifically my mom’s.” He blows on it a few times before drinking it.

“Our mother’s food is usually our comfort food,” Seokjin replies, digging through his bowl for a piece of meat. “But this probably isn’t as good as hers. Sorry.”

“What do you mean?” Yoongi replies. “This is really good.” Seokjin watches as he takes another spoonful, this time digging out a piece of meat. “I haven’t had any this good in a while.” There’s a pause. “Actually, I haven’t had any in a while at all. I’m supposed to be on a diet.”

“Well, good for you that this is zero calories, then.”

“What?”

“Hyung’s logic for you,” Seokjin says. “When something is delicious, it’s zero calories.”

That makes Yoongi smile widely, his eyes crinkling in the corners. “So what, I can eat everything I want to and not gain weight?”

“If you enjoy the food, then yes.”

“I don’t think it works like that,” Yoongi replies, but the smile hasn’t left his face. “Are you trying to sabotage my career?”

“If I were trying to do that, your career would be over by now,” Seokjin replies. “How do you think the media would take finding out that their savage king SUGA likes to come to a shabby hotel in the early hours of the morning?”

Yoongi is quiet for a few moments. When he speaks, his voice is quieter.  “It’s all overhyped. You know that? Everything they say about me.”

Seokjin looks at Yoongi, finds him already looking back, his eyes soft and a bit sad, like they’re begging for a little comfort, for a little understanding. In all that he is right now, tiny and damp and sitting at a tiny stool in Seokjin’s tiny bar; he couldn’t look further from the person Seokjin sees in tabloids, cocky and arrogant and a little ferocious.

“You don’t have to tell me that,” Seokjin replies. “I already know.”

. . .

Life, Seokjin thinks, is often a seesaw of two different things, of giving up one side in exchange for the other. Authenticity for the price of renown. Money and fame for the price of privacy.

Seokjin has no regrets about the quiet life he’s chosen for himself, but sometimes he thinks of that casting agent who’d chased him down the street, asking him to audition for their entertainment company. It had been a difficult decision, but in the end he’d politely declined, wanting to live his life the way he’d always imagined it—quietly, peacefully, privately.

He thinks of this when he sees Yoongi on TV, hounded by the paparazzi, his face lit up by flashes; he thinks of this when he’s goes on Twitter and SUGA is trending, complete with screenshots of Yoongi at a club when in reality he’d spent that evening doing Seokjin’s bookkeeping. He thinks of this and it just fuels his determination to make Yoongi laugh a little harder, feel a little safer, and forget about the enormous weight on his shoulders.

Faced with the same seesaw, Seokjin and Yoongi have chosen differently. And Seokjin just wants Yoongi to experience what he otherwise never can, even if it’s just for a little while.

. . .

Yoongi comes more often nowadays. Seokjin doesn’t know how he manages it, what with his comeback and his schedules, but suddenly it feels like he’s always around. Sometimes he stays for just a little over an hour, sometimes he stays the whole night. But however long he stays, Seokjin never goes longer than three evenings without seeing him.

“That sounds like the background music of a motivational speech,” Seokjin jokes, when he walks past Yoongi with a bunch of towels in his arms. Yoongi’s been sat by the piano since he arrived, playing the same four chords over and over.

“Just something that’s been stuck in my head,” Yoongi mumbles in reply. “Thinking of making it into a song, but I don’t know yet.”

“Well, you could do a motivational rap,” Seokjin suggests. “Something with the energy of grabbing someone by the collar and yelling you can do it! in their face.”

Yoongi looks at him skeptically. “How would I do that?” 

Seokjin shrugs. “It was just a suggestion,” he says, before going to store the towels in the back office. 

“Guess you have to think about it some more.” Yoongi goes back to the piano, sounding out the chords again. Seokjin lets him do it another few times before he feels the need to interrupt.

“May I ask you something?” 

“Sure.”

“Do you not get tired?”

The hands playing the piano still, the notes fade into the air. “What?” 

“Like, of working,” Seokjin clarifies. “From what I’ve gathered, you spend each day either performing, practicing, or promoting, then you go and make music in the studio. And then when work is over you come here and you’re tired and you...make more music.”

It’s something Seokjin can’t imagine, not really. Spending all day at work and going to relax by doing more work. 

Yoongi is quiet for a moment. “I like music,” he finally says.

Seokjin waits.

“I like making it,” Yoongi continues, filling in the silence. “It’s always been a passion of mine. It’s the other things that tire me out.”

Yoongi runs a finger over the keys, playing a quiet, tinkling sound. “There’s just a lot of pressure with everything outside. In the studio, I have to write a certain type of music; while performing, I have to act a certain way. Here, there’s no pressure, and no one I need to impress. I can play whatever I want, make whatever I want.” He tilts his head. “Mostly because you’ll end up hating everything I play anyway.”

“I told you I don’t hate it,” Seokjin replies exasperatedly.

“What was that you said earlier? About the background music of a motivational speech?”

“That was meant as a compliment, Yoongi-ssi,” Seokjin shoots back. 

“How?”

“You’d be making music to encourage people to work hard, rather than just talking about your tongue technology.”

Yoongi shakes his head, a small smile playing at his lips. “And you say you’re not a hater,” he says, before turning around to play the piano again.

. . .

There’s suspicious barking coming from the back office, followed by the sound of a person shushing. Seokjin rolls his eyes, passing the kitchen inventory list back to Ken before stalking to the back office.

“Taehyung,” he says, leaning against the door frame. “Why is Yeontan here?”

“He isn’t,” Taehyung denies, the exact same time Yeontan pops his head out from Taehyung’s work bag.

Seokjin raises an eyebrow. “Then what is that?”

Taehyung purposefully makes his eyes wide, and he looks down, acting as if he’d just caught sight of Yeontan in his bag. “Tan! What are you doing here? I’m so sorry, hyung, he must’ve snuck into my bag without me noticing.”

“He’s not supposed to be here, Taehyung.”

Taehyung drops the act. “I know,” he says, pouting, “but my parents are out of town for the weekend and I had no one else to leave him with, and he still has a little bit of separation anxiety whenever he’s left alone.”

Yeontan barks, as if confirming everything Taehyung has said, his furry tail wagging happily. It takes him three tries to jump out of Taehyung’s bag, then he’s walking towards Seokjin, tongue lolling and a happy expression on his face.

It’s a little bit unfair. There’s really no reason for Taehyung to have adopted the cutest puppy in the world but.

Seokjin sighs. “Fine, he can stay.” He reaches down to pat Yeontan on the head. “As long as he doesn’t pee in the hotel.”

“He won’t,” Taehyung promises.

. . .

Yeontan pees in the hotel. Seokjin lets it slide because he’s just so stupidly cute.

. . .

Running a hotel is a ton of work, but that doesn’t mean that they don’t get a break every once in a while. Sometimes (most of the time, if he’s being honest), the days are slow and there just isn’t all that much to do. Sometimes, the guests are few and spend as little time at the hotel as possible, preferring to leave early in the morning and return late at night. 

Every once in a while, Seokjin can leave the hotel in the capable hands of a skeleton workforce and take a break.

And that’s exactly what he’s in the middle of doing when Yoongi arrives at the hotel that evening, some recording equipment in tow.

“What are you doing?” Seokjin hears from the doorway of his office. “Is that MapleStory? ”

“Shh, Yoongi,” Seokjin says, keeping his eyes glued to the screen. “I finally have good enough items to fight the boss.”

On screen, his character manages to kill the last snail; Seokjin feels a small sense of pride as he progresses to the next room.

“I haven’t played MapleStory since I was in high school,” Yoongi says, sounding thoroughly amused. He’s approached Seokjin, and Seokjin can feel the heat of his body as he leans forward, trying to get a good view of the screen.“Your character is at level 235?”

“I really like the game, okay,” Seokjin says, a little defensive. He can feel the beginnings of a flush creep up the back of his neck, and he hunches forward, hopes that Yoongi doesn't notice. “Now, shh, I need to focus to fight the boss.”

Fighting the boss on a normal day is difficult, but with Yoongi here, it feels damn near impossible. Seokjin knows it’s just a dumb game, but with Yoongi watching, there’s a sense of pressure, a need to impress—as if Yoongi would start making fun of him if he failed.

It’s close but he manages to do it, and he yells when he finishes. When he turns, Yoongi is already looking at him, his eyes amused. 

“Do you not have any work to do?”

“The amazing thing about being my own boss, Yoongi, is that I can set my own hours,” Seokjin replies. “Also no, there wasn’t much to do.”

“Except MapleStory?”

“Only MapleStory,” Seokjin agrees. “Sorry. You’re welcome to stay and watch me, though.”

Yoongi looks thoughtful. “I might,” he says. “I’m working on some music at the moment, might be nice to look up when I’m frustrated and find you yelling at the computer.”

“Don’t be so mean, Yoongi,” Seokjin replies, clicking on his character. “I won’t yell.”

Seokjin games until four in the morning, and Yoongi is there the whole time, quietly working on his music. They don’t really speak, except for that one moment Yoongi goes, “Hyung, listen,” and proceeds to play him a recording of Seokjin yelling at his computer, which he’d edited into a tune. That makes Seokjin yell some more, but he can’t be mad, not when Yoongi is laughing so much that his eyes disappear, his smile brighter and wider than anything Seokjin’s seen before.

. . .

“But that’s what I’ve been doing,” Seokjin says indignantly, gesturing to how Yoongi has managed to clear out the million won he’d somehow accidentally added in the sheet by doing the exact same thing Seokjin’s been doing for the past three days. “I did exactly the same as you! Why did I get it all wrong?”

Yoongi continues scribbling, his other hand pressing numbers into the calculator beside him. “Maybe you learned accounting wrong.”

“Excuse me, I learned it from a reputable source, thank you.”

“What source?”

“University.”

“Which?”

“Konkuk.”

That makes Yoongi look up from the sheet he’s been working on, an eyebrow raised. “Really?” 

“Why are you so surprised about that?”

“I don’t know,” Yoongi replies. “I just wasn’t expecting it.” He runs a critical eye over Seokjin. “Major in hotel management?”

“Art and acting, actually,” Seokjin corrects, and he’s pretty sure his ears are turning red from the way Yoongi is looking at him, lips pursed and a little impressed. “But I still had to take an accounting class.”

Yoongi keeps looking at him. “Hyung, did you know that your ears turn red when you’re embarrassed?”

“Yes,” Seokjin says, and judging by the way Yoongi grins, he’s sure his ears have reddened even more. “Please stop looking at me now.”

That makes Yoongi laugh, his eyes squeezing shut, before he turns back to the sheet in front of him. He does a few more calculations, scrawling down a final number and circling it, before handing it to Seokjin.

Seokjin avoids Yoongi’s eyes, takes one quick glance at it, and goes to put it away.

“You didn’t even check the results,” Yoongi complains. “How do you know I’m not cheating you out of your money?”

“I’ll make Taehyung check it tomorrow,” Seokjin replies. “And if you are, I’ll know and you’ll have to pay me back the difference.”

“What if I just don’t come back to the hotel?”

“Then I’ll make one of those call out posts on Twitter. Looking for the tiny, savage rapper who scammed me of my money.”

Yoongi laughs a little at that, before falling silent. Seokjin adds accounting - Taehyung to the bottom of his to-do list, before pulling up the reservation file on the computer to study the check-ins for tomorrow.

“So.” When Yoongi speaks again, his voice is curious. “Konkuk University. Major in art and acting. A face clearly made for dramas—” those words fluster Seokjin, “—tell me, how did Kim Seokjin-ssi end up becoming a hotelier?”

“Phrased like that, you make it sound like it’s a bad thing.”

“It’s not,” Yoongi replies immediately. “Just curious.”

Seokjin thinks for a moment. “Well, it’s not that interesting,” he finally says. “My grandfather owned this property, and after his death my father inherited it, and then he gave it to me.” Seokjin doesn’t talk about the countless arguments he’s had with his mother, or the difficult discussions he had to have with his father, who’d wanted to tear down the whole thing and rebuild something else in its place. “And now it’s my hotel.”

“The piano is yours too?”

“Inherited it from my grandmother when she died.”

“Hm.” There’s a question in Yoongi’s eyes. “But you went to school for acting.”

“I did.”

A pause. “Is asking you personal questions always going to be like pulling teeth, or…?”

Seokjin laughs. “Fine,” he says. “I wanted to be an actor. Almost did, actually.”

“But…?”

