Chapter Text
When Yoongi thinks of home, he doesn’t see the set of rooms he rents, which overlook a neat, plant-filled courtyard. He doesn’t see his parents’ sprawling house, either, not his coven’s meeting hall, where he’d spent so much of his youth.
No, when Yoongi thinks of home his mind jumps to his workshop.
His workshop (well, his and Namjoon’s workshop, really) is on the second floor of its building, above the flagship store of the business that he and Namjoon own, below their more traditional offices, and the extra storage rooms. He’d designed it himself when they bought the building, and is quite proud of how it turned out.
Dark wooden beams run across the ceiling, while cabinets and drawers in a variety of wood tones line much of the walls, filled with old charm prototypes, and diagrams, and notes. Their large, well-worn worktable runs the length of the room, periodically punctuated by collections of charm components, diagrams, and the occasional box or cup that used to contain a snack or drink of some variety. A neat wood stove in the corner, with a few cushions and floor chairs surrounding it, adds welcome warmth during the cooler months, while a collection of lamps lit by witchlight offer a comforting glow long into the night.
It’s his safe haven, his fortress, his refuge from the world, and Namjoon has filled it with the most putrid smell that ever assaulted his nose.
“I told you—”
“But when you do it—”
“Stick to the spell work—”
“You make it look so easy—”
“And let me handle winding the things—”
“And I wanted to check—”
“Until we have them better stabilized!”
“If we’d fixed it,” Namjoon finishes meekly. He sounds like he has a cold. He’s pinching his nose shut, and looking down at the small, singed device in front of him as if he’d lost the secret of the universe, rather than their latest pests-and-varmints-begone charm prototype. It’s the third one they’ve rendered inoperable so far, bringing them to two each.
“Well clearly we haven’t,” Yoongi grumbles, also through a pinched nose. He tries to glare at Namjoon, but his hand is in the way, and the corners of his mouth keep twitching up, unbidden. He’d been responsible for the the first pair of charm prototypes lost. He’s glad they’ve evened the score. “Next time—”
“Yes, mother,” Namjoon says with a grin. Then he sighs, and, in something approaching a whine, adds, “But I was winning.”
“I know. Now, are you going to clean up your mess? Because I’m good, but I don’t think even I can make this work one handed.”
The smell is gone before Yoongi finishes speaking, gathered up by a twist of Namjoon’s hand and sent up the chimney with a brief jump of the flames in the stove.
“Thanks,” he says, removing his hand from his nose, “Do you have—”
Downstairs, there’s the sound of their shop bell ringing as the door is opened, shortly followed by a yelp from Yeonjun. Both Yoongi and Namjoon turn to stare at the door, and sure enough, scant seconds later there comes a faint but impatient tapping.
Yoongi is closer, but Namjoon is already moving, saying, “I’ll get it,” as he walks over to the door. He stands wisely to the side, meaning he doesn’t lose an eye to the overeager letter as it speeds into the room. It hovers briefly over the workshop table, as if disoriented, then executes an impressive backflip and throws itself at Namjoon’s chest.
Yoongi does not need to see the seal on the back to know who it’s from. Namjoon, wearing an expression like the bad smell is back in the room with them, clearly doesn’t either. Only Namjoon’s great-aunt, the undisputed head of his family, and the chief witch of his coven, sends such imperious , em>emphatic messages.
For a second Yoongi thinks Namjoon might ignore the letter, the way he had occasionally when they were living together in their university dorms, and keep working while the letter threw itself over and over at his chest, back, and head. Namjoon plucks it out of the air instead, and cracks the seal as he walks back to the tall stool where he’d been working.
Yoongi turns back to the spring he was trying to place when Namjoon’s failed charm interrupted him as Namjoon unfolds the single page. Namjoon’s messages from his great-aunt are his business. If he wants to talk about it he will, and if he doesn’t, Yoongi won’t pry.
He’s only just got the spring properly gripped by his needle-nose forceps again when he hears Namjoon sigh.
Over the ten-plus years they’ve known each other, Yoongi has become something of a connoisseur of Namjoon’s sighs. His catalogue contains entries for the I couldn’t be happier sigh of satisfaction, and the I’m so tired sigh of exhaustion, and the I refuse to laugh at a single word you say sigh that he only seems to use with Yoongi, among others.
This is none of those.
This is far worse.
“What does it say?” Yoongi asks, carefully slipping the spring into it’s place in the charm prototype. “The usual?”
In addition to his extensive knowledge of Namjoon’s sighs, the ten-plus years they’ve known each other have given Yoongi the chance to become intimately familiar with the letters Namjoon’s great-aunt sends him. The letters come steadily, at least four a year, and invariably contain instructions to attend some magical society event or other for the express purpose of talking to an eligible marriage candidate. It was one of the first pieces of common ground Yoongi and Namjoon had unearthed — the constant, unrelenting pressure from the heads of their covens to make an advantageous match.
“Worse,” Namjoon groans. “She’s hired a matchmaker.”
Yoongi looks up, then carefully sets the unfinished charm prototype back on the workbench. “No.”
