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baepsaetan · 6 years ago

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Inkarnate

Summary: Hoseok is a film student looking for muse, and Yoongi is a tattoo artist looking for money. When they meet, the two find that they could give each other far more than creativity and cash, but soulmate isn’t spelled p.e.r.f.e.c.t, and Yoongi’s tattoos cover up more than just his skin.

Chapters: pt.1, pt.2, pt.3, pt.4, pt.5, pt.6, pt.7, pt.8, pt.9, pt.10, pt.11 -> read on Ao3

Genre: Soulmate! AU, Angst

Warnings: Swearing, implied alcoholism, implied past abuse, seriously a lot of angst, eventual smut, main character death.

Length: 9.8k

A/N: Sorry it took so long to post, everyone! The next couple of chapters will come more quickly, I promise. This is where the angst tag really starts coming into play, just as an fyi, but this may be one of my fave chapters so far. As ever, thanks for reading!

Grey and uncertain, the sky reflects Hoseok’s mood perfectly. He’s grateful it isn’t anywhere near as cold as it was last week, but the muted lighting makes it hard to keep alive the hope and positivity he’s keeping in his thoughts. Given that he’s made up his mind to listen to Yoongi, to try and understand where he’s coming from without the heavy weight of fear, he needs to keep himself optimistic. Bad enough that nervousness is fizzing in his stomach, making every step a challenge; he doesn’t want to deal with doubts about this whole meeting on top of that.

There are a lot of people on the street, far, far more than usual – in fact, Skymont has been closed to traffic, and pedestrians spill onto the road. Jimin had told him to expect it, and it does makes sense; the festival officially opened an hour or so ago, so of course Skymont is flooded with the curious. A multitude of lights have been strung up, unnoticed during his last daylight visit, flung with hap hazardous glee over trees, street lights and buildings. They mostly lean towards soft blues and whites – the colour scheme of the festival – but the occasional splash of Christmas red and green makes for some blaring dashes among the softer shades. Everywhere he looks, there are signs for various activities, some taking place outside and some indoors. A bake sale, an ice sculpting contest, fireworks at twelve, warm drinks here and a costume contest there. It’s overwhelming, but in a way that makes him grin.

He deliberately – of course – arrived really early, so he takes a few minutes to record some of the antics of the various people lining the road. Nothing fancy, just on his phone, but he likes catching a few seconds of an older man bringing a tray of hot coffees to his friends, kids hurtling snowballs at each other, a couple admiring the snowflake decorations of one of the stores. It’s not until that same couple lean in to kiss that Hoseok stops, nearly dropping his phone in his haste to keep from getting the intimate moment in the shot.

His hot blush is fueled by embarrassment, but the spots of colour speak of something more uncomfortable, too, and he decides that’s probably enough filming for the moment. It’s close to the time to meet, anyways, and impatience is warring so fiercely with trepidation that he’s almost afraid he’ll blink and find himself late by ten minutes or more. Unable to bear that particular scenario, Hoseok decides to thread through the crowds of people towards the Born Tiger.

He ends up being fifteen minutes early, but as it happens, that doesn’t matter. A small form – with a thicker beanie and gloves, though in the same jean jacket – is lounging against the glass, the tiger art hovering over him. Someone’s given the fierce striped beast a Santa Clause hat, complete with a little bell, and Hoseok can’t tell if the addition is a decal or something else. He’s a bit preoccupied, anyways, his previously urgent steps dragging into near stillness as he observes Yoongi.

The other man has his arms folded across his chest, is staring unmoving at the sidewalk. Hoseok doesn’t know why he feels so certain that there’s something strained and wild fighting in Yoongi – his quiet body gives no signs of turbulence – but the certainty is gut deep and it makes him wary. Wary and sad and worried. He just wishes he could figure out what’s tearing the artist apart, so he could help him hold together.