And that is the million dollar question isn’t it? Something that Seokjin still doesn’t really know how to explain. “I don’t know,” he says. “I woke up one day and I didn’t want to do it.”

He thinks, once again, of the casting agent who’d chased him down the street. At the time, he’d been tempted—he really had been, but staring at his face in the mirror back home, he’d suddenly had the overwhelming urge to do something else, to forge a different path. 

“I guess my dream had changed,” Seokjin adds. “Dreams do that, sometimes. Change. And that’s okay, I think. The important thing is to find something in your life that makes you happy.”

“And are you happy?” Yoongi is staring at him like Seokjin’s answer is the most important thing in the world, and the intensity of his expression makes Seokjin flush again, makes him look down at his lap. 

He still replies honestly, though. “I’m happy with the work I do and the life I’m living. That’s what matters.”

It’s silent for a few moments. Then, “Sometimes I feel like I’m not happy.”

Seokjin knew this, had assumed it from Yoongi’s face and his general state of being while at the hotel, but it’s the first time he’s ever heard it admitted out loud. “Why?”

“It’s just all a bit much,” Yoongi replies. “I mean, I like producing. I like writing songs. And it’s nice that people seem to really like my music. But it’s,” he waves a hand, “...people start following me around, and then they start making assumptions about who I am and what I like, and the next thing I know I’m staring at my face on the news and I have no idea who that guy is.”

Seokjin can understand, he thinks—there’s a certain type of annoyance that crops up in his chest when he sees tabloid news dedicated to Yoongi, when stories about him are exaggerated, blown out of proportion and prefaced with whispers of can you believe…?, as if Yoongi were simply gossip fodder and not an actual person.

“And then I feel bad thinking that,” Yoongi continues, “because a few years ago I wanted this, I wanted this so much, but now that I’ve gotten to this point I didn’t realize there would be so much pressure. People expecting me to be a certain thing, people expecting me to release a certain type of music...” he takes a deep breath. “And most importantly, people expecting me to fail.”

It’s the first time Seokjin’s ever heard him so honest, so personal—the first time he’s heard Yoongi’s worries and insecurities. “Does that affect the work you do?”

“Of course it does,” Yoongi says. “Suddenly I’m triple-checking everything, wondering if people will like what I release, wondering if I can even live up to the impossible expectations they’ve placed on me. Wondering if this’ll be my last taste of success before crashing and burning.”

In times like this, it’s hard to believe that this is the same man who’s touted as Korea’s national pride, the same man who tops the charts every time new music is released, who’s been credited for breaking barriers in the west. Here in Seokjin’s hotel, he just looks small, terrified; a regular man in his twenties, with his own thoughts and worries about life.

“I’m not sure if my opinion counts for anything,” Seokjin begins, “but if you feel like you’re going to crash, then I say...accelerate more.”

That makes Yoongi look up at him. “What?”

“I don’t think you should pay attention to what anyone expects of you, or what others want you to do,” Seokjin replies. He feels a bit silly, giving this advice to a celebrity, but Yoongi actually looks curious. “You don’t need to live up to anyone’s standards, because you’ll never reach them, and if you use that to measure your success, that’s when you start failing.” Seokjin thinks. “Even if everyone else thinks you’ll fail, who cares? Make good music, make bad music, whatever—just continue doing what you want to do. In the end, that’s when you’ll be happy.”

“It’s not as simple as that, Seokjin-hyung,” Yoongi mumbles.

“I know it’s not,” Seokjin replies. “And I imagine it’s even more difficult for an idol. But if you don’t start now, it’ll take even longer to get there.” He shrugs. “Start small. Like—I don’t know, write a song you like. Doesn’t matter if it’s good or if it’s bad. Doesn’t matter if it doesn’t sound like anything you’ve ever made before. Doesn’t matter if you’ll never release it. Just...write it.”

And maybe Seokjin has overstepped his boundaries—what does he know about life in the public eye, after all?—but Yoongi looks strangely comforted by his words, his eyes a little shiny. “I mean,” Seokjin says, feeling himself flush again, “these are all my opinions, of course.”

“No, I—” Yoongi shakes his head so fast that Seokjin thinks he might get a bit dizzy. “It helps. Thank you, hyung.”

“It’s nothing,” Seokjin replies, feeling a little flustered. He turns back to his computer, going back to studying the names for check-in tomorrow. “Really.”

. . .

A month later, SUGA drops a surprise song.

Seokjin walks in to find Jungkook listening to it as its blasting from the hotel sound system. “It’s called Intro: Nevermind,” Jungkook says, when Seokjin asks. “He just released it on SoundCloud at midnight.”

“Did he?” Seokjin had seen him at midnight and he’d made absolutely no mention of it, just sat and laughed at Seokjin playing MapleStory and trying to get out of the Forest of Endurance. “That’s interesting.”

“Why?”

“Just that he’d release a song out of the blue,” Seokjin lies. “Would have thought it would be a part of his next album.”

Jungkook hums. “It’s kind of short,” he says. “And different from his other songs.”

“Different how?” Seokjin asks, but he listens, recognizes the familiar cadence of Yoongi’s voice, his familiar enunciation. Recognizes, too, the four chords of the song—the same four chords Seokjin had thought sounded like the background of a motivational speech.

Never mind, it’s not easy but engrave it on your chest / if you feel like you’re going to crash then accelerate more, you idiot!

Seokjin recognizes those words, but the way Yoongi delivers them makes it feel like it’s the first time he’s hearing them. There’s a vulnerability in his voice, a rawness to it, as if he’d locked himself in the studio and read out his diary into the microphone, spun all his emotions into poetry and rhyme. For the first time, it doesn’t sound like SUGA rapping; it sounds like Yoongi .

It makes his heart do a funny little turn in his chest.

“Let me guess, hyung,” Jungkook says, when the song peters to an end. “You still hate it, don’t you.”

Seokjin doesn’t. He really, really doesn’t. “If you’re going to loop that song just make sure the guests don’t get sick of it,” he says, before going off into his office.

. . .

The roof of the hotel is one of Seokjin’s favorite places to unwind, to let loose and let his mind wander. Barely anyone ever goes up there except Taehyung, who’s planted a bunch of flowers in an attempt to make the space a little more homely and who drops by every now and then to take care of them. It’s private and quiet and it’s the perfect place for him to be left alone with his thoughts.

He’s got Yoongi’s song playing in his ears and this strange, growing feeling in his chest—one that he can’t seem to recognize or name. He closes his eyes, gives himself five minutes to prod at it, sound out its edges and its extent; the way it grows and shrinks in relation to the words in Yoongi’s song, the emotion in his voice. It’s impossible to define, but it’s not in any way bad—just strange and new.

Exhilarating.

When those five minutes are up, he turns off the music, makes his way back down to the lobby, and gets back to work.

. . .

“Heard your song earlier,” Seokjin says lightly, when Yoongi walks in that evening. “A surprise song. You could’ve mentioned.”

Yoongi raises an eyebrow. “What did you think?”

Seokjin thinks many things—things he doesn’t know if he’s allowed to say, things he’s not sure how to put into words. “I didn’t hate it,” is what he settles on.

A shy smile spreads on Yoongi’s face. “Yeah?” He says. “Looks like we might be able to make a SUGA fan out of you after all.”

. . .

There’s a man standing in the middle of Seokjin’s lobby, looking around as if he’s never been in a hotel before. Or a hotel as well-worn as Seokjin’s, because he’s dressed head-to-toe in Balenciaga, and he looks strangely familiar.

Seokjin is pretty sure he’s a celebrity.

“Hey,” Seokjin whispers, nudging Taehyung with his elbow. “Isn’t that guy a celebrity?”

Taehyung looks up from where he’s reading a webtoon. “Who—” Seokjin knows the instant he spots the man in question, because his mouth drops open almost comically. “Hyung, isn’t that J-Hope?”

“I don’t know,” Seokjin replies. “Is it?”

Taehyung is baffled. “You’re telling me you don’t know J-Hope?”

“I know him,” Seokjin shoots back, a little offended. “I just don’t know if it’s actually him.”

The man’s wearing a face mask and a cap so it’s difficult to properly identify him, but now that Taehyung has pointed it out, Seokjin can sort of see the resemblance to the rapper. He’s seen the guy perform on TV a few times, and the guy in the lobby has the same built, the same sort of expensive street style twist to his clothes.

“Why is he here?” Taehyung whispers urgently. “Hyung, are you guys friends?”

“Why on earth would we be friends?”

“Weren’t you street casted once?”

“That doesn’t mean anything,” Seokjin shoots back. “Weren’t you street casted too?”

“Yeah, but—”

“Excuse me,” a voice interrupts, making both Taehyung and Seokjin jump, and Seokjin turns to see the man in question already at the front desk, face mask pulled down to reveal a bright smile. “I’m looking for Seokjin-ssi?”

The man who is one hundred percent, unmistakably, the rapper J-Hope.

Seokjin feels faint. “Yes, that’s me,” he says, and he bows slightly before pasting a customer-friendly, hopefully-also-celebrity-friendly smile on his face. “How can I help you?”

J-Hope gives him a once-over—eyes flitting from head to shoulders to torso, then back up. “Well,” he says, “Yoongi-hyung said you looked like you came straight out of a drama, but I thought he’d been exaggerating.”

At the mention of Yoongi’s name, Taehyung lights up. “Yoongi-hyung?” He crows. “Hyung, is J-Hope-ssi friends with your Yoongi?”

“I guess so.” Seokjin swallows, feeling his face flush slowly. He scans the hotel, looking for somewhere—anywhere— to send Taehyung. “Taehyung, I think Jisoo needs some help in the kitchen.”

“What?” Taehyung cranes his head. “No, she doesn’t.”

“Taehyung,” Seokjin replies, voice increasingly more desperate. “Please.”

“But—”

“Go,” and Taehyung pouts at him, but he goes anyway, pocketing his phone and making his way into the kitchen.

Once they’re alone, Seokjin breathes a sigh of relief, tries to will his flush away. In front of him, J-Hope is looking at him with a curious expression. “I take it he doesn’t know…?”

Seokjin shakes his head. “I didn’t think I should tell him.”

“Ah.” J-Hope’s got a kind smile but a critical eye, and he runs that over Seokjin once more. “Well.”

“Yeah.” Seokjin clears his throat. “How can I—how can I help you, J-Hope-ssi?”

“Ah, it’s nothing, actually,” J-Hope says, and Seokjin doesn’t know if he’s hearing things, or if J-Hope really does sound a little embarrassed.  “I just wanted to come and meet you.”

“Meet me?” Seokjin’s dumbfounded. “Why?”

J-Hope shrugs. “Yoongi-hyung always talks about you, so I was curious.” He thinks for a moment. “Well, we all were—Jimin and Namjoon too—but I was the only one who was brave enough to actually come.”

Seokjin wants to try and process the fact that Yoongi’s friends—famous friends, no less—know about his existence, but his brain refuses to cooperate, still stuck on the Yoongi and talks about you part of J-Hope’s statement. “He talks about me?”

The face he’s making must be something hilarious, because J-Hope laughs. “Why...why do you look so surprised?” He asks. “Yoongi-hyung is very fond of you. He talks about you all the time.”

And okay, Seokjin knew Yoongi had some degree of fondness for him, but not to this extent. “Won’t he hate you for telling me this…?”

“Probably,” J-Hope admits, “but, I think it’s nice. You’ve had quite the influence on him recently.”

“I don’t know about that…”

“Wasn’t his new song because of you?” J-Hope asks, raising an eyebrow. “He mentioned you told him some things that stuck with him.”

Seokjin shakes his head. “I mean, we talked a little about some things, but. I don’t think it's related. He’s always been talented enough to create those things on his own.”

“But he’s never been brave enough to write and release it as a song,” J-Hope replies. “We always told him to, but it never got through to him.” 

Seokjin spots Taehyung returning from the kitchen, clearly all too happy to have been released from kitchen duties. J-Hope, it seems, spots him too, because he smiles at Seokjin and pulls up his mask. “Well,” he says, his voice slightly muffled. “It was nice to meet you, Seokjin-ssi. I’m sure we’ll see each other again.”

“You too, J-Hope-ssi,” Seokjin shakes his hand.

J-Hope’s mouth is covered, but Seokjin can still see it when he smiles. “Hoseok, please,” he says, then he turns around, being enough of a sport to wave at Taehyung, who looks disappointed that he’s leaving.