“Yes.” The warm light of their workshop lamps show Namjoon’s slumped shoulders, and the single page held in his hand. “Uncle Munhee made a joke about it at New Year’s, since I’ve been having such a hard time.” He twists his mouth as he repeats his uncle’s words. “I guess she took it seriously.”
Yoongi gapes at him. He’s heard before about Namjoon’s great-aunt’s opinions on his responsibility to marry advantageously as the older sibling, but a matchmaker? “But you aren’t even part of the main branch of the family!”
“She doesn’t care.” Namjoon sighs again, dropping the letter onto the workbench so he can cover his face with his hands. “You know what she’s like.”
Yoongi does know. He lets out a sigh of his own. “Like Grandpa.”
Yoongi’s grandfather and Namjoon’s great-aunt might hate each other with an intensity only possible after years of meticulous cultivation, but in many ways they are more alike than they would care to admit, or any among their family would dare to point out. Chief among their similarities is their obsession with cultivating and maintaining both their family’s and their coven’s reputations among the magical elite. Unfortunately, that obsession extended into enthusiastic meddling in Namjoon and Yoongi’s marital affairs, or, more precisely, the lack thereof.
“Your parents?” Yoongi asks, without much hope. They’ve been giving Namjoon nothing but hints about how he’s turning thirty soon, and shouldn’t be start thinking about setting down, since his younger sister’s marriage the previous summer.
Namjoon, who has dropped his head to the worktop, shifts until he can pin Yoongi with a narrow-eyed stare.
Yoongi grimaces. “Yeah. Sorry. Stupid question.”
“My dad’s even been on me again about joining his business again,” Namjoon sighs, turning his face back to the table. “Apparently he’s entertained my playing at upstart entrepreneur long enough, and it’s time I get a job that doesn’t disgrace the name Kim, or our coven.”
“Bullshit,” Yoongi grumbles, rolling his eyes as he turns back to the clockwork of his charm prototype. He’s heard the same from his own parents, many times, but that doesn’t make it less annoying. “I’d like to see what he’d be able to do without much more than the clothes he was sent to school in, because his parents—”
“Hyung,” Namjoon says, tired in a way that is becoming more and more familiar of late. Yoongi shuts up. Namjoon’s always felt the weight of his family’s expectations so keenly. Yoongi doesn’t ever want to add to that burden.
Silence falls in their workroom, broken only by the occasional click of the clockwork under Yoongi’s careful hands — he’s carefully sliding miniscule pins into the charm’s body to help keep the gears that will help the spell spool out at an even power and pace in place — and the rustle of the letter from Namjoon’s great-aunt as he re-reads it, over and over and over. Yoongi has to bite his tongue to keep from asking questions, chief among them so what are you going to do?
“Jisoo’s family went through a matchmaker,” Namjoon says at last.
Yoongi misses his next pin insertion. He takes a shaky breath and looks back up. “You’re considering it?”
Namjoon is sitting up again, his eyes once more fixed on the letter. His broad shoulders are hunched unhappily by his ears, and he seems to be doing his best imitation of a pill bug. “Maybe. It’s not like I’ve managed it on my own, and it’d get her off my back, and my parents’ back, and I mean, a matchmaker is a professional. You’d hope she could at least find me someone I can get along with…”
His mouth is an unhappy slash across his face. He sounds resigned in a way that resonates with Yoongi, even while it breaks his heart. They’ve both spent years pushing back against the pressure from their families to settle down with someone, a pressure that has only grown as they’ve gotten older, and the pool of candidates their families deem acceptable has dwindled. Occasionally Yoongi’s considered caving, but with Namjoon beside him he’s never considered it for long.
To be fair, his family has yet to grow so frustrated with his defiance that they hired a matchmaker. It’s one thing for Yoongi and Namjoon to joke about the myriad of ways their families have been able to invent to ensure they just happen to run into someone at an event, or brainstorm ways to neatly sidestep any potential unwanted entanglements. It’s another thing completely for them to defy their families outright.
Things would be so much easier if they just—
“What if,” Yoongi says, surprised to find himself voicing the thought out loud, “What if we get married instead?”
Namjoon snorts. “I thought the idea was to avoid getting married.”
“Don’t be dense Namjoon, I meant to each other.” It’s an idea so brilliant Yoongi isn’t sure why he hasn’t thought of it before. “If we got married they’d have to stop setting us up on dates, or playing matchmaker, or hiring matchmakers, or— everything, really, because we’d already be married.”
There’s still a lot of skepticism in Namjoon’s expression, but at least it’s now mixed with consideration. “Your grandfather would never forgive you.”
“And your great-aunt would never forgive you, but at least you’d be married to someone you liked.” Yoongi allows himself a wry smile, trying to project an appearance of calm he does not feel. “At least, I assume that you like me, given how you’ve spent the last eleven years—”
“Twelve, actually,” Namjoon interrupts. “Last month—”
“Twelve years using me as an excuse to get out of social engagements. Or worse,” Yoongi lets his grin grow wider, “bringing me with you.”