Before he’s anywhere near Yoongi’s line of sight, the man’s head jerks up, his gaze unerringly snapping to where Hoseok’s abruptly halted. Hoseok searches his expression, tries to focus on his pale, welcoming smile – but he can’t see anything beyond the two dark, sickly yellow splotches on his face. One, almost perfectly in the center of his forehead, is the size of a palm. The other, smaller but darker, a mottled collection of green and yellow, clings to his gaunt cheekbone and just skirts the edge of his eye. The bruises aren’t anywhere near as bad as they must have been at first, but they still don’t look great. And overall, Yoongi – he doesn’t look like he’s eaten or slept much in the last week.

Hoseok finds his feet moving again, heart wrenching, and he practically stumbles over himself getting closer. “What happened to you?” he demands, his politely scripted greeting thrown out the window. He’s seen bruises on Yoongi – the artist almost always has some collection of ghastly purple or faded yellow marks on his arms or legs – but never on his face before. It makes his sunken cheeks and wan skin stand out even more.

“You should see the other guy,” Yoongi says, and when Hoseok starts scowling, raises his hands. “No, I’m kidding. I was in the dark a few nights ago, and tripped. Just hit my face on the side of a counter and then on the floor on my way down. It looks worse than it is.”

Given the colour of the bruises, Hoseok can’t help but doubt that it happened a few nights ago. He believes that Yoongi could have fallen, but something tells him it was a week ago, last Friday night. Which would explain why Yoongi’s lying. His heart is beating too fast, too lightly, and the surge of concern has nearly wiped out his awkwardness – but not his anxiety. “You’re okay though?” he asks tightly, skipping over the lie in favour of making sure of that.

The artist shrugs. “No,” he replies, which makes Hoseok’s heart seize up altogether. Swallowing, Yoongi licks his lips before he meets Hoseok’s gaze. It’s painful how hard he obviously has to work to manage it. “My face is fine. It’s just – uh, I’ve just missed you, Hobi. And I’ve been thinking about what I said, and how I – I really was an asshole. And how I should apologize for that. So this week has just been, uh… rough.”

Judging by his wretched condition, that seems like an understatement, but it summons such a wave of guilt and compassion that Hoseok is struck speechless – and the outright honesty doesn’t help him summon any words, either. Yoongi ducks his head, his hand finding his neck. “Sorry,” he mutters. “It’s not – you don’t need to feel bad or anything. It’s not your fault. I just… I didn’t want to lie about it. It’s kind of obvious, right?” He laughs hollowly. “Even some of my regulars commented, so I figured it’d be dumb to try to hide.”

“Why… why would you hide it anyways?” Finally he manages to get his paralyzed tongue to move, and he even succeeds in making his voice soft despite wanting to shout the question.

Yoongi shifts his weight, mumbles something under his breath before his eyes pull back up. “Because,” he says more clearly, “it’s kind of pathetic that I can’t get my shit together, and I just thought it’d freak you out. So yeah, I’m not really stoked to have to tell you.”

“It’s not pathetic, Yoongi.” His fierce rejection surprises even him, but Hoseok pushes on. “Having a rough week doesn’t make you pathetic, at all. And yeah, I don’t like hearing that you’re not doing great, but it doesn’t mean you shouldn’t talk to me! I’m glad you told me, I want you to tell me about it. That’s – seriously Yoongi, that’s all I want. I want to hear about your problems and I want to help you fix them and I want you to stop shutting me down every time I try.” The words spill out of him in quick agitation, pulled by Yoongi’s bruises, by his mere presence.

By Hoseok’s realization that he’s so, so glad to be near Yoongi again, and that he doesn’t want to have to leave.

“Wow.” They’re standing close together, the space of moments before forgotten, and Yoongi breathes a shaky laugh. “I had a plan for getting to this part of the conversation, you know. It was supposed to be in like an hour, after we talked about your exams and I made fun of Tae’s pet cactus.”

They’ve completely hurtled off the script, the wild rush of emotion boiling over, but Hoseok doesn’t care. Even his anxiety is drained, leaving only a hot determination to – as Namjoon said – shake some sense into the artist. “I was at least supposed to say hey before I started giving you hell, right? But, uh – I dunno where to fit in my own apology now.”

That puts a furrow between Yoongi’s eyebrows. “Your apology?”