Seokjin’s head is still spinning, so he shakes it to clear his thoughts, then gets right back to work.

. . .

“Tell me.”

“No.”

“Tell me.”

“No.”

“Hyung,” Taehyung says, his voice threatening. “Tell me.”

“For the last time, there’s nothing to tell,” Seokjin replies, exasperated. “He just showed up, asked a few questions, and then left.”

“But how is he related to your Yoongi?” Taehyung presses, clearly not wanting to let this go. “Why did he mention him?”

“I told you, Taehyung, they’re friends.”

“Who’s related to Yoongi-ssi, now?” A new voice interrupts, and Seokjin turns to find Jungkook, wet-haired with his backpack over his shoulder, newly arrived for his shift. “What are we talking about?"

“Oh, look Taehyung, Jungkook is here,” Seokjin says, dismissively. “You can go home now.”

Taehyung pouts. “No,” he says, but stands up from the office chair anyway. He turns to Jungkook, crossing his arms. “Why are you so early today?”

Jungkook looks at him dubiously. “I’m right on time,” he says, and checks his phone to be sure.

Seokjin sighs. “Yes, Jungkook, you’re on time,” he says. “Now, Taehyung—”

Jungkook, however, has completely chosen to ignore him. “Taehyungie-hyung can stay if he wants,” he says, dropping his bag down roughly and sitting on the newly-vacated seat. He raises an eyebrow, his eyes flitting between Seokjin and Taehyung. “Now I heard something about Yoongi-ssi?”

“You’re not the boss here,” Seokjin protests, but Taehyung speaks over him.

“So, guess who came to the hotel today,” Taehyung begins, his words rushed in his excitement. He stays silent for exactly one second, presumably for dramatic purposes. “J-Hope.”

Jungkook’s eyes widen. “The rapper J-Hope?”

“That’s the one,” Taehyung says, gleefully.

“Is he as handsome in person as he is on TV?”

“More.” Taehyung leans forward conspiratorially. “He comes in, right, looks for Seokjin-hyung, says, and I quote, ‘Yoongi-hyung told me you look like you came straight out of a drama’.”

“That’s—” Seokjin tries to interrupt, but Jungkook isn’t paying him any attention. 

“No,” Jungkook says, his eyes getting that shiny quality to them. “J-Hope said Yoongi-ssi said that our hyung looks like he came straight out of a drama?”

“Exactly,” Taehyung says. “And then I asked about Yoongi-ssi, but Seokjin-hyung told me to go help Jisoo in the kitchen. And when I came back he was already leaving.”

“What did they talk about?”

“I don’t know.” This time, Taehyung glares at Seokjin. “This hyung won’t tell me.”

“It was nothing important, I told you,” Seokjin repeats, for what feels like the eightieth time. “He just asked some questions.”

“About what?”

“About me,” Seokjin replies. “And, the hotel.”

Taehyung narrows his eyes even more, opening his mouth as if to argue again, but then Jungkook butts in.

“Wait—” Jungkook’s eyes are wide and confused. “How does Yoongi-ssi know J-Hope?”

“They’re friends, like I said.”

"How?”

“I don’t know,” Seokjin replies, at his wit’s end. “I didn’t ask and he didn’t tell me.”

Jungkook narrows his eyes. “You’re leaving something out and I can tell.”

“What? I’m not—hey!” Jungkook’s neck slice comes too fast for Seokjin to dodge. “Those things hurt, you know.”

He hits Jungkook back, but it seems to have no effect whatsoever. “Yoongi-ssi seems much more interesting than before,” Jungkook says, exchanging a glance with Taehyung. “I’m with Taehyungie-hyung—when will we meet him?”

“I told you, it’ll be whenever he wants to meet you guys.”

“When is that?” Taehyung interjects. “Have you at least asked him if he wants to meet us?”

“I don’t think he’d want to, honestly,” Seokjin replies. “Because you two are probably too crazy for him.”

Taehyung and Jungkook exchange a high-five. Seokjin has no idea why on earth that statement was high-five-worthy. “Fine,” Taehyung says. “If we can’t meet him—”

“—can he at least get us J-Hope’s autograph?” Jungkook finishes, his eyes bright. 

Seokjin looks at their faces—at their matching, hopeful expressions—and shakes his head, trying to hide his smile. “No promises.”

. . .

Yoongi bursts out laughing when Seokjin tells him.

“They want J-Hope’s autograph?” He asks, incredibly amused. “What, do they want Jimin and Namjoon’s, too?”

And, as Seokjin knows both Taehyung and Jungkook well—too well, in fact—he can’t do anything but sigh. “Yes,” he says, gravely.

That makes Yoongi laugh even harder. “I mean, I’ll see what I can do,” he says once he’s calmed down, wiping the tears from his eyes.

. . .

J-Hope’s, Jimin’s, and Namjoon’s autographs come in the form of signed CD’s that Yoongi sends to the hotel next week. Taehyung and Jungkook practically kill each other trying to get to them first.

“Seokjinnie-hyung has a sponsor,” Taehyung sings, once he and Jungkook have stopped fighting and are squished together on the couch, looking through the CD’s together. Yoongi has only sent three—a signed CD from each of them—and it's taken an unnecessarily long discussion, as well as a competitive game of rock paper scissors for Taehyung and Jungkook to eventually decide that they’d keep the CD’s at the back office, just so they’ll both have access to them. 

“Remind me, hyung,” Jungkook says. He’s not looking at Seokjin though, his attention directed to the CD he’s cradling in his hands. Mono by RM, it says in tiny font in the corner, with Namjoon’s signature scrawled on it, and Seokjin knows how much that album means to Jungkook, how much comfort it had brought him when he’d moved up to Seoul by himself a few years ago. “What does your friend do for a living again?”

“Music.” Seokjin rolls his eyes, a smile growing on his face, his heart beating strangely at the thought of Yoongi’s thoughtfulness. “He makes music.”

. . .

Seokjin meets Park Jimin when Yoongi brings him along to the hotel one day.

“It’s nice to finally meet you, Seokjin-ssi,” Jimin says, incredibly polite. He’s tinier than Seokjin thought he would be, but he’s got a presence that easily fills up the lobby. “Yoongi-hyung doesn’t stop talking about you.”

Seokjin reaches out a hand and Jimin takes it with two of his. “I hope he only says nice things.”

“He says you walked straight out of a drama set.”

At that moment Yoongi coughs, loud and fake. “Hyung,” he says, and his head is bowed, but Seokjin thinks he spots a little bit of a blush crawling up his neck and cheeks. “He’s here because he wouldn’t stop whining about wanting to meet you.”

“Well, hyung, it just wasn’t fair!” Jimin isn’t whining, but his voice does rise an octave. “Why did Hobi-hyung get to meet him?”

“Because Hoseok went behind my back and visited him without telling me,” Yoongi says. “And you have no more right to complain, because you’re meeting him now.” Yoongi turns to Seokjin long-sufferingly, his face still a bit red from earlier. “He’s the maknae of our friend group.”

Jimin’s expression changes, shifts easily into a winning smile. “I am!”

“Sadly.”

“Ah, hyung, don’t be like that.”

Despite Yoongi’s antagonizing words to Jimin, Seokjin can hear the fondness in his tone, as if all the teasing is done out of love. It reminds him of his dynamic with Jungkook and Taehyung, and for a moment Seokjin wishes they were here, too.

“So, what do you usually do here, hyung?” Jimin has made himself comfortable on one of the couches of the lobby, lying down as if he’s about to take a nap.

“Wait until it’s time to go home,” is Yoongi’s reply.

Jimin stares up at Yoongi in disbelief.

Seokjin can’t help but laugh at his expression. “Sometimes we also do the accounting,” he chimes in.

Yoongi nods serenely.

Jimin blinks. “I can see why you get along.” He pushes himself up to a sitting position, thinks for a moment. “Seokjin-ssi, do you have any soju?”

“At the bar, yeah.”

“Do you mind bringing us a bottle? I’ll pay for it, of course.”

One bottle of soju turns into two, into three, and it’s not long until Seokjin finds himself sitting on the lobby floor with Yoongi and Jimin, eating cup ramen and gimbap from the store nearby and, for some reason, trying to teach Jimin some English.

“No, Jimin-ssi, you should roll your tongue,” Seokjin says, dropping his chopsticks into his cup ramen. “Repeat after me. Bulgogi.”

“Bulgogi,” Jimin parrots perfectly. 

“That’s it,” Seokjin says approvingly. “Now this. Hot dog.”

Jimin blinks. “Wh...what did you say?”

“Hot dog.”

Yoongi, beside him, starts laughing. He’s already looking when Seokjin turns to face him, his eyes crinkled in the corners, his nose scrunched, his shoulders shaking. “What?”

It’s hard not to laugh when faced with this paradigm of happiness. Seokjin tries anyway, tries to keep his lips still and his face offended. “Why?” He asks, pushing down the laughter bubbling in his chest. “Why are you laughing at me?”

“Seokjin-ssi, I think you’ve learned something wrong.” Jimin’s laughing at him too, but Seokjin can’t seem to tear his eyes away from Yoongi’s face. 

“What are you talking about?” Seokjin replies, unable to stop himself from breaking out into a smile. “I’ve been learning English from American dramas nowadays!”

By the end of the night, Seokjin lets Jimin call him ‘hyung’ too; by the end of the night Yoongi complains that his cheeks hurt from laughing at them. He still can’t stop smiling though, his eyes in slits and his cheeks pushed upwards and Seokjin thinks that in a different life, he could write a song about the way Yoongi’s expressions shift, about the slow, arresting way Yoongi lights up when he’s relaxed and really, truly happy.

. . .

“Hey,” Seokjin says, popping his head into the back office. “What are you both doing on Friday?”

Taehyung and Jungkook look up at him in sync from where they’ve been playing a what must be riveting game of Animal Crossing. “Nothing,” Taehyung replies, at the same time Jungkook replies, “The gym, probably.”

Something about the honest, innocent way that they’re looking at him makes Seokjin feel terrible—terrible for not telling them the truth about Yoongi, terrible for not opening up to them sooner. Seokjin knows he meant well; Yoongi had entrusted him with his privacy and Seokjin took that seriously, had gone to great lengths to protect him, but in the process he’d kept secrets from two of his longest employees, his best friends, who’d been there with him since Seokjin decided to start his journey as a hotelier.

“Why?” Taehyung adds, a little curious. “Do you need us to stay an extra shift?”

Seokjin shakes his head, thinking carefully about how he should phrase this. Sure, I’ll meet them, Yoongi had said easily, when Seokjin had brought up the idea. But Taehyung needs to bring his puppy.

In the end he goes for a more open-ended approach. “If you want to meet Yoongi, you can meet him on Friday night. But if you have other plans, don’t worry about it.”

Silence. Seokjin’s sure he can hear a pin drop.

And then—

“We get to meet Yoongi-ssi?” Taehyung says, his voice rising. His expression shifts to one of absolute delight. “Plans, cancelled.”

“Hyung,” Jungkook says. He’s smiling so wide enough that his nose is scrunched. “Wanna see how happy I am?”

“No—” Seokjin says, but he’s not quick enough, because Jungkook’s already running out to the lobby and doing a backflip.

Honestly, it’s really not that big of a deal. There’s no reason why that should be Jungkook’s first reaction.

“It’ll be Yoongi and his friends,” Seokjin explains, when Jungkook returns, attaching himself to Seokjin’s back. He pauses. “So, yes. J-Hope will be there, I think.”

Taehyung’s face, if possible, lights up even more. “Really?”

“But there’s one condition,” Seokjin says, as sternly as he can. “Two, actually.”

Jungkook and Taehyung nod.

“You have to promise not to freak out.” Seokjin can see that he’s raised their curiosity by his statement, but it needs to be said. He points to Taehyung. “Also, you need to bring Yeontan.”

. . .

“When is Yoongi-hyung coming?” Taehyung jokes, spinning around on the chair at the front desk. “I’m excited to meet him.”

Seokjin raises an eyebrow at Taehyung. “On ‘hyung’ terms already?”

“You don’t think he’ll like us enough to let us call him hyung?”

“Probably not, to be honest.”

Taehyung pouts at that. Seokjin laughs at him, then leans down to hug him.

Out in the lobby, Jungkook is playing with Yeontan—something like tug of war or tag or just running around in circles. It looks exhausting to Seokjin, but they both seem like they’re having fun, even if Yeontan’s stubby legs can’t really seem to keep up with Jungkook’s long strides.