Namjoon rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling too, wide enough his dimples are starting to show. “Unless I’m misremembering, you started it.”
He isn’t misremembering. Yoongi waves it away regardless. “Besides, I’m already used to your snoring, and your philosophical monologues, and your habit of breaking or misplacing everything you touch.”
“Not everything!” Namjoon protests, his dimples deepening. “But you make some good points. Plus, it would save someone else from having to hear you tap-tap-tap on everything, or being subject to your perfectionist ways, or watching you bite your nails—”
“I stopped doing that!”
Namjoon looks pointedly at Yoongi’s hands, curled into fists out of habit as soon as nail biting was mentioned, and raises one eyebrow. Yoongi doesn’t dignify it with a response, and refuses to acknowledge the blush he can feel rising in his cheeks. Unwilling to let Namjoon get the last word, even if it wasn’t actually voiced, he finds himself compelled to add, “And no one else will have to trip over your shoes.”
This time when Namjoon snorts it’s softer. The letter is still creased from his grip, but his knuckles aren’t as white anymore, and the paper isn’t shaking. There’s a faint furrow between his eyebrows, and he’s chewing on his lip. Yoongi feels himself catch his own lower lip between his teeth in response. The case for getting married seems obvious enough to him, but there’s a chance Namjoon will come up with an angle Yoongi hadn’t considered. Best to let him think it over some more, and get back to his nearly-completed charm in the meantime.
Yoongi makes very little progress. His heart is pounding so hard it’s making his hands shake, and it’s impossible to stay focused. Every tick of the clock set over their workshop door, every creak of the building in the cold winter winds, every rustle of Namjoon’s clothes as he shifts position, lays urgent claim to Yoongi’s attention. He keeps up the charade of work, moving around the pins he has yet to insert, the spring, the oils to make sure the mechanism runs smoothly, the spool where they will eventually wind the spell. He doesn’t want Namjoon to feel rushed.
Something in the air shifts. Yoongi sets his tools down, and looks up just in time to catch Namjoon looking away. Namjoon’s cheeks are flushed, and he has to clear his throat before he can make his voice work. “We could keep having dinner together. If we get married, I mean. I, um… I imagine that if I marry whoever the matchmaker picks we’d have to do that less.”
Yoongi feels the bottom drop out of his stomach. He hadn’t considered— if Namjoon got married— Well. Hopefully he won’t have to consider it. “Right. And we could stay out late still, when we wanted, or sleep in, whatever. It’d be just like now, except with less annoying matchmaking.”
“Well, not exactly like now,” Namjoon laughs. “You’d have to keep me company at family events.”
Yoongi hadn’t considered that either, but— He grins. “You realize that’s a two way street, right?” As an added bonus, no one would be able to object, at least not publicly, to Namjoon’s presence. Not even at the most intimate family affairs. His grandfather would be furious.
“We’ll have to do it properly though,” Namjoon says, tapping his chin, “Or at least I will. Great-aunt Boksoon will try to pressure me out of it, or get my parents to try, or the lawyers, or…” He waves his hands in the air, the letter fluttering as it moves. “I don’t know. Maybe she’ll try to get someone to declare it illegal? Can they do that with marriages?”
“I studied history, not marital law,” Yoongi says. Sure, they’d covered some maritial law, as a necessity for tracking inheritance, bloodlines, and the motives for major political players, but…
“I know that face,” Namjoon says, actually standing up so he can lean forward on the table in his excitement. “I know that face. You’ve had an idea.”
Yoongi has. “How would you feel about a traditional marriage?”
To make sure that no one is able to object to their traditional marriage on the grounds of propriety, Namjoon and Yoongi spend the next hour searching for Yoongi’s notes, or better yet, his old textbook. They find both, eventually, stashed in a box on the bottom of his office’s shelving unit. He ignores Namjoon’s comments about you’ve been holding on to these for ten years? and you aren’t allowed to say anything about my collections ever again in favour of reviewing the information so there aren’t any surprises later.
The process of a traditional marriage is exactly as straightforward as Yoongi remembers, and the rituals involved use supplies that they already have to hand. When Yoongi finishes reading it aloud he looks to Namjoon, who looks back with a considering gaze. After what feels like an eternity, Namjoon asks, “Why wait?” and Yoongi feels like he can breathe again.
Dawn finds them poorly rested but packed, standing once more in their workshop. Namjoon has the supplies for their first ritual out on the table, while Yoongi checks their notes one last time. He hopes that they aren’t missing anything. He’d hate to be flying off in the cold, at sunrise, for nothing.
“It’d probably be fine if you wanted to sleep a bit more?” Namjoon says, as Yoongi fails to smother yet another yawn. “It doesn’t look like the listen-to-the-land part has to be done at dawn, it’s just—”
“Traditional,” Yoongi says, in unison. “We’re doing it by the book, aren’t we? And the book says—”
“Fine, fine!” Namjoon throws his hands in the air and laughs. “I know better than to try and argue with you!”
“News to me,” Yoongi mutters, which earns him a grin that helps shake some of the lingering chill from his bones.