“Yeah. You’re definitely not the only one. I’m sorry for calling you an, uh, asshole, and I’m sorry for caring more about the feelings of some person I’ve never met than yours. I – I’ve been thinking about this, and I guess I shouldn’t care so much if I have a soulmate or not. You were right. I… I wanted something that’s easy. That I can have without anything complicated being involved. But…” He trails off, fumbling futilely for the right thing to say.

Yoongi tilts his head, his eyes a swirl of dark ink drawing light. “Sometimes,” he proposes softly, “if shit is too easy, it’s not really worth having.”

“Yeah…” Hoseok takes a deep breath. “Something like that. I’m not – I can’t lie and say I’m totally cool with this thing.” His hand presses to his chest, indicating the currently obscured marking. “I mean, it’s been looking weird and wilting and dropping petals all week and I’m kind of scared of what that means for whoever’s on the other side.”

The inhalation from the other man is so sharp it makes him jump a little, and Yoongi’s blanched face does even more to set his heart jolting. “What?” he asks hurriedly, his concerns about his soulmate forgotten in a sudden spike of panic. “Are you okay? You look–”

“I’m fine,” Yoongi cuts in, and indeed colour is rapidly flooding back into his skin in the form of a flush. “I… actually got a new tattoo this week, and I put too much pressure on it. That’s all.”

“Wah, really?” His empathy isn’t quite buying that Yoongi isn’t in pain – there’s something distinctly unsettled about the artist – but he thinks it’s probably just a face-saving show. “What’d you get? Where?”

Yoongi clasps the inside of his forearm, right below his elbow. “It’s just – a sun. Y’know… round. A sun.”

That is so distinctly undescriptive that Hoseok raises an eyebrow. “Did it go well? Do you like it? Can I see it?”

“Not right now,” Yoongi snaps, and then visibly forces himself to relax. “Sorry. It’s just healing right now, with the scabs and – you know, damn ugly. Probably better if you see it later. I do think it went well, though.” He pauses, his gaze turning reflective. “I… guess I like it, too. At least, I think it was something I needed.” Another pause, and then he exhales. “Do you wanna walk? There’s this side street that’s hosting an art galley kind of thing that might be cool to look at. I did promise to show you the best parts of the festival, you know.”

“I remember,” Hoseok says, and he can’t help but smile, just a little. “With the video and the apology and the invitation.”

Gloved hand covering his face, Yoongi groans. “Fuck, that was pretty stupid, wasn’t it? I just –”

“It wasn’t stupid. It was actually kind of cute. Clever, too. I mean, the lighting was terrible, and I don’t know what the director was thinking with that camera angle, but the script made it pretty good. Plus, the actor wasn’t hard on the eyes.” He laughs at Yoongi’s growl, and barely feels it when the other punches him on the shoulder.

There it is again. The vertigo of falling, without the terror of the eventual crash. All tingling weightlessness and heart-in-throat exhilaration. Like dancing but with less tangible effort. He hasn’t even really discussed either of their issues, they haven’t come to any kind of resolution, but every particle in Hoseok’s body is okay with that. It was easy to agonize over their differences and misunderstandings when he was away from Yoongi – it’s far, far easier to forget about them like this.

And then forget that this is falling, and not flying.

He sets his teeth, reins in his laughter. “We do still need to talk, Yoongi.”

His friend – surprisingly – doesn’t stop smiling, though the gummy grin does dim a little. “You’re right. But let’s walk and talk, okay? And first, you should fill me in on how your exams went. We can grab some hot chocolate or something and take a look at all the shit that Namjoon’s worked so hard to pull together.”

Though he faintly suspects Yoongi is stalling, they’ve got at least a couple more hours together. Plenty of time to get through the hard stuff, and frankly, Hoseok isn’t exactly enthusiastic about beginning that, anyways. He agrees to the suggestion, and shortly finds himself being pulled through the packed streets, Yoongi clinging to his hand to “make sure he doesn’t get lost in all the useless people.” His grip doesn’t loosen even in areas where the crowds thin, but Hoseok finds that he doesn’t mind at all.