“Jungkookie,” Taehyung calls, letting Seokjin hug him but also leaning forward to keep a watchful eye on his dog. “Don’t tire him out too much!”

“I won’t!” Jungkook replies, and in one swift movement, he picks Yeontan up from the ground. He deposits him on the front desk, making sure he won’t fall over or jump off before coming around and latching himself onto Seokjin’s back too.

“A hug worm,” Taehyung declares. Seokjin lets it last for a few more moments before pulling away.

“Hey,” he says. “Just remember what I said, okay? No freaking out.”

Jungkook’s eyes crinkle into a smile. “It’s sweet that you’re so worried about him, hyung,” he teases.

“I’m serious, Jungkook.”

“Alright, alright.” Jungkook puts his hands up placatingly. “We’ll do our best not to overwhelm him.”

“That’s grea—” In his peripheral vision, there’s a blur of movement—four figures walking into the hotel lobby. One of them breaks away, skipping excitedly; Seokjin hears Jimin’s voice call out, “A puppy!”

Jimin, polite as ever, comes to a stop at the front desk. “Seokjin-hyung!” He says grinning, before turning his attention to Taehyung and Jungkook and doing a small bow. “Hello, I’m Park Jimin.”

Seokjin can see the instant recognition dawns on them because their faces change going from smiling to shocked in a matter of nanoseconds. They manage to get a hold of themselves enough to bow back though.

“Jeon Jungkook.”

“Kim Taehyung.”

“Is this him?” A new voice has joined them, and Seokjin looks to see the rest of Jimin’s group approaching the front desk. Yoongi is standing there in all black; his face is obscured by his face mask and his baseball cap, but Seokjin has learned to recognize the slant of his eyelids, the warmth of his eyebrows. “Is this the puppy?”

“No, this is a cat,” Seokjin replies flippantly. Yoongi hums, reaches out to let Yeontan sniff his hand.

“Meow,” he jokes.

Seokjin has to tamp down a grin. Taehyung, he notices, is looking at Yoongi suspiciously, his eyebrows furrowed and confusion written all over his face. 

Time to rip off the band-aid.

“Yoongi,” he says, and Yoongi meets his eye. “This is Kim Taehyung and Jeon Jungkook.”

“Nice to meet you,” both Jungkook and Taehyung say in unison, bowing politely. And Seokjin knows it’s going to happen before it does; can read it in the sudden crinkle of Yoongi’s eyes.

Yoongi pulls down his mask. “Nice to meet you,” he says, before gesturing to the two people behind him. “Hoseok and Namjoon.”

There’s a few things that happen after that:

One, Taehyung freezes, absolutely freezes, his mouth dropped open and his eyes comically large. He seems to be unable to process what he’s seeing, because his eyes are flitting around, as if trying to tell if this is reality or not.

Two, Jungkook’s mouth moves, unable to make a sound. It takes him a few tries, his lips moving again and again until he finally finds his voice, manages to stutter out a quiet SUGA.

And three, Yeontan almost falls off the front desk.

Yoongi manages to catch him swiftly, setting him back on the front desk before Seokjin can even reach out a hand. “Be careful,” he says to Yeontan, who just yips at him, tail wagging. 

“SUGA,” Jungkook says, his voice weak. “Min Yoongi. Oh my God.”

“Hyung,” Taehyung says, apparently snapping back into himself. His eyes are a little crazed, probably from either being face-to-face with his favorite rapper, or from watching said rapper handle his puppy. “You made the Min Yoongi do our accounting?”

“Why?” Seokjin is baffled. “He’s not allowed to do the accounting just because he’s world famous?”

Taehyung looks faint. “I think I need to sit down for a minute.” His eyes flit behind Yoongi to Hoseok and Namjoon, who have taken off their masks, and he shakes his head, practically collapsing onto the chair beside him.

Silence. And then Namjoon raises a hand. “Nice to meet you, Seokjin-ssi,” he says smiling kindly, dimples digging into his cheek.

Jungkook takes one look at him, gulps, then hides under the front desk.

. . .

It’s a little awkward in the beginning, but slowly, everyone seems to settle into the strange situation, becoming more and more comfortable with each other's presence.

Mostly because of the alcohol. Seokjin has no idea what would’ve happened if Jimin hadn’t had the foresight to bring some soju, but he’s sure it wouldn’t have been anything like this. The alcohol has brought Taehyung out of his shell, his normal, bubbly self coming back after two shots of soju, and it’s not long until he’s got both Namjoon and Hoseok charmed and Jimin keeling over from laughter.

"No, but," Jimin starts, laughter audible in his tone. Seokjin can see that he's latched onto Taehyung, Yeontan on his lap as he watches Taehyung repeat English words from an app he has on his phone. "Why are you learning that now?"

"Seokjin-hyung says I should learn more English so I can help the foreign guests."

"Would you like to go outside?" Taehyung's phone says. Taehyung parrots it perfectly.

"But right now?" Jimin replies. "And when will you even use these phrases?"

Taehyung thinks for a moment. "They might be helpful eventually."

"Let's sleep," the app suggests.

"Okay!" Taehyung closes his eyes and pretends to snore, and Jimin bursts into laughter, hiding his giggles into Taehyung's shoulder.

Jungkook takes a little longer—he’s always been a little shy, and faced with some of his favorite musicians, he seems hardly able to string together a coherent sentence or look them in the eye. He mostly sticks to Seokjin and Taehyung, and Seokjin is just thinking it may be a lost cause when Yoongi suggests ordering some lamb skewers and Jungkook's eyes light up.

And by the end of the night, they all just fit together.

It’s kind of crazy, when Seokjin thinks about it—somehow, Yoongi’s friends fill in the gaps that he didn’t even know existed, and he finds himself having fun while trying to learn some dancing from J-Hope, or laughing over nothing with Namjoon. The whole night is equal parts hilarious and ridiculous, and it’s definitely not appropriate for somewhere that’s supposed to be his workplace, but Seokjin doesn’t really care, not when this is the most fun he’s had in months.

Yoongi is clearly having fun too—Seokjin finds his eyes drawn to him through the course of the night, always a little worried, always checking up on him. Yoongi’s a mix of tipsy and comfortable and throughout the night he shows some impeccable funky dancing that Seokjin didn't know he had in him. He becomes ridiculously gentle, too—not that Yoongi’s ever been anything but gentle, but he seems it even more so now, discussing his hypothetical lamb skewer shop with Jungkook and smiling fondly with Namjoon and Hoseok as they listen to Taehyung messing up the words to Cypher pt. 3.

"Hyung, what are you even saying?" Jungkook calls out, laughing when Taehyung stumbles on one of the lines and tries to cover it up with a very enthusiastic dab. "You listen to this all the time and you still don't know the words?"

Behind Taehyung, Hoseok mimes something to Yoongi. Yoongi shakes his head, laughing a little, but then Hoseok does it again and it seems to convince Yoongi because he jumps in when his verse comes on, rapping loudly enough to startle Taehyung and make everyone laugh.

It’s a bit later when everything quiets down, and Seokjin finds himself sitting on one of the couches, watching as Jimin sticks to Taehyung, hugging him as if he’s never letting go while Taehyung tries to show him a video on his phone. Namjoon is beside them, watching while holding Yeontan, who has fallen asleep in his lap. 

Someone plops down on the space beside him. Seokjin doesn’t even need to look to know it’s Yoongi, has learned to recognize him from the silences between his words, by the sound of his footsteps and the warmth of his body. “I think, maybe, we should’ve done this sooner,” Yoongi says, his smile audible despite the quiet tone of his voice.

“Yeah, maybe.” Seokjin keeps watching them. “You wondered once, what it’s like in here during the day.” Seokjin gestures to the room at large. “Pretty much this, without the random idols hanging around.”

Yoongi lets out a quiet laugh. “Fun.”

“It is.”

Yoongi shifts, and their shoulders brush together slightly. Seokjin doesn’t know why he’s suddenly so aware of his heart and the way it beats against his chest. “It’s probably more eventful where you guys work.”

Yoongi thinks for a moment. “Well, it’s hectic,” he says carefully. “Never-ending schedules.” He pauses. “Definitely nothing like this.”

Jungkook and Hoseok appear in his line of sight, stopping to peek down at the video Taehyung is showing them. It’s another five seconds before they all burst into laughter, startling Yeontan awake.

“Sometimes, I wish I lived in moments like this,” Yoongi says, so quietly that Seokjin isn’t even sure he was meant to hear it. 

“You shouldn’t,” he replies. “Seems fun, but it gets a little boring eventually.”

“Doesn’t everything?” Yoongi lets out a sigh. “I just regret, sometimes. I don’t know.”

Regret. It’s not a word that Yoongi should be saying, or even a word that should’ve even crossed his mind. “I don’t think there’s anything to regret,” Seokjin says, turning to him. “Yoongi, you’re doing amazing. Everything you’ve done up until now has been amazing.”

“Passionate words from a hater.”

“I’m serious,” Seokjin insists. “All the music you’ve released, all the records you’ve broken—they’re amazing and you shouldn’t regret the choices that led you to them.”

Yoongi shakes his head. “I know,” he says. “And I know I sound ungrateful, but I’m not.” He pauses. “It’s just that there are moments where life is a bit too much. Sometimes, I’d just like to stay here for a little while.”

Looking at him now, he seems lost, as if he’d been dropped into the idol life with absolutely no instruction as to how to navigate its waters. As if he’d taken a wrong turn and gotten lost at sea, and is now seeking a little bit of guidance, of clarity.

As if he’s trying to find his way home.

Seokjin thinks for a moment. “You can always come back,” is what he comes up with, trying to sound as sincere as possible. “If life gets to be a bit much—just come back. Come here. The hotel will always be here for you whenever you need it. Everyone will be here for you whenever you need it.”

I will too, Seokjin doesn’t say, but he thinks Yoongi hears it, judging by the way his lips twitch up slightly. He doesn’t offer a reply to that, just nods, before leaning his head against Seokjin’s shoulder.

. . .

Interlude: Shadow is released a few weeks later on SoundCloud. The lyrics make Seokjin stop in his tracks.

Wasn’t this the kind of thing you’d been wanting? / The life you hoped for, the life you wanted / The life you chose: you achieved everything without regrets / And on top of that, you have a big house, big cars, big rings / All the things you wanted, you’ve got it all / So what’s the problem?

He’s still in the middle of listening to it, processing Yoongi’s words when Taehyung walks past, a bunch of folded towels in his arms.

“It’s kind of weird to loop Yoongi-hyung’s songs now that I actually know him,” he says.

Seokjin gives him a look. “Then don’t.”

Taehyung pouts. “Ah, but we have streaming goals.” He pauses. “He’s been writing his lyrics a little differently now, did you notice?”

Of course he has. “No,” he lies. Unconvincingly, going by the way Taehyung raises an eyebrow.

“Well, he has. He’s always been very honest in his lyrics, but in his last two, he’s been more—”

“Emotional?”

“Yeah.” Taehyung’s looking at him strangely, and it makes Seokjin feel a little exposed, like he’s been turned inside out. “Did he tell you why?”

Seokjin shrugs. “We don’t really talk about those things,” he says. “Who knows what’s up with him.”

There’s a moment when Taehyung just stares at him, clearly trying to figure something out. After a minute, a smile breaks out, tiny and knowing. “Yeah, who knows.”

. . .

“I didn’t know this place existed,” Seokjin hears Yoongi say from behind him.

Seokjin’s not a stranger to beautiful sights; he’s seen ancient well-preserved buildings and temples in his lifetime, has watched autumn leaves turn gold and sunsets paint the sky in a myriad of colors. This, here, should be something that’s inconsequential, not even worth the comparison, but there’s something about the sight of one Min Yoongi, bundled up in a puffer jacket and prettily framed in Taehyung’s flowers that makes Seokjin want to stare, makes something warm bloom in his chest. Makes him think of autumn leaves and temples and sunsets.

“You should’ve told Namjoon,” Yoongi continues, oblivious to Seokjin’s thoughts. “He loves plants.”

Seokjin finds his voice. “They’re Taehyung’s flowers. I don’t know anything about them.”

“Any reason why he planted them here?”

“I think he didn’t have enough space at his apartment.” Yoongi’s hands are pianist’s hands; strong but gentle, fingers long and thin. They’re delicate as he handles a dahlia, his pointer finger brushing against the petal. “They’re really pretty, though.”