The listen-to-the-land ritual is so simple Yoongi had to read it through three times before he hesitantly allowed that maybe there really wasn’t anything else. He and Namjoon slip out to the alley behind their shop, packs slung over Namjoon’s shoulder, long-distance-tandem broomstick in Yoongi’s hand. After a few seconds of searching, Namjoon finds a bare patch of dirt in amongst the old cobbles.
Yoongi, following the diagram in his notes, pours out a vial of sand in first a circle, then an unfurling pattern. Then, with their fingers linked, their power gathered, and their hands pressed to the clear centre of the pattern, Namjoon and Yoongi recite the traditional invocation, expressing their intent to deepen their connection to each other and to the magic that flows through the world around them. The response in Yoongi’s magic is instantaneous — in among the faint awareness he always has of the threads of magic around him is a tug, gentle, but sure, directly on his heart.
“Guess we’ve got our heading,” Namjoon says, pulling his hand away from Yoongi’s to rub at his chest. “Got your gloves, hyung? Good. Shall we?”
Yoongi ties the ear flaps of his hat together beneath his chin, ignoring Namjoon’s smirk. Even with their warming charms tucked among his layers of quilted and unquilted coats and pants, flying is going to be cold. Why couldn’t Namjoon’s great-aunt have waited to make her threat until the summer?
Three hours later the tug of the listen-to-the-land spell finally, finally, calls Yoongi down to the earth. He might have his quilted clothes, and his warming charms, and Namjoon’s bulk pressed along his back, but he’s still shivering, and his hands are numb where they’re wrapped around the shaft of the broomstick. Namjoon doesn’t seem to be faring much better — Yoongi can hear his teeth chattering, and he keeps pressing his face into the side of Yoongi’s thick scarf.
“Almost there!” Yoongi yells, just in case Namjoon hasn’t noticed the chance through the cold.
“You’re doing great!” Namjoon yells back. “Great work!”
Their destination is apparently a small clearing containing a house and a few outbuildings bounded by a stone wall. All are still covered by a light dusting of snow, bright under the cloudless sky. It’s clearly uninhabited, at least by humans. There’s no smoke rising from the chimneys, nor any sign of footprints belonging to anything larger than a hare, if Yoongi is any judge. The paper screens covering the windows are torn, there’s a hole in at least one roof that’s large enough to need immediate patching, and at least one door is ajar wide enough that Yoongi suspects they’ll find more than one critter-nest when they look inside.
“I saw a village over that way when we were landing,” Namjoon says, pointing with his gloved hand, as he returns from his initial exploration. “Shouldn’t take more than ten minutes to get there. Want me to go check things out, while you get some rest? You did a lot of flying.”
Yoongi isn’t sure the village is as close as Namjoon thinks, and is very sure that it’s not in the direction Namjoon is pointing. When combined with how easily Namjoon can get lost, Yoongi would feel safer if they didn’t split up.
“We’ll go together,” he says, heaving himself up off the porch of the main house where he’d been resting. It makes the half-finished listen-to-the-land ritual sing inside him in a way that makes him vaguely dizzy, unless that’s his exhaustion, but he feels like does a convincing job of staying upright.
Namjoon still frowns. If he’s feeling the effects of the ritual, or their late night, or their arduous flight, he isn’t showing it. “At least let me fly this time?” His chin is sticking out the way it does when he’s determined to win an argument. “No offense, but you look like a stiff breeze would blow you off course.”
“None taken,” Yoongi says, because he feels that way. “Now c’mon. If we want to get done before nightfall, which we do, we’ve gotta figure out who can give us permission to stay here.”
He’s not entirely sure what they’ll do if they can’t find the current owner, or if the current owner says no to their request. If anything, the tug of the ritual feels stronger now that they’ve arrived. Even the idea of leaving is making him feel a little sick. The side effects of dispelling the magic of the ritual while it’s still incomplete probably wouldn’t be fun.
Namjoon’s jaw is still sticking out obstinately, but he takes the tandem broom when Yoongi offers it without any further theatrics. He’s ungainly as ever when mounting it, but once Yoongi is tucked up safely against his back their take-off is effortless, and the slower responsiveness and sluggish handling doesn’t seem to impede his abilities in the air too much. The heat charms in Yoongi’s boots seem to be wearing off, which is going to leave him miserable on the way back, but at least Namjoon makes a good wind-break.
The village turns out to be ten reasonably cold minutes away, as the witch flies. Yoongi is glad to step inside the village’s administrative building, and gladder still when there is minimal bureaucracy involved in confirming that yes, the house is empty, and yes, they can live in it and fix it up, provided they agree to pay taxes, and the nominal fee to complete the title transfer, and are willing to fill in some paperwork. Filling in the paperwork is by far and away the longest step in the process — Namjoon insists they read everything thoroughly just in case, then somehow manages to lose one of the forms even though they both remember signing it.