The first stop is a food vendor – there are at least twenty of them spread out on Skymont – that Yoongi claims is his favourite, and it shortly becomes clear why. The man behind the stand makes an assortment of simple, hot drinks, and about half of the menu happens to be alcoholic. Yoongi gets a spiced Irish coffee, and Hoseok tries out hot chocolate spiked with Kahlua. It’s pleasingly sweet, and as their pace slows down a little to enjoy the drinks, Hoseok talks meanderingly about the last week. He’s careful to avoid speaking about how he’d plunged into studying to avoid the bleakness saturating everything he looked at. He doesn’t mention the way his mood had plummeted so badly it was like everything turned grey.

He keeps to lighter topics, but somehow, in the way Yoongi’s gaze lingers on him, he thinks the other man knows. It’s a relief to push through that area of discussion and start talking about other things as they come to the art show.

The makeshift gallery is outside, set up on one of the smaller streets branching from Skymont. The sidewalk’s been studiously swept clean of snow and other debris, and pale cloth drapes across the buildings, forming a roof that shelters the little avenue. Lights are evident here, too, some of them the blue and white of the festival but mostly brighter lamps that cast warm illumination over all of the art pieces. Yoongi explains it was a toss up whether they’d have it outside or not, but with the weather report showing no signs of snow or rain, it was decided that outside would be better. Hoseok agrees. There’s something breathtaking about stepping into the sheltered but open street, about being removed from the frantic hustle of the rest of the festival.

There aren’t as many people here, and Skymont employees keep the peace, asking everyone not to run but otherwise giving people free rein. As they approach the nearest stand, a couple of erected walls hung with paintings, Hoseok asks, “Don’t you have any examples of your tattoos set up here, Yoongi?”

“Actually, yeah,” his companion says with a grimace. “They’re further on. Jin hyung made me put the collection together – even paid for someone to stand around, since I wasn’t going to. I guess it’s good for advertising or something. It’s just the usual, though, nothing special.”

“For someone incredibly talented, you sure say “just” a lot,” Hoseok observes idly, his eyes on the gallery. This first installation is themed on natural destruction, most of the paintings incorporating rockslides, tornadoes, waves and the like.

Yoongi seems drawn to a painting of a wildfire, the brilliant tongues of red and orange so vivid Hoseok can practically feel the heat devouring the trees. His companion stares at it for awhile before he says, “Do I really use it that much?”

“Mmhm. All the time. Usually to make it seem like whatever you’re saying isn’t important.” They’re at a strangely calm point, almost but not quite detached from each other, and it makes it easier to point out something that’s been bothering him for as long as he’s known Yoongi. The other man wields “just” like an ax, and it’s always himself that he’s cutting down. “A lot of your stuff really isn’t just the usual, y’know.”

Glancing at Hoseok sidelong, Yoongi snorts, “Says the expert who’s never had a tattoo before.”

“Yah, I thought about it when I was younger, seriously! Do you know how much it would have pissed off my parents? I looked at a ton of them back then. Besides, I have a good eye for that stuff.”

“Sure, sure. Anyways, my tattoos are okay, I guess, but they’re not the best. I just–”

“There, see?”

“…I just don’t think they’re a big deal,” Yoongi finishes pointedly, and they begin to wander from the first stand. It’s not only paintings or drawings on display; there are sculptures, glasswork, jewelry and other more exotic exhibitions, and Yoongi chooses one of the craftwork examples to look at next.

While considering a little flower made by folding and crumpling tissue paper, Yoongi looks over at him. “Is this one of those talking points we’re both looking forward to?”

It takes Hoseok a moment to realize what he means; when he does, he shrugs. “I dunno. I guess… can I ask why you don’t like saying any of your stuff is good?”

His long fingers are strikingly delicate as they pick up the flower, and Yoongi hardly seems aware of the man hovering on the other side of the table. Still gentle, the artist turns the flower so that light shines through the thin tissue paper, changing the colour just a little. “I don’t really know. I mean… look at my life, Hobi. Especially up until recently, I was some poor fuck who didn’t even graduate. At least half of my friends had seen the inside of a jail cell, and so had I. I hated my parents and pretty much everyone else, too. What good could possibly come from that? Yeah, I got really lucky with Malsoon and Jihong, but the tattooing? That’s their work, not mine. They were better teachers than any of the assholes in my old school, but that’s them, not me.”