“They are.” As if sensing Seokjin’s gaze, Yoongi looks up, catches Seokjin’s eyes. Holds his gaze for about three seconds before looking away.

Seokjin’s world feels like it’s been tilted on its axis. “Who told you I was up here?”

“Jungkookie,” Yoongi answers. “Well, actually, he said that you might be at inventory or on the roof, and inventory was empty, so.”

Seokjin raises an eyebrow. “You know where inventory is? That’s amazing.”

“Hyung, your hotel only has two floors and twenty rooms. It’s not hard.” 

It isn’t, but Seokjin is impressed all the same. “You know, if you didn’t already have a job, I would have asked if you wanted to work here.”

“You still can. I’ll work part time.”

“And your asking salary would be…?”

Yoongi thinks for a moment. “Much more than you can afford, probably.”

“No discount for family and friends, then?”

“Depends,” Yoongi says. He looks up at Seokjin again, his smile teasing. “Are you considered family or friends?”

“Wow,” Seokjin makes a mock-offended expression, crossing his arms. “You’ve been coming to my hotel for the better part of a year and I’m still not considered a friend? I’m hurt, Yoongi. Truly.”

Yoongi’s grin just grows wider.

It’s a bit of a cold evening, with a breeze that causes Seokjin to shiver a little, goosebumps erupting on his arm despite his coat. Below, the sounds of the city pierce the night—cars passing by and street cats meowing, people laughing as they make their way home.

There’s a sort of distance to the noise, to the outside world; Seokjin feels like he’s listening to the world through a bubble, like the reality on the roof and the reality down there are two vastly different things. To him, the only thing that exists is right here, right now—Taehyung’s flowers and Yoongi in his puffer jacket, and Seokjin’s many thoughts he can’t seem to articulate.

He tries, anyway. “I’ve been listening to your songs.”

“Let me guess, you hate them.” He moves closer to Seokjin, until they’re right next to each other, leaning against the railing of the roof, looking out at the night sky.

“No, I—” Yoongi’s smile is still teasing, the curve of his lips pretty on his face. “I don’t. Seriously. It’s just the new ones are a bit different compared to the others.”

“You think so?”

“You’re telling me they’re not?”

Yoongi shrugs, the movement exaggerated by the puffiness of his jacket. “They might be. But I just took your advice, hyung. I just wrote and released whatever I wanted.”

“And how was that?”

Yoongi thinks. “Liberating.”

Seokjin takes a moment to let that word settle. “And your lyrics are about…?”

It’s here that Yoongi’s expression changes, a contemplative look crossing his features. “They’re about me,” he replies. “About how I feel. About everything that I've wanted to say—about things, about moments, about emotions.” A pause. “About people sometimes, too.”

There’s something unspoken in the air. Seokjin isn’t sure how to decipher it, but it’s there, swirling in the space between him and Yoongi, settling on the surfaces around them. A breeze blows, a car passes by, and Seokjin wants—wants to know where this is headed, what Yoongi is choosing not to say; wants to know why the thump of his heart feels different than normal.

But wanting is an emotion and emotions are irrational and Seokjin may be good at speaking but there are some things he just doesn’t know how to ask for, every word he can come up with feeling wrong against his tongue. So he just lets it be, lets himself enjoy the quiet of the night and Yoongi’s presence, comforting and calm.

. . .

And maybe, this is why Seokjin doesn’t notice that they’ve grown a little complacent.

. . .

When Seokjin opens Twitter, SUGA’s name is trending. This is not unusual in and of itself; on any given night it’s usually ranked up there, probably from his millions of fans talking about him. 

But today, the hashtags are a little different. 

#WeLoveYouMinSuga, it reads, at the very top, followed very closely by SUGA bar and SUGA fight scandal. Seokjin clicks on the third one, a weird feeling settling in his stomach. 

Immediately, he’s greeted with blurry photos and videos of SUGA drunkenly stumbling out of a club. Rapper SUGA has reportedly gotten involved in a bar fight, a tweet from a tabloid says, with an article attached. Local authorities have been involved.

There are many different words he can ascribe to the sudden tightening of his chest—shock at the tabloid news, anger at their blatant invasion of privacy, worry at Yoongi’s drunken state—but perhaps the most prominent feeling, the one churning in his stomach and crawling up his throat, is the desperation. Seokjin wants nothing more than for Yoongi to be right in front of him so he can run his eyes all over him and check that he’s okay, that he’s not hurt or bleeding or crying.

But there’s nothing he can do, because Yoongi isn’t here and Seokjin doesn’t know if he should run to where he was last spotted; doesn’t have Yoongi’s phone number or email or any other way to contact him. He’s relied on the consistency of Yoongi’s visits and hadn’t realized that outside the hotel there’d be no way for them to even speak to each other.

The bar is fifteen minutes away from the hotel on foot. If Seokjin runs, he might be able to make it in ten. It’s too far, too long, and Yoongi must have already left the area by now, but Seokjin is still grabbing his coat from the back office, slipping his phone into his pocket.

But just as he’s about to leave, someone stumbles into the lobby, sprawling face first onto the ground.

“Yoongi!” Seokjin doesn’t know how, but one second he’s behind the front desk, and the next he’s helping Yoongi up from the floor, throwing an arm around his waist and carefully depositing him on the couch. Yoongi still falls like a rag doll, limp, his eyes hazy.

“Hi,” he slurs. “Were you leaving?”

Yoongi looks...bad. There’s no way around it. He’s very clearly drunk, there’s blood streaking down his cheek, and his upper lip is still bleeding. The knuckles of his right hand are turning a sickly yellow, and he reeks of alcohol, as if he’s showered in it.

“Fuck,” Seokjin says, shrugging off his coat.

Immediately, Yoongi’s eyes widen. “No, no, you don’t have to stay,” he says. “I know it looks bad, but. It’s not that bad.”

Seokjin ignores him, running quickly to the back office to put his coat back and grab the first aid kit. When he returns, Yoongi has pushed himself up into a sitting position, looking around. 

“Seriously, hyung,” he says. “You can go.”

“Be quiet,” Seokjin snaps, and begins cleaning his wounds as gently as he can.

Yoongi was right—once cleaned up, it’s not actually that bad, just a small cut on his cheek and his upper lip. There’s definitely going to be some bruising though; Seokjin can see yellow on Yoongi’s usually-porcelain cheek. 

“Stay here,” he says shortly, then goes to throw away the cotton swabs and grab some ice from the kitchen.

“Hyung,” Yoongi says, when Seokjin returns with some ice and a towel. “That’s not necessary—”

“Shut up,” Seokjin says, sighing when Yoongi falls silent. He makes sure the towel is tied securely around the ice before he presses it against Yoongi’s bruised cheek, watching as Yoongi winces. “Yoongi. What the fuck happened?”

The corner of Yoongi’s mouth quirks up. “I think that’s the first time I’ve heard you swear.”

“Yoongi.”

Yoongi sighs. “Was in the club with Jiminie and Hoseok,” he mumbles. “Next thing I know, there’s a guy all over Jimin and he just wouldn’t let up. Wouldn’t take no for an answer. So I punched him.” He shrugs. “Then I got punched.”

“That’s…” Seokjin didn't know what to expect when he asked, but somehow, it wasn’t this, and he feels a little caught off-guard. His eyes flit to the cut on Yoongi’s cheek, then down to his lip, trying to imagine how it all played out. “Yoongi—”

Yoongi must hear something in his voice, because his eyes snap up, catching Seokjin’s own. “Did you...did you think I started the fight without reason, hyung?”

It’s a valid question. Did you think I started the fight without reason, Yoongi asks, as if Seokjin was making assumptions based on Yoongi’s media persona, based on the image the media built for him that he spent months tearing down in front of Seokjin. As if Seokjin didn’t know him that well. As if Seokjin didn’t know him enough to know that Yoongi was fiercely protective, would never lay a hand on anyone unless actively provoked.

It’s a valid question, one that Seokjin doesn’t know how to answer, simply because he didn’t think about it. There was nothing in his head except desperation—desperation to see him, desperation to make everything okay.

“It never even crossed my mind,” Seokjin replies honestly. “I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”

Yoongi looks at him; a breath, then another. “I’m okay,” he says.

“I, I don’t—” Seokjin licks his lips. “You don’t even know how worried I was, Yoongi. When I saw the tweets—”

“Hyung, I’m okay—”

“—I didn’t even care about whatever the fuck happened, I just wanted to see you.” The words spill from his lips like a flood, more personal than anything he’s ever said to Yoongi before. “I wanted to see you and make sure you weren’t hurt, or at least hear your voice to know that it wasn’t that serious—”

“Hyung—”

“But I couldn’t even call, because I don’t even have your number.”

“Hyung—”

“I was desperate.” Seokjin’s throat closes around his words. “I was going to run to the club to try and catch you. I was going out of my mind with worry—”

And suddenly there’s a flurry of movement, a hand on the back of his neck; suddenly Seokjin finds his forehead pressed solidly against Yoongi’s, barely an inch of space between their faces. “Seokjin-hyung,” Yoongi says quietly. His hand threads through Seokjin’s hair, his fingers cold against Seokjin’s nape. “I’m okay.”

The silence that settles after lasts eternities, possibly forever. There’s something about the way Yoongi is looking at him that makes Seokjin’s breath catch in his throat; something about the way he can feel Yoongi’s nose brushing against his, the way Yoongi’s warm breath bounces off his lips. In all his senses, on all planes of existence there's only—only Yoongi and his strong hands, Yoongi and his hazy eyes, Yoongi and his alcohol-ridden breath. 

Three breaths in quick succession. The drumbeat of his heart loud in the silence. Seokjin waits. 

Then—

“Yoongi-hyung!” Someone calls. 

They spring apart quickly, as if burned. Seokjin turns to see Jimin entering the lobby. “There you are,” Jimin says, his relief echoing through the lobby, chasing away their silence. “We thought we’d lost you.”

“I’m fine, Jimin,” Yoongi replies. “Just needed a bit of an escape.”

“Well next time tell someone, yeah?” Jimin pulls out a phone, presumably to send a text. “Don’t just run off like that.” He looks at Seokjin. “Seokjin-hyung, thank you for looking after him.”

Something heavy settles in Seokjin’s stomach. “No problem, Jimin,” he says weakly. “Get him home properly. And you.” Yoongi, when he looks, is already staring back, eyes dark and face unreadable. “Get some rest, okay?”

Yoongi nods. “You too,” he says. “I’ll see you soon.”

And then he’s gone, one hand in Jimin’s and getting dragged towards a discreet black car idling out front. Seokjin watches him go, watches the car start and pull away from the curb, then watches the street outside for a little while longer.

It takes longer still for his heart to calm down.

. . .

“It’s seven in the morning,” Seokjin says sleepily into his phone, a few hours later. “What is it, Taehyung?”

“Hyung, there’s—” Seokjin hears a strange seriousness in his tone. “There’s a problem at the hotel.”

“What is it?”

“I don’t know how to describe it over the phone,” Taehyung replies. “I think it’s best you come over.”

“I’ll be right there,” Seokjin promises, and forces himself to roll out of his bed, his heart thumping in his ears. 

. . .

When he arrives, it’s seven thirty and the hotel is packed. Seokjin has to fight his way through a crowd, some of them squealing far too loudly for the time of day.

“What is going on,” he demands, when he reaches the front desk. Even the dining area is full; Seokjin can see Jisoo and Hani struggling to serve the amount of customers. “Why are there so many people?”

Surprisingly, Jungkook is here too, and he looks up, uncharacteristically awake. “Hyung,” he says, “save us.”

“There’s an attack of Yoongi-hyung’s fans,” Taehyung adds.

“What? What do you mean?”

“Oh my god, it’s him!” Someone shouts, and the next thing Seokjin knows, he’s surrounded by a bunch of people, their phones out and wide smiles on their faces.

“Excuse me,” a girl says, beaming at him brightly. “Are you SUGA-oppa’s friend?”

“What?”

Another person interrupts them. “Is SUGA-ssi here today? What room is he in?” 

“I don’t—”

“Can you give this to SUGA-oppa for me?”

“That’s—” Seokjin looks up at Taehyung and Jungkook, who are watching with wide eyes. “Excuse me for a moment,” he says as politely as he can, “I need to go do some work.”

And then he jumps over the front desk and herds Jungkook and Taehyung into the back office.

. . .

It barely takes a minute for them to find the source. Or at least, for Taehyung to do so.