Along with the supplies they would need for the marriage ritual, and for time spent in unfamiliar territory, Yoongi made sure to pack enough food they wouldn’t starve for a least a week. Namjoon insists they get a warm meal from one of the local eating houses anyway, and Yoongi is happy to agree. The stew they order is thick and hearty, with enough spice to warm him, the rice is fluffy, with the perfect amount of chew, and the side dishes are plentiful. Better still, it’s food that Yoongi didn’t have to cook, eaten off dishes they won’t have to clean.
Best of all, by the time they leave Yoongi can once more feel his toes.
He would have been happy to linger longer at the eating house, for all that their broom and packs are earning them stares from their fellow patrons (thankfully no questions yet, although Yoongi suspects that is only a matter of time). It was nice to have his hands wrapped around his warm mug of tea, his knees knocking Namjoon’s under the table, but the pressure from the half-finished ritual inside him has only grown as the day wore on. It leaves him jittery, like when he’s had one too many cups of coffee, and more irritable than usual. Maybe if he’d been the only one affected he’d have grinned and bore it a while longer, but he can see Namjoon’s restlessness worsening too, which means it’s only a matter of time before a cup ends up spilled, or a plate overturned.
Namjoon stubbornly refuses to let Yoongi fly them home, for all Yoongi protests he’s feeling fine. Namjoon won’t hear it. “You’ve done so much flying today already, hyung. It’s my turn, okay?”
After only a few short minutes in the air Yoongi wishes he’d pushed back harder. The winds picked up while they were doing their paperwork and eating, and Namjoon never has been especially skilled at reading them. The ride is bumpy and unpleasant, even with Yoongi doing his best to smooth things out from his position behind Namjoon.
By the time they land Namjoon’s face is pinched with disappointment, and coloured with a mix of shame and embarrassment. He takes the ball of twine and vials of infused oils that Yoongi hands him wordlessly, then stomps off to walk the perimeter of their new property. They both know he’s spoiling for a fight, and, after more than a few fights picked under similar circumstances, equally know that this is not the time to indulge him.
While Namjoon stomps, trailing the twine and the oil, Yoongi prepares the rest of the we’ve arrived portion of the listen-to-the-land ritual. It takes him a minute of careful, calm breathing before he can find exactly which patch of ground calls to him most strongly, then another of concentrated work to clear the area of snow, stones, and twigs. The exposed dirt is hard-packed and cold, but yields readily enough under the tip of his stylus as he starts scratching out the signs he needs from his notes.
The pattern is the inverse of the one they’d poured out in sand back in the city, sunk into the earth instead of drawn in raised lines, contained by the originating circle instead of unfurling outward. Namjoon rejoins him when he’s almost finished, Namjoon’s mouth still mulish, but spine no longer ramrod straight. “Perimeter’s closed,” he says as Yoongi finishes the last sweeping curve, even though he knows they both felt the shift in the energy when he’d knotted the twine together. “Anything else you need help with?”
“Check things over for me?” Yoongi offers, holding out the notes. The signs are simple enough that he’s sure he hasn’t made any errors, but the best way to shake Namjoon out of one of his sulks is giving him something to do.
As an added bonus, it works even when Namjoon knows what’s happening. Sure enough, Namjoon’s sigh is more theatrical than put-upon as he accepts the notes and hunkers down to check Yoongi’s work, and he’s smiling when he passes the notes back. “Flawless as always.”
They have to take off their gloves to link their fingers again, then press them into the pattern. The air bites at Yoongi’s exposed skin, and the dirt is cold under his fingertips. By contrast, Namjoon’s touch is so warm that in anyone else Yoongi would worry that he had a fever.
With an ease born of years casting together, they recite the words that will finish the ritual, affirming that they’ve heeded the call, and close the spell. Yoongi’s a bit disappointed with how anticlimactic it is, if he’s being honest. The jittery feeling in his chest stills, although the faint tug does not, and— that’s it.
“I was hoping for something a bit more impressive,” Namjoon huffs, rocking back on his heels. “After all day with that itch inside me that’s a bit of a let-down.” He turns to Yoongi, smiling wryly. “Maybe the actual marriage part will be flashier?”
The marriage ritual is equally simplistic, and thankfully doesn’t involve additional hours of flying on a broom. It’s adapted from the even older ritual of earth-stewardship, and although it’s most modern forms are more ceremonial than anything, performed with spoken promises instead of cast spells, its historic forms are still recognized as a legal joining (that was one of the first things Yoongi checked) and requires no human witness or officiant. The proof is in the casting, which fails if either party is not truly willing, and in the subsequent bond created. The magic serves as their witness. It’s perfect for their needs.
With the ground frozen as it is, Yoongi has to work to dig a small hole beneath the frozen earth where they’d pressed their fingers. He doesn’t mind too much. The deepening chill of the rapidly approaching dusk is starting to seep through his jacket. Having something physical to do helps stave off the worst of it.
Namjoon watches quietly, his arms hooked over his knees, his hands linked closely together. His silence is unexpected — usually when trying, or even watching, a new ritual, or spell, or cantrip, Namjoon can be counted on to provide a running commentary of what’s happening, and why, and how it fits into the larger picture, as if he’s giving a lecture on the subject. Yoongi might be worried at how quiet he is, except he’s pretty confident he knows what the unexpected silence means.