He falls silent, puts the flower carefully back on the table before looking at a small scene, also created from tissue paper. It’s set in a shoe-box sized display and depicts the sun rising over a blue ribbon of water, with painstakingly detailed fields of green spreading out on either side. “You don’t talk about them – Malsoon and Jihong – very often,” Hoseok observes quietly, sensing that now isn’t the time to disagree with Yoongi’s critical evaluation of his life.

“No, I don’t,” Yoongi says. “Malsoon would like this thing. She always bought stuff with nature and she liked rivers a lot. She – I guess I could buy it for her. Send it her way. It’d be a stupid gift but maybe she’d like it.”

“So, they’re still alive?” He hadn’t even known that much. The few times Yoongi’s mentioned the people who essentially adopted him, he’s always referred to them in past tense, and they’ve never come around the store they used to own. To be honest, he’d assumed they were dead, but the way Yoongi’s face tightens makes it obvious it’s not a happy story even if they’re alive.

“Malsoon is. Jihong… is not. About two and a half years ago he had a heart attack.” The small man swallows before continuing. “It took a long time, for it to... happen. Used up most of their money on medical bills before he died. Malsoon… she lost it. Not – she didn’t go crazy. I mean – she just stopped enjoying anything. She stopped drawing, stopped doing tattoos… And a few months later she decided to move. Said that she couldn’t bear to be where he used to be, feeling his ghost all the time.” His shoulders hunch. “They weren’t soulmates, but… they kind of were. They used to joke about giving each other bonded tattoos all the time, just through the sheer power of will… and maybe with the help of an irons – a tattoo machine, I mean. That was the joke, right?” The smile on his face is achingly sad, and it fades quickly. “Not soulmates, and his death still ripped something out of her. So she left the parlour to me... and then she was gone.”

He feels like he’s walking on the thin ice of Yoongi’s grief, but he’s not going to leave his friend stranded in a frozen field. “I’m sorry, Yoongi. So sorry. Do you two still talk?”

“Sometimes. A few times a year. Neither of us can really afford to fly out to visit each other, though, so it’s just shitty phone calls.” He hesitates, his eyes still on the wispy river. Eventually he admits, “I miss her. Both of them. Losing them, and then with all the other shit right after… It was a lot. After – after I did something stupid, the doctor said I needed to get out. Join the community. He knew Jin hyung, introduced us, and it kind of snowballed from there. Suddenly I was on a committee, I had shit to do, and feeling bad for myself wasn’t as easy.”

Yoongi doesn’t expand on what the other shit he mentioned is, or what stupid thing he tried to do, but it sends cold tendrils cascading across Hoseok’s skin, raising violent goosebumps. He can imagine well enough, and the thought makes a desperate, panicked breathlessness seize his throat. On impulse he reaches out, catches Yoongi’s hand in his own. “You got through it, though,” he says fervently, and even through the gloves it’s almost like he can feel his companion’s warm wave of gratitude. “You’re still here! And that’s – man Yoongi, that’s so cool. That’s not “just” anything; it takes strength to be where you are now. To keep tattooing and doing the thing you love for so many people.”

When Yoongi ducks his head, the motion is almost shy. “I couldn’t give it up,” he mumbles. “Jihong… he liked it so much. Malsoon too. Not just making shit, but the people, too, y’know? All their regulars, and hell, even the tenderfoots getting their first one. They liked getting it right, and they taught me that on top of everything else.”

He’s not sure what to say. “They sound like really awesome people.”

“They were,” Yoongi agrees simply. “Better than my parents ever were, too.” He doesn’t let go of Hoseok but runs his free hand through his hair. “You wanna keep walking?”

“Yeah. You gonna buy Malsoon that?” he asks with a nod at the fragile paper scene.

Yoongi is already turning away. “Nah,” he says, and the blatant effort to shrug off his emotions is heart rending. “It was a stupid idea, anyways.” Hoseok finds himself pulled away before he can protest, but he glances over his shoulder one last time before they’re on to the next stand.