They’re pictures on Twitter. Pictures of Yoongi stumbling into the hotel late last night, drunk and bleeding. Pictures of Seokjin rushing out to help him, pictures of Seokjin treating his wounds and icing his bruises. Pictures of their foreheads pressed together, Yoongi’s hand threaded through Seokjin’s hair.

If it weren’t for the pictures, Seokjin would have thought he’d dreamt the whole thing. But he didn’t and they’re right there, uploaded on Twitter and retweeted almost two thousand times for the whole world to see.

The worst part? The pictures were taken from inside the hotel lobby. Probably from a fan that had followed Yoongi from the club. 

How could he have been so careless?

“So, let me get this straight,” Jungkook says. “Yoongi-hyung’s fans are here because they think Seokjin-hyung is his boyfriend?”

“Is Seokjin-hyung Yoongi-hyung’s boyfriend?” Taehyung asks, side-eyeing Seokjin. He’s got the final picture from Twitter open, Seokjin and Yoongi’s faces abnormally close, and Seokjin has to admit that it looks a lot more intimate than it actually was, the lighting making it look like they’re doing something else. Something more.

“That’s ridiculous,” Seokjin says, even though his heart does a funny little turn in his chest. “I—no. I’m not.”

“Are you sure?”

“Taehyung, those pictures aren’t—it was the lighting,” Seokjin finishes lamely. “It’s not what you’re thinking.”

Taehyung remains unconvinced. “But hyung—”

“Look, I don’t—” Seokjin sighs. “No. We aren’t. And I don’t really want to discuss it right now. Let’s just focus on the issue at hand, please?”

To his credit, Taehyung nods, closing the photo and locking his phone.

“We don’t have enough staff to handle all these people.” Jungkook dives right into it. “Jisoo-noona and Hani-noona are already struggling, and it’s only eight in the morning. Ken-hyung is our only chef here at the moment, and he can’t fulfill all the orders.” He takes a deep breath. “Not to mention our guests who’ve arrived today are complaining because of how much people are cramped into the hotel lobby.”

“Some fans have also been trying to get rooms,” Taehyung adds. “But all our rooms are occupied.”

Seokjin’s eyes widen. “We’re fully booked?”

“They must think Yoongi-hyung stayed the night,” Jungkook says. He peeks out the window. “What do we do?”

Seokjin doesn’t know. “I don’t...know,” he replies. “The only thing we can do, I guess?”

“Which is?”

“Our job,” Seokjin says. “What we do on a normal day. I’ll call the other staff, see if maybe some of them are willing to come in and help us out. But just...just do your jobs like you normally do, and if you’ve run out of things to do, please help out in the kitchen.”

Taehyung and Jungkook look back at him with wide eyes. “O..okay,” Taehyung says. “We’ll work hard.”

. . .

They work as hard as they can. It’s difficult, having to herd Yoongi’s fans around to make way for actual guests, but somehow they manage, directing guests to their rooms and making sure every single of the hotel’s daily tasks is finished. Seokjin finds himself working on three hours of sleep, flitting between the back office and the restaurant in order to accommodate all the visitors to the hotel. 

In the end, salvation comes to them in the form of one of the fans in the lobby, who yells that SUGA was just spotted entering KBS studios. It’s ridiculous and almost comical how quickly they clear out, but Seokjin knows that this isn’t the end—they’ll be back, now that they’ve found Yoongi’s safe place; found a place their idol hangs out in when he’s off-schedule.

Someone turns on the lobby TV, and during the break Seokjin finds himself gathered with the rest of the staff, watching Yoongi on the screen. He’s smiling but it feels fake, his eyes devoid of any emotion. His face is made up well enough to hide the cuts and bruises on his face, but Seokjin can still see them, can see the hint of yellow on his cheek.

“I don’t get it,” Jisoo says. She’s understandably tired and frustrated—she and Hani barely had any downtime trying to cater to all the surprise guests at the restaurant. “Why are all his fans here, all of a sudden?”

In his peripheral vision, Jungkook and Taehyung exchange a look, and suddenly there’s a hand on his left arm, squeezing it slightly. Jungkook doesn’t say anything, but Seokjin can hear what he’s trying to say, anyway: maybe, you should tell them.

Seokjin takes a deep breath, pulls out his phone. “There’s something you all should see, “ he says.

. . .

The staff, bless them, take this information in stride and start devising an action plan.

It goes like this:

One, Seokjin will have to lay low, will have to turn over his daily management and upkeep duties to Taehyung and Jungkook. Only for a little while, just until this all blows over—it’s his face plastered all over the internet, after all, looking like SUGA’s boyfriend, and even if SUGA isn’t around there’s no doubt that the fans would want to catch a glimpse of him. Maybe even try to squeeze information out of him.

And that’s only the tame ones. Who knows what the wilder fans will do.

Two, Seokjin will hire three new people temporarily—the workload, should this situation continue, is already unmanageable; add to that Seokjin’s absence from the hotel and absolutely everything would be impossible. Jisoo has a friend who's willing to lend a hand and Ken has two, and they both seem so sure that their friends will pull through that Seokjin can't do anything but shrug and decide to trust them.

Three, SUGA can’t visit the hotel for a while. That one Seokjin doesn’t really know how to enforce, because it’s not like he has Yoongi’s number (Hyung, Jungkook says, exasperated, it’s been months) and there’s something inside him that rebels against the idea of kicking Yoongi out of his safe space, of the only place where he’s not burdened with pressure. But logically, it makes sense—far too much, in fact, for Seokjin to fight against it with emotions he can’t even articulate.

“It’ll be okay,” Jisoo says, when the plan has been finalized, when all the details have been smoothed out. It’s the first time Seokjin’s ever seen her this fiercely determined. “Really.”

Seokjin looks at the faces of every member of his staff, looks at Jungkook and Taehyung who look just as determined, suddenly much older in this situation. He does his best to tamp down the bubbling of emotions beneath his ribcage, tries not to think of Yoongi—the crinkle of his eyes, the width of his smile, the quiet of his voice.

“I hope so,” Seokjin replies. Finds that he, really, truly means it.

. . .

Ever since he started the hotel three years ago, Seokjin hasn’t really had an extended vacation. Sure, he’s taken days off here and there, whenever he was feeling sick or just too lazy to come in, but for the better part of those three years, he’s been at the hotel even on his official days off, managing the daily tasks or checking inventory or even just hanging out with Taehyung and Jungkook when he gets a little too bored at home. It’s a weird feeling, knowing that he can't go there; he imagines it feels a bit like seeing something he's had that he's no longer allowed to touch.

Taehyung sends him daily updates about the hotel, usually at the end of his shifts. It’s nothing too deep—just a few anecdotes about the guests and the staff and the temporary workers—because Taehyung knows him well enough, too well, to know that Seokjin wouldn’t be able to resist running to the hotel in the case of something big happening. 

So Seokjin doesn’t go. He does his best to find other things to do, though. He plays MapleStory until he gets stuck or until his eyes hurt, works out at the gym or goes to the local coffee shop. He reconnects with his old friends and stays with his parents for a while and even takes a short trip to the beach, digs his feet into the sand and tries to let the sound of the waves drown out the thoughts in his head, the emotions in his heart.

And above all else, he tries not to think of Yoongi.

It’s difficult, especially since Yoongi nowadays seems subject to constant media coverage—he's everywhere: on TV and in commercials, his songs playing on the radio in every shop Seokjin walks into. He’s exploded in popularity, probably due to the scandal, and Seokjin finds that thinking of him gives rise to the weird feelings in his chest, to the irrational emotions and the strange thumping of his heart.

Seokjin wants to say he’s been caught off-guard by the intensity of the emotions, but the truth is they were there all along, bubbling beneath the surface. He’d just been quick to ignore them; there was always more work to be done at the hotel, always something else to grab his attention. But without the work and without the guests there’s nothing he can do except to sit with it and take note of how much its grown the past few months. Nothing to do except to realize that Yoongi has wriggled his way into the crevices of Seokjin’s life like he was always meant to be there.

And now it’s difficult to imagine the hotel without him, difficult to imagine the future without picturing Yoongi laughing or Yoongi spacing out or Yoongi doing the accounting, his eyes focused and his head bowed. Difficult to imagine being without Yoongi’s quiet comfort, difficult to imagine not being able to hear the tinkling of the piano keys when he’s composing or his quiet hums when Seokjin tells him about something utterly random and unimportant in the grand scheme of things.

Seokjin doesn’t know what this means.

(Seokjin knows exactly what this means.)

. . .

There’s a girl he doesn’t recognize manning the front desk on his first day back, her smile wide, and her eyes kind. 

“Lisa,” she says, when he introduces herself. “Jisoo-unnie asked me to work here for a while.”

Aside from that, the hotel looks mostly the same, the couches still threadbare and the bar still tiny. It’s a lot less empty than he’s used to, however and Seokjin is a little surprised when Lisa tells him how the restaurant is full most of the time, or how the rooms are almost always fully booked. They’re not SUGA’s fans, she’s quick to clarify, but regular customers, people who found the hotel online after its sudden notoriety and thought it was quirky and charming.

So Seokjin finds himself back at work at a hotel that’s busier than ever.

. . .

Seokjin ends up having to hire the three new people full-time. He also makes a few renovations—the couches get replaced by something a little more sleek, the TV gets upgraded, the restaurant gets a few more chairs and tables, and Seokjin finds himself with plans and quotations to expand the kitchen and build an actual bar. They’re busy, so busy that there’s barely a minute of downtime, with guests coming and going and rooms always needing to be serviced. There’s money coming in, too, more money than Seokjin has seen in the last three years, and it’s exhilarating when he sees the amount, because he never really imagined he’d get to this point. 

But also:

The inventory list grows longer and larger. The accounting grows more and more difficult, with values that Seokjin has difficulty comprehending. Animal Crossing and MapleStory become a thing of the past, and so do Taehyung’s streaming parties—now, the hotel sound system plays nothing but calm, unremarkable elevator music, which grates at Seokjin’s head.

The hotel grows and grows. More guests come and go. And above all else—

Yoongi doesn’t visit anymore.

. . .

At first, Seokjin just thinks he’s busy. With the sudden amount of SUGA Seokjin is constantly bombarded with everyday, he assumes that Yoongi’s company has filled up his schedule, booked him for entertainment shows and variety shows and even to play at ISAC to clear up his public image.

But then days turn into weeks that turn into months, seasons changing from fall to winter to spring, and Seokjin finds that no matter how late he stays, no matter how many days he waits; no matter how many people walk into the hotel past midnight—

It’s not Yoongi.

It’s never Yoongi, and the thing is. The thing is that in the larger timeline of the hotel, Yoongi's presence is minimal—Seokjin’s owned and worked at this hotel for almost four years now, and Yoongi had only dropped by for about one year. Even still, he's become monumental and without him the hotel feels wrong, almost like there’s something missing; now Seokjin can’t work without feeling like he’s forgetting something. The hotel had been Yoongi’s safe space, but he’d also managed to transform it so that it became Seokjin’s, too. So that despite the pressures of the job, Seokjin could always find relief in Yoongi’s piano playing, could find solace in Yoongi laughing at him, with him. 

The hotel was always Seokjin's home. But Yoongi's presence had transformed it—brightened up the dark corners and cleared out its cobwebs, created a place where Seokjin's heart could settle.

Seokjin doesn’t mean to, but he starts to resent the hotel a little—it’s difficult to look at the piano and not see Yoongi sitting there, difficult to look at the bar and not see Yoongi in his designated seat. Even more difficult looking at the accounting sheets—all the huge numbers that Seokjin has trouble wrapping his head around—and not imagine Yoongi beside him scrawling numbers with ease, his face focused.

So he starts arriving earlier and staying later, starts taking on more and more work. The more work he does, the less he thinks, and the less he thinks, the less his mind wanders back to Yoongi and the hole he’s left in his wake. 

. . .

And then Yoongi releases a song on SoundCloud.

Outro: Tear, it’s called. Namjoon and Hoseok are part of it, and it is by far Yoongi’s most devastating song.

It comes completely out of left field too. To the public, SUGA looks fine; the bar scandal from a few months ago completely behind him. He’s always bright and smiling in his promotional appearances, and he’s very interactive with his fans on social media. He posts selfies every few days, does a few livestreams, and in general, seems to be doing very well.

But it’s a blow to everyone’s heart when Yoongi’s voice comes out emotional, almost broken; when the words spilling from his lips are: My heart is torn, please burn it instead / So that pain and regret, none of that would be left. Seokjin doesn’t even realize he’s frozen until Jungkook speaks up. 