Sure enough, when Yoongi sets aside the hand trowel and reaches for his pocket Namjoon’s fingers close around his wrist. “Are you sure?” Namjoon asks, because he’s so earnestly Namjoon sometimes that it’s almost painful. He’s staring at the hole Yoongi’s dug, as if this, not signing the forms in the village, not flying through the cold for hours, not their late night of planning, is what’s making their impending marriage real for him.
“I am,” Yoongi tells him, keeping his smile tucked away in his cheeks. “And I’d like to get it done quickly, if that’s okay by you. I’m cold.”
Namjoon’s eyes flick to Yoongi’s, and then, when he sees Yoongi isn’t actually upset, he grins. “In this balmy weather?”
“Yes.”
Namjoon sighs an elaborate sigh. “Well, if you must.” He squeezes Yoongi’s wrist before letting go.
The next step in the marriage ritual calls for a token of commitment. According to their research it’s usually an accessory — a bracelet, a necklace, a hair-stick, a ring, not necessarily matching — that the married couple will wear as an outward sign of their bond with each other, and the land, and the land’s magic. With all the rush to finish their other preparations the night before they hadn’t talked about what they would pick beyond saying I’ve got something that will work and yeah, me too.
Yoongi’s choice had been easy. Back when he and Namjoon were new students, before they were even friends, he’d noticed the number of paper-cuts Namjoon’s fingers collected while he studied, and thought he’d try and do something about it. Sourcing the plain silver rings for his plan had been easy enough. Etching them had been much harder. Actually embedding the magic that would passively power the charm to guard against paper-cuts? It’d taken both of them to perfect that part, once Namjoon had caught Yoongi working on it.
Yoongi had kept his favourite of the early prototypes long after the spell wore off, and wore it often along with his other rings. It feels right to use it for this and, watching as Namjoon sheepishly pulls out his own paper-cut prototype ring, Yoongi has to laugh. It looks like Namjoon agrees.
They bury the rings together, fingers brushing as they push the disturbed earth back into the ground, then take turns with the stylus to sketch their halves of the binding spell into the design on top. While Namjoon works, Yoongi hunts through his kit and pulls out the sewing kit he’d packed. He fishes out a pin and uses it to prick the pad of his thumb before passing it to Namjoon. Namjoon manages to poke his index and ring fingers, hissing each time, before finally jabbing his thumb with a victorious sniff.
“Okay okay okay,” Namjoon mutters as he sets the pin aside. “Okay okay.” He looks up at Yoongi. “Ready?”
His unbloodied hand is outstretched toward Yoongi, and although the ritual doesn’t call for them to hold hands Yoongi takes it without hesitation. It’s awkward, a sort of side handshake that leaves him with an elbow sticking in his side, but Namjoon’s hand is warm, and the reminder that they are doing this together, and for each other, is comforting. He’d been ready before, but now he feels sure.
“Ready,” he says, giving Namjoon a tight smile and slight nod. Namjoon squeezes his hand in return, and in unison they reach for the magic around them and affirm their commitment to each other, their land, and the magic that flows through it. When they’ve finished, Yoongi checks in with Namjoon one last time, both of them unable to stop small, incredulous smiles as they make eye contact. Yoongi fights the urge to shake his head, or laugh — doing either would spoil the moment. Together, they press their bloodied thumbs into the earth.
Unlike the anti-climax of the listen-to-the-land ritual, this one Yoongi feels. There’s a rush of power rising through the soles of his feet and his bloodied thumb, swirling through his and Namjoon’s joined hands, and disappearing back into the ground. Yoongi is very experienced working with the wider web of the world’s magic, and even has some experience working with other people’s magic, but it’s never felt like this. The power involved is vast, leaving him feeling like a fly snarled at the centre of a tangled spider’s web. Namjoon must feel it too — Yoongi can hear his breath hitch, and feel the way his hand tightens in Yoongi’s. Yoongi grips back.
“Well,” Yoongi says, when the power has subsided enough he’s regained control of his throat and mouth. His voice is quiet, thin, strained. He lets his eyes fall shut. “I can see why they use a modified version for marriages now.”
“That would be hell to undo,” Namjoon agrees, flexing his fingers without letting go of Yoongi’s hand.
Yoongi huffs, too exhausted to laugh. Namjoon is right. Yoongi can feel where his and Namjoon’s magic have been spun together, then woven into the much larger, unruly, wild tangle of magic that the listen-to-the-land ritual had drawn them to. The tangle extends further than Yoongi cares to reach. He can’t even begin to guess how long it will take to unravel it into anything resembling the smooth, manicured webs of magic he’s grown used to in the city. “That was sort of the point, Joon-ah.”
