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bang-to-the-tan · 5 years ago

Text

Lullaby

Oneshot

Reader x Min Yoongi

► Soulmate!AU

Comfort

Warnings: None

Words: 2K

↳ Summary: He can’t sleep when you’re awake, crying over the things you aren’t.

why hello readers yes i am hyperfixating away from my problems why do you ask

@teawithkpop and I had a discussion concerning vaguely psychic BTS that in one eight-hour work shift turned into a full soulmate AU in my head. I made myself cry writing this. (psst, this song goes really well with it, especially once he gets on the balcony)

Please enjoy, and don’t forget to love yourself.

You’re crying again.

The sensation of tightness in his chest, head pounding—this feeling so like drowning sinks claws into Yoongi’s dreams, coiling about his neck until he can’t breathe and suddenly he’s staring at the muted darkness of his room, watching his mind carve whirling shapes into the shadows. His mind reels with phantom pain, heartache that isn’t his, a tight throat and burdened soul that don’t belong to him. He feels sick.

Except, and this is always the weirdest part, that he doesn’t.

Instead, he blinks, eyes heavy, and fumbles for his phone, arm made of granite. The screen is too bright in this darkness, and it takes a moment of blinking, squinting, frowning, before the symbols spearing their way through his retinas make any kind of sense. 2:37 AM.

Holding his hand out in this position is something of a task and its job done, he allows his arm to drop limply to the covers, his head following suit with a short breath of exasperation. It isn’t your fault. He never blames you. He knows you don’t know about the day he’s going to have to have tomorrow. The promotions he’s been getting ready for, the difficult and involved choreography he’s learning.

And even him knowing his own schedule doesn’t mean he’ll be going back to sleep anytime soon. Not like this, not with you rending yourself in two in his head. So, he gifts himself one more moment of stubborn sprawling, playing like he’s still sleeping to a dark and empty room.

You’re crying harder now. He can feel it, that wracking, all-encompassing sense of the world crumbling underneath your feet. The fear of falling, the desperate clawing for any kind of hold on a surface that dissolves in your fingers. This time, the twinge of his heart is his own, twisted with pity and longing. Always longing.

Mindlessly determined now, he kicks his legs out from under his covers and crawls off the bed one limb at a time, swaying to and fro. The lights in the hallway are too bright to be turning on at this hour, so he navigates by the glow of various electrical devices in his apartment, ambling his zombie-like way to the kitchen.

2 in the morning is a little early for you. Or possibly late. He doesn’t really know—despite that week or so where he’d managed to convince himself that he’d pinned your timezone down. He flicks the kettle on, fumbling for a mug through the cabinets, some tea, still musing absently, half-asleep, on you.

He thought he was dying when it first happened.

Halfway asleep one late night, just before he drifted off on top of his covers, phone in hand. His chest suddenly swelled with such immense joy that he actually cried. After the initial shock, the fear of actually, finally, going clinically insane, he elected to ignore it. Told no one, hoped if he just forgot it happened, then nothing would have to come of it. A few days later, he nearly jumped through his ceiling with a sudden flash of anger, red-hot, searing its way through his lungs like righteous fire, first thing in the morning. The warlike shout that had forced its way out of him tore his voice asunder and made recording that day incredibly difficult and awkward to explain. You really have a penchant for experiencing extreme emotion around his bedtime. He’s already made the mental note to berate you for it, once you finally meet.

Once he finally meets his soulmate.

The doctors had reassured him that it was actually shockingly normal for celebrities to unintentionally ‘awaken’ their soulmates before either was aware they existed. It’s just a numbers game, they’d said. If you’re plastered across screens and billboards all around the world, eventually, one of the millions who pass by it is going to be yours. And having seen him, somewhere, sometime, you’d been bound to him. Emotional telepathy. The first step in ‘total soul connection’, or whatever it was they’d called it. Anytime you felt anything strong, anytime you experienced something important, it bled through to him, in the form of unchecked, unbridled feeling.

Jimin had helped him in trying to narrow the timeframe, chasing this frantic energy that possessed him in the beginning. This manic desperation to find you, culminating in long fingers dug into his hair so hard he could have pulled his brain through the strands, eyes squeezed so tightly shut it hurt, curled into a ball at his dining room table and fighting back the urge to cry until he died from it. He’d spent three days tracking his group’s popularity from when he’d first felt you, and ended up with nothing but a sour taste in his mouth and a sick feeling in his stomach at the impossible unfairness of it all.

Yoongi nearly falls asleep on the counter waiting for the water to boil, jumping violently at the click of the tab coming back up. He pours it into the mug, smacking his lips absently, running a sluggish hand through his bangs to try and shift them out his already limited vision. The room fills with the thick sound of water, the smell of fresh tea. He takes a minute to appreciate how nice it smells, whole body stilling, eyes closing, concentrating. A beat passes.