“Hyung? What’s wrong?”

And there’s nothing wrong—Seokjin’s happy with his life and the way he’s living: his tiny little hotel is thriving, his staff is happy. There's nothing wrong, except for the fact that Yoongi isn’t here; nothing, except for the fact that Seokjin hasn’t seen his face in months, hasn’t physically laid eyes on the pretty curve of his lip or his porcelain skin for that long. Nothing, except that Yoongi is upset, and whereas it could be argued that Seokjin had the right to do something about it before, that's not the case now, when Seokjin has had no contact with him since the evening of the scandal.

Normally, there would be an easy way to fix this—just call someone up and ask if they’re okay. But Seokjin had been too hesitant, had kept the barrier of Yoongi’s celebrity profile between them; had also been too naive to realize that the nights at the hotel would come to an end. It was always inevitable that someone would find out—whether it be a fan or a tourist or just a regular customer who walked in. Someone would’ve found this. Them.

So Seokjin just shakes his head, shoots Jungkook a reassuring smile, and turns back to his work.

. . .

“Alright,” Taehyung says, about another two weeks later. “It’s time to stage an intervention.”

Seokjin looks up from where he’s trying to balance his sheet. “You’re finally going to do the accounting on my behalf?”

“No,” Taehyung says, because he just refuses to admit that he’s a math genius. “I’m talking about something else.”

“Oh,” Seokjin says, turning back to his accounting sheet. With how high the numbers are getting, he’s seriously considering just hiring an accountant. “We don’t have time for an intervention then.”

“What do you mean we don’t have time?”

Seokjin gestures around him incredulously. “Taehyung, in case you didn’t notice over the last few months, we’re suddenly very busy at the hotel. There’s always something to do, like delivering fresh towels or checking inventory or just making sure the reservations have been placed."

“I mean, I noticed,” Taehyung replies, a little churlish. “You don’t have to speak to me like that.”

Seokjin sighs. “Sorry, I’m sorry,” he says. “I’ve just been dealing with some things.”

He hopes Taehyung doesn’t ask. He wouldn’t know what to say if he did. All he knows is that Yoongi’s words are stuck in his head and Yoongi’s voice is stuck in his heart, and he knows exactly what that means, knows why his heart beats the way it does when he sees Yoongi. Knows, as well, that there isn’t much he can do about it except try to forget it.

Taehyung brightens up. “That’s exactly why we need an intervention,” he says. “Let’s go out for dinner tomorrow.”

Seokjin is confused. “Did you really mean an intervention or do you just want a break?”

“Oh,” Taehyung says, thinking for a moment. “A break.”

Seokjin stares at him for a few moments before shaking his head. “Fine,” he relents. “Dinner tomorrow. Tell Jungkookie, then.”

“Oh, he already knows.” Taehyung beams up at him, bright and happy, before skipping out of Seokjin’s office.

. . .

Taehyung is devious. Absolutely devious.

“Hyung!” It’s Jimin sitting at the table beside Taehyung, waving his hand at Seokjin. Seokjin stares at him for a moment before turning to look at Taehyung and Jungkook, who are watching Seokjin’s reaction with incredibly amused eyes.

“I really did mean intervention yesterday,” Taehyung says, by way of greeting.

Seokjin sighs, shrugging off his jacket. “How did you even contact him?” He asks, sitting on the only chair that’s been left empty.

Jungkook, Taehyung, and Jimin exchange a look. “We exchanged numbers,” Jungkook says, the duh evident in his tone.

“Which you didn’t do with Yoongi-hyung,” Jimin adds.

Seokjin stares at Jimin. “How did you know that?”

“Yoongi-hyung told me,” Jimin says simply. “He also said that he misses you.”

Seokjin blinks. “He said that?”

“Okay, no, he didn’t,” Jimin corrects, looking a little sheepish. He leans forward. “But hyung, I can tell.” He thinks for a moment. “He practically lives in the studio now, did you know? More than before. And did you hear his new song?”

“I teared up when I listened to it,” Taehyung says. “He’s really sad, hyung.”

Seokjin knows. “But what does all this have to do with me?” 

“What doesn’t it have to do with you?” Jimin replies, exasperated. “When he used to visit the hotel, he used to actually leave the studio. Now he just stays there, writing song after song after song and throwing away everything he works on. “The only song he liked enough was the one he released recently. And it’s really sad.” Jimin pauses. “He won’t even eat—Namjoon-hyung or Hoseok-hyung always have to bring him something because otherwise he won’t.”

“You’ve sort of been the same too, hyung,” Jungkook adds.

Seokjin looks at him, a little confused. “I eat,” he protests.

“Okay, fine, you do,” Jungkook relents. “But you’ve also been throwing yourself into all the work for the hotel. You’re always the first to arrive and the last to leave.” He squints. “If you even leave.”

Seokjin doesn’t deign to respond to that. “I just have so much to do, Jungkook. I don’t—I don’t even know if I’m supposed to be having dinner.”

“What do you mean—hyung, it’s your hotel,” Jungkook replies incredulously. “You’re in charge of your own hours and you’ve hired three new people to work. Of course you’re allowed to go out for dinner every once in a while?”

“See,” Taehyung says, pretending to whisper into Jimin’s ear. “They’re exactly the same.”

Seokjin stares at them. “Okay, fine,” he says. “Let’s say, hypothetically, Yoongi misses me—”

“—and you miss Yoongi-hyung,” Taehyung adds.

“—what do you expect me to do about that, then?”

Jimin blinks at him like he can’t believe Seokjin is this dumb. “Contact him. I can give you his number.”

His number. Just like that. He could just get Yoongi’s number from Jimin and shoot him a text, a simple hey this is seokjin what’s up haha and be back in contact with Yoongi and it would be easy, so stupidly easy. 

But the thing is, the thing is—Jimin isn’t Yoongi. Neither is Namjoon or Hoseok. They are all decidedly not Yoongi, which means they have no authority over him, nor do they have any clue as to what’s going on in Yoongi’s head. Which means everything they’ve said about Yoongi is speculation; for all they know Yoongi doesn’t actually want to hear from him.

Because he could've just dropped by the hotel if he'd wanted to, right?

That’s what he's is stuck on. Seokjin doesn’t have Yoongi’s number and Yoongi doesn’t have Seokjin’s, and Yoongi knows that on any given day, Seokjin would be at the hotel working. So if he'd wanted to talk to Seokjin, he would’ve come, just like he'd always done before. But he didn’t, and he hasn’t.

He must take a long time processing his thoughts because Jimin makes a noise. “Hyung,” he says. “It’s just a number. Take it.”

It would be so stupidly easy. It feels almost unreal, almost like a cop out.

He thinks of Yoongi and the last time they saw each other, of Yoongi bruised and bleeding in the hotel lobby. He thinks of Yoongi and the pretty curve of his smile, framed between Taehyung’s flowers. He thinks of Yoongi laughing at him playing MapleStory, thinks of Yoongi and the fond expression he’d worn when playing with Yeontan. He thinks of Yoongi, that one night, lifetimes ago, when he’d shown up in front of Seokjin’s hotel, dripping wet and small.

And suddenly, he knows what he wants to do.

“I’ll take it,” Seokjin says slowly. “I’ll take the number. But I’ll—Jimin, do you mind doing something for me?”

. . .

Seokjin, for all intents and purposes, is a simple man. He likes to be as straightforward as possible, likes to find the quickest route to things. Likes simplicity and ease. Likes to use the least amount of effort possible to achieve things.

But for some reason, with Yoongi it’s different.

Texting Yoongi is an option now, and his phone weighs much heavier in his pocket every time he remembers. It’d be so simple, so easy, and yet Seokjin finds that he doesn’t want to do it that way. He’s got many things he wants to say and many things he wants to do and it’d be difficult to do it through a phone, condense everything to pixels on a screen. So this time, he’ll do something with a little more effort.

To SUGA, who’s always cool and strong, he writes on top of a sheet of paper. Or to Min Yoongi, who’s a little more human.

. . .

It’s Namjoon who shows up at the agreed upon time the next day. Seokjin had been expecting Jimin, but he doesn’t mind, as long as they can get his package to Yoongi.

“Jimin’s always late,” Namjoon says, by way of explanation. “So when he told us about your plan yesterday, we agreed that I should go instead.”

So Namjoon knows. “That’s fine,” Seokjin replies. He pushes a paper bag towards Namjoon. 

Namjoon takes it. “Is this it, then?” He asks.

Seokjin feels a little silly. “Yeah. Don’t drop it, please.”

“I won’t.” Namjoon takes a peek inside, probably looking at the things Seokjin packed neatly inside; at the letter, rolled up and tucked inconspicuously. “I’ll get it to him whole, hyung. Don’t worry about it.”

Seokjin takes a deep breath. “Okay,” he says.

He's not sure why he's feeling so nervous—it's not like he's done anything grand. It's just some food and a letter in a plain, unassuming bag, one that Yoongi can easily pretend he never received if he really has no interest in Seokjin anymore.

But still.

Namjoon must be able to hear it in his voice because he looks up from the paper bag, shoots Seokjin a small, reassuring smile. “Hyung, he misses you,” he says.

“Everyone keeps saying that.”

“Because it’s true. He won’t admit it but it’s true.” Namjoon shakes his head. “Look, hyung. My opinion doesn’t count for much, but. It’ll be alright.”

“You really think so?” The words tumble out before he can stop them.

There’s a knowing glint in Namjoon’s eyes when he responds. “Yeah,” he says. “I really think so.”

. . .

The rest of the day passes slowly. Seokjin concludes it’s a lost cause.

. . .

At one in the morning, his phone chimes with a text. I’m outside, is all it says, and Seokjin is confused for all of five seconds until he catches sight of the contact name at the top. 

Min Yoongi.

And then it’s like he can’t move fast enough.

Yoongi’s a sight for sore eyes, in all-black as per usual—black leather jacket, black mask, and black cap. He’s thinner than Seokjin’s ever seen him, the jacket loose around his shoulders, but his hair looks like it’s a nice silver color under his cap. The bruises and the cuts have faded away, his cheek baby-smooth once again, but he's even paler than when Seokjin saw him last, his skin tinged a little yellow, and Seokjin can’t stop running his eyes over him, can’t stop cataloguing the changes since the last time they’d seen each other, because Yoongi—

Yoongi’s here. 

“Hi,” Yoongi says, as if they’d just seen each other yesterday, as if the last time Seokjin had seen him he hadn't been drunk off his ass and bleeding. “Have you been well?”

Seokjin’s heart feels like it could burst out of his chest. “Yoongi,” he says. All frustration. All relief.

Beneath the mask, Yoongi’s eyes crinkle, lines creasing his skin. He’s smiling. Fucking smiling. “Seokjin-hyung,” he says. “Hello.”

Seokjin has so many things to say, the words crowded on his tongue—how have you been and did you get it and what the hell and what took you so long and I missed you so, so much. But it’s cold outside and Seokjin doesn’t have his jacket with him, and with the way Yoongi is smiling Seokjin thinks he might be here to stay, at least for a little while.

“Do you want to go inside?” 

Seokjin thinks Yoongi’s smile grows. 

. . .

They no longer have free reign of the hotel, with how much business Seokjin's picked up over the last few months. There’s always someone around no matter the time, so Seokjin finds himself grabbing his jacket from his office and directing Yoongi to the roof for a little bit of privacy.

When they get there, Yoongi follows Seokjin all the way to the railing, pulls off his mask. Says, “you’ve redecorated a little bit,” with a lilt to his voice, almost like he’s surprised.

Seokjin can’t stop looking at him. “I did,” he said. “Business picked up.”

“I heard. Miss the old couches, though.”

“These ones are far more comfortable.”

Yoongi isn’t looking at him, his gaze far away. But Seokjin knows that he’s got Yoongi’s attention, can feel it in the quiet of the air. 

There’s a moment of silence, and then Yoongi clears his throat. “I got your letter.”

“Just the letter?”

“And also the food.” There’s a hint of a smile on Yoongi’s face. “Thank you for the Kimchi-jjigae, by the way.”

“Of course. Jimin said you weren’t eating.”

“I was eating,” Yoongi replies. “They’re just dramatic.”

Seokjin eyes the looseness of his jacket. “You know, I don’t think they were.”