Namjoon snorts. “Yeah, yeah, I know.” He jiggles their joined hands. “No falling asleep yet hyung! We have to dig the rings out, and then figure out where we’re sleeping and—”
“Uraagh!” Yoongi lets himself collapse out of his crouch, sprawling across the ground to highlight just how much he doesn’t appreciate Namjoon’s input. It makes Namjoon laugh properly but is otherwise a miserable experience. Even through his coat the ground is cold, and hard, and some of the snow catches on his eyelashes. He expresses his dissatisfaction by flopping onto his back, which just makes things worse. Not only is it colder, it makes Namjoon’s warm hand pop out of his grip.
“Guess I’ll dig up the rings then,” Namjoon says, using one of Yoongi’s knees to brace himself as he reaches for the discarded hand trowel. “You want to take our stuff inside?”
Yoongi groans, unmoving.
“It’ll get you out of the wind,” Namjoon points out.
It’s a compelling argument, made stronger by the gust that blows in from the forest, kicking up a few wide spirals of dirt and snow. Plus, if they want to sleep inside tonight (which Yoongi very emphatically does) someone will have to check the structural soundness of the building, and while Yoongi might trust Namjoon with his life, he’s not sure he’s ready to trust Namjoon’s experience with construction.
Yoongi heaves himself to his feet. “That’s the spirit,” Namjoon says encouragingly. “Now just—”
“Aish,” Yoongi sighs.
“We’re married, hyung,” Namjoon tells him, gesturing with the point of the trowel to where the rings are still buried. “I’m allowed to nag.”
“Never stopped you before.” Yoongi sniffs to hide his smile. Namjoon isn’t fooled — Yoongi can see his dimples as two deeper shadows on his face — but turns back to his careful excavation without further comment, leaving Yoongi free to collect their packs, and their broom, and investigate their new home.
Inside the house is unsurprisingly dark as Yoongi slides the doors open wide enough to comfortably slip through. He calls a ball of light to hover in front of him, then pauses to gape at how much effort it takes. His textbook had warned that the full traditional rituals might leave him drained, but he’d clearly underestimated by how much. His reserves are nearly depleted, and the tangle of wild magic is resistant to his efforts to draw from it. He’ll need to work quickly if he doesn’t want to be left in the dark.
The entryway leads directly to a large, open space, with a vaulted ceiling supported by heavy wooden beams. Off to his right he can see the couters and cupboards of a kitchen, as well as a low-cabinet lined area that Yoongi’s mind instantly fills with a table, covered in plates, or papers, or some combination of the two, divided from the larger space by a half-height wall. Directly in front of him are another set of sliding doors, which, based on his earlier view of the house from above, he assumes lead to the rear of the yard. To his left is a wall, against which is set a small wood-burning stove, while to his immediate left is a narrow hall, cast in deep shadow.
For a house that’s been uninhabited for years, things are in remarkably good, if dusty, grimy, cobwebby, shape. There are some paper screens that will need replacing, and the door — and probably window shutter — tracks certainly need cleaning, not to mention the floors, but after some time staring intently at beams, and ceiling plaster, and floorboards, Yoongi is satisfied that at least the main room won’t collapse spectacularly while they sleep.
That leaves him free to finally turn his attention to the hallway, and the two bedrooms he finds there. One unfortunately has a hole in the roof through which he can see the bruised purple and dark blue of some gathering clouds, but the other, though shabby and dusty, appears completely intact.
Yoongi makes some executive decisions and brings their things into the shabby-and-dusty-but-intact room. Namjoon would probably insist that he’d enjoy seeing the stars, that having a window to the night sky would make him feel more connected to the universe or something, but the dark clouds feel ominously like they might rain, or snow, if the air stays cold enough. They’ve shared a room before. They can share one now, and if Yoongi presents it as a fact, not a choice, he’s more likely to avoid having to argue about it.
He has just enough energy left to manage a quick cleaning spell to clear out the cobwebs and sweep out the dust bunnies before he has to sit down again. His ball of light disappears too, fizzled out by his exhaustion and leaving him in near-darkness even after he slides the shutters open on the windows. It’s not long past twilight, still too early to be called dusk, but he feels more than ready to pass out for the night.
For nearly a full minute he seriously considers falling asleep there on the floor, still bundled in his clothes. If he was younger he might have, but as he’s gotten older everything’s started to ache more easily. It’s bad enough they’ll be sleeping on the portable mats they’d been able to squeeze into their magically-enhanced packs. There’s no need to make it worse by forgoing any cushioning at all, and besides, he should make a more thorough inspection of the rest of their new home before turning in for the night.
Namjoon finds him as he’s investigating the hand pump in the kitchen. It’ll need to be taken apart and vigorously cleaned before he’ll trust it, but it’s nice to see they’ll have access to water without trudging out to the larger pump he can see through the large window set over the sink, at least in the warmer months. They have a counter-top gas stove, too, and some gas cannisters to power it, all of which which Yoongi will be giving a thorough inspection before using, a long wooden counter, and a collection of wooden crates he suspects the previous owners felt were too much trouble to move when they’d left.