Metal sculptures of twirling shapes, wood carvings of fiercely realistic animals, blown glass and copper etchings, oil paintings and shadow art, they blur by in an extended flash of breathless wonder and the more grounded reality of hesitantly traded thoughts and history. Threaded throughout their slow roaming, Hoseok pulls out confessions from Yoongi, things that make him wonder if it’s really possible to hurt so much for another person. Things about his parents and alcohol and raised fists and voices, things too bleak to look at head on. He can only point out everything Yoongi’s done since then, all of the incredible progress he’s made, and hope it’s enough.

In turn, in diffident spurts, he finds himself talking about his sister, who’s always been better than him in his parents’ eyes (and his own, too), about his parents themselves, growing further and further away. He talks about having money and never feeling like he actually wants what he buys, and how far that feeling set him apart from his family. Somehow, even as insignificant as they are to Yoongi’s troubles, the other man doesn’t make him feel shallow or weak for being hurt by them. The artist talks about how, out of all the emptiness Hoseok felt, he still managed to fill other peoples’ lives. About how much strength and kindness that would take. Somehow, Hoseok almost finds himself believing it.

They talk about lighter things, too. First crushes and last crushes and all the awkward dates in between. They laugh at stupid mistakes and great successes equally, and swap stories with an abandon that only grows as the night goes on. And somewhere between the lines Hoseok finds the answers he’s been looking for.

Yoongi doesn’t want to hope. He’s afraid to lose more than he already has. Hoseok’s never really had much of anything to be worth losing – until he met his friends – but he thinks he understands the tired man who trails along with him like a shadow. It’s part of the reason he’s always recorded things. It’s a lot easier to capture a moment, to make sure you don’t lose it on film, than to try and feel all the emotions in the moment itself. Easier to keep the distance of a lens between yourself, to admire instead of risk the chance of being hurt.

Hoseok’s learned something from all those videos, though, something he thinks he needs to help Yoongi learn. Nothing – not the most expensive camera in the world, not the best director in the business – can wholly capture some of the deeper emotions that permeate all of the greatest moments. That’s the challenge, the joy of filmmaking; striving for perfection in a world without it. But at the end of the day, removing yourself from those moments, from the emotion, it doesn’t make your own life better. It just takes all of the colour from it, until you’re standing there and the moment is gone and the only memories you have are grey.

Better to have a life of all the colours – even the painfully sharp ones – than to live in dull shading.

It’s hardly a lesson to put on a blackboard; it’s hardly a lesson that Hoseok’s even grasped or tried to live himself. It stays at the back of his mind, though, an unpolished resolution that someway, somehow, over the course of months or years, Hoseok’s going to give Yoongi that thing he’s so dearly missing.

He’s going to give him hope, and it’s not going to disappear.

By the time they get to Yoongi’s own display at the end of the street – and it takes them a good two hours, they’re moving so slowly – a deep weariness has curled up in Hoseok’s chest, the outpouring of emotion wearing him thin. Their conversation has slowly sloped off, into a quiet contemplation of every thought they each offer, though Hoseok still finds himself talking the most out of the two of them. The sight of the tattooist’s collection strikes him to a momentary enthusiasm, however, and he rallies his energies. There are a couple of people observing the tacked-up photos and sketches, and he and Yoongi wind around them.

The girl minding the station recognizes Yoongi right away and beckons him to join her. With a wry grimace, he relinquishes Hoseok’s hand and goes to see what she wants, while Hoseok takes a look at some of the examples of Yoongi’s work. As his companion predicted, he’s seen most of the pieces already, though here and there a dazzling new example jumps from its page. The bold lines are just as catching now, the hundredth time around, as they were the first time he was exposed to them, and he’s still vaguely appalled the artist doesn’t think his work is worthwhile.