He opens them, tiredly, sniffing once and reaching for the mug. It’s warming against his palm, radiating heat down his hand, his arm. There’s a soft, nearly threadbare blanket draped over the back of the sofa that he collects as he shuffles towards the balcony. He pauses to force his feet into the slippers by the door before he slides it open, deciding he could just as well fix them once he’s sitting down. They flop stubbornly against his toes as he walks, situated just barely off from fitting right.

It’s a gorgeous night. Morning. Whatever. The temperature is mild, the air feels almost warm, and the breeze that passes through is gentle. It threads careful hands through his hair, kisses his cheeks, bringing with it the dusky scent of night.

He slides the door shut behind him, shutting him off from the apartment and completely baring him to the view of Seoul’s cityline in the distance. Lights glittering across the river like stardust, casting heretical flares into the velvet above. Buildings rising from the horizon like shadowy hands, reaching out to grasp the heavens in their palms. And all of it reflected in the water, an imperfect mirror of black glass throwing the sleepless eyes of the city back in its face.

The company had assured him it was perfectly normal to want to find his soulmate, especially now that you’d awoken to him. But it just wouldn’t be feasible. Not now. Not with how things are. He told himself that he would’ve quit on the spot, but he’s far too practical for that kind of thoughtless drama. And if you were really his soulmate, he knew you’d understand.

Instead, he scanned every set of eyes he could in every crowd. Played leapfrog through social media sometimes, when the longing in his chest was especially loud. He had no idea if he’d seen you already. Sometimes, especially when he felt ugly things, he wondered if you were there with him. If you waited for him like he waited for you, chasing ghosts and always doubtful whether you were even going in the right direction.

He’d attempted to be casual about writing a song for you, but it took very few words slinking out between numb, awkward lips before Namjoon immediately saw straight through him. Good ol’ Rational Namjoon smiled that soft smile of his and told him with that soft voice of his that Yoongi would send all the world into a panic, writing a song like that. He’d end up with enough “soulmates” to populate a small country. And beside, it wasn’t something he could do without passing it underneath the company’s scrutiny and catching flack for trying to sneak. So for now, it seemed, he’d just have to sit here and miss someone he’d never met.

The next pang that screams through him shakes him the worst of all, to his core, and it comes close to taking him out at the knees as he moves to sit on the chair he set up out on the balcony when he moved in. He physically winces at the sensation, grip tightening on his mug, other hand digging blunt, anxiously chewed fingernails into the wicker of the chair’s arm. Hate. It’s hate that you’re feeling now. Yoongi knows it too well, it bleeds into his own emotions, muddles the line between you.

The excitement you’d clouded his senses with last week made him grin for an entire day, your heart beating inside his ribs like a caged bird.

The fear from a month ago sent him into a panic, had him packing a suitcase before he’d given pause to the fact that he doesn’t even know where you are. (Hoseok talked him down from that one; popular theory was that you’d been thrillseeking. Watching a horror movie or riding a rollercoaster. Yoongi wasn’t entirely convinced until you ‘checked back in’ a little later with a deeply satisfied feeling of content. He’d breathed a sigh of relief that felt like the first time he’d tasted oxygen in all his life.)

But this emotion has a texture to it that feels all too familiar against Yoongi’s teeth, coiled around his throat. Self-hate. You aren’t just crying, you’re losing a battle against yourself. And not for the first time he wishes more than anything that you could be here. With him. Where you belong. Where he could take you into his arms and promise you that you are so much stronger than your shadow. Where he could take up a light of his own and help you chase that darkness away, as best he could, at your side. Where he belongs.

He blinks up at the sky, as if he could watch your thoughts chasing his in the night. He takes the blanket, wrapping it studiously around his legs, tucking it into the sides, bundling up until he’s warm and comfortable and safe. He takes the mug in his hand, sips gingerly at the tea that’s still just a little too hot to drink steadily.

Yoongi looks out over the river, watches it ripple and sparkle, counts the airplanes, satellites, crawling across the domed sky. He notices how beautiful it is. How warm he feels. Secure.

He has no idea if he’s seen you yet. He doesn’t know if you can feel him.

He closes his eyes. He focuses on how he feels content. Safe, and happy. Tea on his lips, you on his mind, hope in the palm of his hand. The world with his voice perched on its tongue, waiting for a new day to share with him.

He has no idea how long he sits there.

You calm slowly, painfully, clawing first by force into exhaustion. Your emotions, bleeding and ragged and so, so tired, but triumphant for one more night, trail slivers and snippets through his mind as you begin to fade from his grasp.

You leave him alone on his balcony, set against a backdrop of manmade stars. His tea has gone cold in his mug now.

He sends you one last reach, one last sliver of soft comfort, one last shared moment of pride in your strength, before he gives up. He yawns, decadently wide, and shifts upwards to head back inside, the blanket dogging his steps like he were a weary king with a crown of lead.

#reader x yoongi #bts fluff #bts soulmate au

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