“Here,” Namjoon says, holding out his hand. He has Yoongi’s ring pinched between his fingers, glistening in the light of the pre-spelled, no-fire lamp charm Yoongi had thought to pack. Yoongi blinks a few times before he takes it and slips it on his finger. That’s right. He’s going to sleep on the floor, and try and fix this hand pump, and maybe kill them in a gas explosion, because they decided to get married.
The thought sticks with him as he gives Namjoon a tour of what he’s found, and as they wander outside to investigate the garden, and as they find the privy. It’s a far cry from the comforts they have in the city, but it’ll be liveable. It’ll be cold for a few days, until Yoongi can be sure that there aren’t any critters living in the old-style, fire-based heating system that runs under their floor, and that their chimneys are clear, but liveable. There are worse prices he might have paid to be permanently free of his grandfather’s matchmaking.
Namjoon’s enthusiasm for exploring their new home lasts longer than Yoongi’s, but not by much — he follows Yoongi into their bedroom before Yoongi’s done more than pulled his blankets out from his pack. He looks up just long enough to warn Namjoon that he’s swapped out the flameless candle for the kind that has real fire (it’s helping take the edge off the chill air in their room, but now it’s extra important Namjoon not knock it over) before he turns back to his search for his extra pairs of socks. He thinks he might want to double, or even triple layer them for a few nights.
They’ve shared a room often enough Yoongi doesn’t hesitate before changing into his sleep clothes, after a final trip to the privy, and a detour to clean his teeth. His fingers, still chilled from being outside, fumble as he tries to get his clothes to go neatly back in his pack. He gives up on being neat and shoves them in instead. He can sort it out in the morning, when he’s not shivering and exhausted and half asleep on his feet.
He’s snuggled under his blankets, eyes closed, wondering if maybe it’s worth burning through a few more of their pre-made heat charms after all, when Namjoon says, “Oh hey, where’s my mat?”
“In your bag?” Yoongi says, without much hope. He knows they talked about packing the mats, knows Namjoon has one — Namjoon had gone so far as to utter the words oh, mine’s in my office —but if Namjoon is asking in that tone…
There’s a telling silence.
Yoongi squeezes his eyes even more tightly shut. He’s too tired to come up with any solution beyond, “Okay then. We’ll share.”
“No, no!” The rustling of Namjoon pulling things out of his pack gets louder. “It’s fine, it’ll be fine, I’ll figure something out.”
“Namjoon—”
“I’ll layer up and sleep on the floor!”
“Joon-ah—”
“And I can go in the other room, so—”
“Kim Namjoon.” Yoongi doesn’t mind that his exhaustion lends his tone a distinct edge. Sometimes when Namjoon starts beating himself up for something it takes a while for him to snap out of it. “You will not be sleeping in a room where the roof has a hole in it.”
“But then I could see the sky!” Yoongi finally opens his eyes at that, so he can give Namjoon the glare he rightly deserves. Namjoon catches his eye and grins, ducking his head. “No, no, you’re right, that was a bad joke. Sorry, hyung.”
“We’ll share,” Yoongi repeats, shuffling over so Namjoon will have space. It’ll be tight, but that might not be a bad thing. “The extra body heat will be nice. It’s cold.”
Namjoon makes a noise that sounds like a muffled chuckle, and before Yoongi can decide if he wants to comment about that or not Namjoon has draped his blankets overtop Yoongi’s, flipped back the top corner, and is sliding in beside Yoongi so they’re lying side by side, both staring at the ceiling. He brings a lot of the cold air with him, but Yoongi swallows any comment he might make. Bringing it up would just make things awkward again, and they’d have to have a longer conversation about no, you should sleep here, actually.
That’s not to say things aren’t a bit awkward regardless. In addition to having prior experience sharing a room they’ve also spent time sharing a bed, when they’d been travelling for business and their hotel had been overbooked, but that bed had been much bigger, and they hadn’t been married. Normally Yoongi is very happy to exist in silence with Namjoon, loves that they can exist in silence together, but right now the silence feels… wrong. It’s missing the sense of comfort he’s grown to love, and to judge by the way Namjoon seems frozen, barely breathing beside Yoongi, he feels the same.
“You know,” Yoongi says at last, when he can’t stand how off things feel anymore, “Out of all the marriage beds I could’ve ended up in this one’s… not bad.”
Namjoon snorts, but he also relaxes. His shoulders press against Yoongi’s, and the backs of his fingers brush against Yoongi’s hand as he settles into what is hopefully a more comfortable position. “Definitely not bad, but I gotta admit it could be better. Heat, for one thing. Running water.” He shifts his shoulders again, one of his elbows knocking into Yoongi’s arm. “A thicker mattress.”
It might be a list of complaints, but there’s no real weight behind them, and Yoongi knows that if he turned to look at Namjoon he’d be wearing a smile. It makes him smile in turn, although the smile is quickly ruined by a yawn. “All good points,” he agrees, patting whatever bit of Namjoon his hand can find. “But those are tomorrow problems.”
“Maybe even the day after tomorrow,” Namjoon says, with a yawn of his own. “Who knew marriage could be so exhausting.”
There’s probably a joke to be made there, but Yoongi falls asleep before he can find it.