He isn’t really sure how to proceed—on the one hand, he’s got a hundred thousand things he wants to say; on the other, now that he’s got the chance, it feels like all hundred thousand of those things have condensed into a ball, lodged in his throat.

He tries anyway. “Why did you stop coming back?”

Yoongi turns to him, his expression more honest than Seokjin’s ever seen him. “I didn’t think you’d want me to,” he admits. 

Didn't think you'd want me to. There are so many things Seokjin can say to that, so many knee-jerk responses just at the tip of his tongue. But Yoongi's got an expression that says that he thinks his answer is logical, like Seokjin should have been on the same page, should have come to the same conclusion.

“Why did you think that?”

“Seokjin-hyung, your face was all over social media after that night.”

Seokjin knows. “And?”

“I thought... people thought that—”

Seokjin also knows exactly what people thought. “And so?” 

“Hyung,” Yoongi says, almost incredulously. “What do you mean and so? People thought you were my boyfriend and they were bothering you at the hotel. If I kept coming back after that, it would’ve just proven their suspicions and you would’ve gotten mobbed here.” He pauses. “You’re telling me you’d be okay with that?”

“Well, no,” Seokjin admits. It had been difficult dealing with the barrage of SUGA fans that one day, and from Taehyung and Jungkook’s stories, it seems like it had gotten worse before it got better. “But. That doesn’t mean I didn’t want you to come back anyway.”

Yoongi blinks. “Hyung.”

“I meant it, you know,” Seokjin continues. “Everything I wrote in that letter. I don’t know if you even read it, but.” He pauses. “I missed you, Yoongi. A lot more than you probably know. A lot more than anyone probably knows.” He lets out a breath, watches it curl up into mist. “I didn’t realize how much I looked forward to seeing you every night until you stopped coming.”

It’s nothing, barely an admission, but it’s something Seokjin should’ve said to Yoongi ages ago. He’d been so caught up by the fact that Yoongi is a celebrity that he hadn’t allowed himself to think of their entire relationship as one of friendship. In the nights they spent together, in the nights they spent talking and laughing in the lobby, Yoongi had become, at the very least, a friend, someone Seokjin holds dear to his heart.

Yoongi stays silent.

Seokjin plunges on. “And I didn’t—I wasn’t—I didn’t know what to do, when you stopped coming around,” he says. “I started working more because I couldn’t bear not to see you at the hotel. It was so difficult, looking up and not seeing you playing the piano or drinking at the bar. It hurt.” He takes a quiet breath. “I know you always viewed this place as your safe space. But—and I don’t know how—you’ve made it a safe space for me, too.”

The silence that comes after is a little terrifying. Yoongi’s wearing an expression Seokjin can’t read. It makes his heart beat a little louder in his chest.

Finally, Yoongi speaks. “You were right to an extent about the hotel being my safe space.” His voice is quiet. “In the beginning, yeah, it was. It was a tiny hotel in the middle of Seoul that nobody knew about. Of course I felt the most free there. But towards the end, that wasn’t the case.” He shakes his head, emphasizing the words. “You were my safe space, hyung. Everything I said, every thought I had—you were kind enough to listen and give your honest thoughts. You never seemed to care that I was an idol, just treated me like you did everyone else. No bullshit, no ass-kissing. You took care of me in a way I didn’t know I needed.” His lips quirk up, almost sadly. “So when I couldn’t come see you anymore, I was...sad, to say the least.”

Seokjin remembers Yoongi’s song, remembers the emotion in his voice and the lyrics he’d written. “Outro: Tear,” he says. The question falls out before he can stop it. “Was that...was that about me?”

Yoongi shrugs. “In some way,” he says. “My last three songs—they were all about you, in some way.”

His last three songs. The three outliers to his discography, the ones where he’d bared his soul, his emotions, his insecurities, his thought process. Intro: Nevermind, Interlude: Shadow, Outro: Tear.  

Yoongi looks away. “You changed me,” he says. “You made me realize that I could be vulnerable, that I didn’t always have to live up to what everyone expected me to be. That I could be whoever I wanted to be.” He takes a deep breath. “You made me realize that I could be happy.”

It’s silent after that, only the noise of the city surrounding them. Yoongi's quiet admission hangs between them, finds its way into Seokjin's heart—lights up its every fissure, its every artery. He'd been happy, with Seokjin. In the midst of the bustle of his life, in this tiny hotel in the middle of the big city, he'd felt happy. Free. 

Safe. 

There's nothing Seokjin wants more than to keep Yoongi happy, to keep him safe. To take care of him, make him smile when he's sad or cook him food when he's hungry. Nothing more than to have Yoongi stay by his side as the guests come and go, as the seasons change.

Seokjin looks at him, studies Yoongi's profile—the slope of his nose, the indent of his cheekbones. In the moonlight, he looks almost unreal, ethereal. Like he could slip away at any moment.

Seokjin doesn’t want him to slip away. He reaches out, takes one of Yoongi’s hands, anchoring him. Keeping him here. Yoongi's fingers are cold against his skin, but he doesn't let go.

“Come to the hotel again,” are the words Seokjin chooses to say.

Please stay, are the words he doesn't.

Yoongi looks down at where their hands are joined. He doesn’t pull his hand away, though “The hotel is so busy nowadays.”

It’s a simple statement of fact, but Seokjin’s well-versed enough in Yoongi to be able to hear the quiet worry behind it, the consequences that come with Yoongi’s level of fame. If Yoongi starts coming again, it won’t be long until another fan finds them; it won’t be long until Seokjin will be bombarded with his fans, will be recognized on the street or at the supermarket.

It’s a valid concern. But Seokjin doesn’t care.

He shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t,” he emphasizes, when Yoongi looks like he’s about to protest. “The hotel is—this was our place before it was theirs. I’d like for it to stay that way.”

Yoongi looks at him, searches for something in Seokjin’s face. “It might turn out to be a mess for you.”

“I know."

“Some of my fans can be pretty intense.”

“I also know that.” 

Yoongi’s hand twitches slightly in his, and the expression on his face changes, a small smile finding its way onto his lips. “I’ll drop by more often,” he says, “but only if you agree to one thing.”

“What is it?”

Yoongi’s looking at him a certain way, with an expression that can almost be categorized as fond. The shine of his eyes is mesmerizing, the curve of his lip so pretty, and Seokjin’s heart is hopeless against this, thumping in his chest like a drum beat.

“I’d like to see you outside the hotel, too.”

Seokjin smiles at him, squeezes his hand. Says, “Well, you’ve already got my number,” and watches as Yoongi’s slow smile grow like the dawn.

. . .

And then life goes on, as it’s wont to do.

Seokjin keeps working and Yoongi keeps working and at night Yoongi drops by the hotel, like he used to do, like he’ll always be doing. Sometimes he helps Seokjin with the accounting, other times he just hangs out, laughing whenever Seokjin expresses his frustration with the amount of work he needs to do. Sometimes he plays the piano again; Seokjin always introduces him as the hotel pianist to any present guests, and Yoongi usually plays a maximum of three songs before he stops. If the guests find it weird, well, Seokjin doesn’t really care.

When they’re not at the hotel together, Seokjin texts Yoongi anecdotes about his day or things that remind him of Yoongi. Yoongi’s replies are usually one or two word answers, but he always replies, even if it’s something as stupid as a video of a cat falling off a shelf.

On the weekends or when they both have nothing to do, they go out to dinner. Seokjin always tries to pay, but sometimes Yoongi pretends to go to the bathroom and takes care of the bill instead. “I literally make more money than you,” Yoongi says, whenever this happens and Seokjin complains. “Just let me take care of this.”

And it’s. Well, Seokjin won’t admit it, but it’s nice. It’s really nice.

Of course, it’s not that easy; Yoongi is still an idol, which means that there are days that he can’t drop by the hotel, days when he’s busy or when he’s locked himself in the studio to try to finish whatever he’s working on. Seokjin also has to get used to people staring at him—there are often many sneaky pictures taken of them when they’re out at dinner, posted on Twitter and retweeted a hundred plus times. Most of Yoongi’s fans are familiar with his face now, and although he still gets the occasional herd of die-hard SUGA fans at the hotel, for the most part he gets stared at but left alone.

Today, though—for the first time in what feels like forever—there isn't anything to do. There haven’t been any reservations or bookings, and the hours crawl by, almost painfully. It’s at around noon when Seokjin decides to just close the hotel for the rest of the day, citing management issues (he’s the manager, and he’s allowed to have issues) and giving his staff the rest of the day off.  

Taehyung and Jungkook stay, of course, and at around one-thirty in the afternoon, Yoongi shows up at the hotel with his friends in tow, miraculously all schedule-free for the day.

It ends up feeling like one of the days before the hotel's sudden rise to fame. Someone decides to dock the Nintendo Switch onto the lobby TV, and Jimin, Jungkook, Taehyung, and Namjoon play Just Dance, yelling at each other and being incredibly competitive. Hoseok is just standing at the side and cheering them on, having been banned from playing, while Yoongi’s sitting on the couch, watching them and laughing.

Seokjin can’t help but watch Yoongi, watch the way his expressions change, from amusement to laughter to shock whenever one of the younger ones say something competitive. He looks relaxed, free. Happy.

“Are you going to play?” Yoongi looks up when Seokjin approaches. “You should. For the way they’re talking, Jungkook and Taehyung are not actually that good.”

A slow smile spreads on Yoongi’s face, amused at the thought. “I could,” he says. “But if I have to play against Hoseok, then no.” He thinks for a moment. “I’ll play if you play.”

Seokjin laughs. “I’ll think about it.”

They watch the younger ones for a few moments, snorting when Jungkook executes a move that is far more complex than the one being shown in the game. Yoongi leans into him a little, and it makes butterflies erupt in Seokjin’s stomach, makes his heart beat a little quicker in his chest.

“Maybe I won’t play,” Seokjin muses. “I kind of just want to stay here at the moment.”

“Do you?”

“Yeah.”

“You’re happy just sitting like this?”

Seokjin hums. “Yeah.”

“Are you sure?”

“Why would I stay here if I wasn’t happy?” Seokjin shoots back, bemused. “I like to live spontaneously, Yoongi. I only do things that make me happy.”

“For some reason, I don’t believe you.” Yoongi turns to him, his face open, his smile teasing. Sweet. “Prove it then,” he challenges. “Do something that makes you happy right now.”

And Seokjin thinks of happiness, thinks of what happiness may look like. Thinks of Yoongi smiling so wide his eyes are slits, thinks of Yoongi’s laughs whenever Seokjin says something funny. Thinks of Yoongi’s brow furrowed as he balances Seokjin’s sheets for him, thinks of Yoongi framed in flowers. Thinks of Yoongi at the piano, at the door, Yoongi in the different seasons, in different iterations—hair gold, black, mint, and silver.

Seokjin thinks of all this, and Seokjin kisses him.

(And kisses him and keeps kissing him, as Yoongi gasps quietly, as his lips fall open, pliant and responding; as Hoseok notices and shouts Seokjin-hyung and Yoongi-hyung!; as their friends erupt into a cacophony of cheers and applause, Jungkook’s finally! ringing loud and clear above everyone else’s.)

. . .

To SUGA, who’s always cool and strong. Or to Min Yoongi, who’s a little more human.

It’s Seokjin-hyung from the hotel. I heard you weren’t eating, so I made you kimchi-jjigae. I remember that you liked it. Eat it quickly while it’s warm.

The hotel has been very busy since you last dropped by. Most of our rooms are booked almost everyday. I think they’ve finally realized the charm of our hotel. That, or maybe they just want to catch sight of the handsome hotelier hahaha. 

I also heard your song. I didn’t hate it, like I assume you’d think. 

Yoongi, I hope you know that it’s okay to be upset. It’s also okay to take breaks and eat every once in a while. If you feel weak or sad, there are many people around you who will take care of you. I will take care of you, too, everytime you come to the hotel. Not because it’s my job, but because I care about you. 

I usually don’t like to talk about serious things, but I miss you. It’s been so long since we last saw each other. I don’t know why you’ve stopped coming but it’s not the same without you. The accounting never gets done, and I don’t get to hear piano music anymore. The hotel feels different. I didn’t realize how much seeing you almost everyday meant to me. I didn’t realize not being able to talk to you would affect me.

Please come back. But only if you want to. Like I said before, the hotel will always be waiting for you. I will always be here to welcome you. 

- Kim Seokjin

(P.S. Jiminie gave me your number. Here’s mine if you want to talk: 011 2991 0421)