One piece in particular catches his eye, and Hoseok wanders over to it. It’s strangely familiar, although he’s certain he’s never seen it before. A circular shape punctuated by outward flames, he supposes “round” isn’t an inaccurate description, but the gorgeous sun surely deserves more than that. It’s a glowing white at the center, though the colour is so thickly wrapped with oranges and reds and yellows that they blend together. As the sun erupts outwards, a halo of jagged light surrounding it, the tones don’t lose their bright intensity. The brilliance of the sketch is somewhat discomfiting to look at, and Hoseok finds himself fidgeting, transfixed in place until Yoongi comes back.

“This is your new tattoo?” Hoseok asks as soon as the artist appears.

Yoongi barely glances at it. “Yeah. One and the same. I’m afraid the guy who did it might have fucked up a bit though; I don’t know if the colours are going to be that bright.”

“It’ll be cool, won’t it? If they turn out that crazy intense?”

Shifting, looking like he wants to be elsewhere, Yoongi shrugs. “I guess. Takes a shit ton of work to get colours like that, though. Not everyone can manage to bring them out right.”

Hoseok shakes his head, blinking, trying to dislodge the melancholic feeling from his throat. There’s something depressing about the thought of the real thing being some pale imitation of this sun, never quite reaching its brilliant potential, and he’s not in the mood to be depressed. “I bet it turns out just like that,” Hoseok says firmly. “Better, even! It’s not like you chose some hack to do your tattoo, right?”

“Let’s see how it turns out,” Yoongi says, his lips twisting. “Then I’ll decide if they were a hack or not.”

The gallery area closes at ten, darkness pressing hard against the sheltered area of light, and they end up grabbing another round of hot drinks and sitting at one of the tables sporadically dotting Skymont. The crowds have thinned significantly, but neither of them wants to strike out into the open spaces. Hoseok’s not positive, but he thinks he sees Jimin at one point, walking in the distance with his hands full of bags. He’s even less sure, but he thinks Jimin sees him and Yoongi, too, and then precedes to flee as fast as his feet can take him in the opposite direction. His oldest friend had been thrilled when he’d heard Hoseok was going to meet with Yoongi, and had promised to kill anyone who tried to interrupt.

His pointed glower at Taehyung and Jungkook had been a little underwhelming, but Hoseok appreciated the sentiment all the same.

He and Yoongi don’t sit for very long before his companion shifts, gaze going to the sliver of moon shining through the patchwork of dark clouds. “Were you going to drive home?” he asks suddenly.

“That was the plan, yeah,” Hoseok says. “Although I had to park so far away with all of the people, it’s gonna take me like half a year to get to my car.” The complaint is good-natured – it’s not so cold out, and he doesn’t mind walking – but Yoongi’s lips thin, and he rubs at his ear, a telltale sign that he wants to say something.

The student lets him go about it in his own time, and, just as abruptly as the first time, he says, “Haven’t you drank too much? You could just stay at my place instead.”

Eyebrows jumping up, Hoseok’s eyes go uncertainly from his incredibly light drink – his second of the night, over the span of about three hours – and back to Yoongi. Who scowls. “You could just play along,” he grumbles, puffing out his cheeks. “Okay, fine. Do you wanna stay at my place?”

His petulance makes Hoseok grin, but he’s inordinately pleased with the offer, and doesn’t take the opportunity to tease. “Sure, that’d be good. Although I don’t have any clothes or whatever.”

Yoongi stands up. “S’fine. You can borrow some of my shit.” The logistical soundness of that plan notwithstanding – they’re not exactly on the same level, (literally) height-wise – Hoseok gets to his feet too, glad enough to go along with it. He’s too drained to feel particularly anxious or excited, but his contented gratitude hovers close to the surface, and a thought suddenly occurs to him.

“Do you wanna go on ahead? I just remembered I saw something my sis might like, and I wanna go buy it.”

“You can’t wait until tomorrow?” Yoongi asks quizzically.

“It’s not like we’re gonna be waking up early. What if it’s gone when we come back?” He’s not exactly a first-class liar, especially not about blatant stuff like this, and his smile feels more than a little forced.

Yoongi only stares at him for a moment longer before jerking his shoulders, so maybe he’s better than he thought. “Okay. I’ll leave the door open, so just come in.”

He turns to go and Hoseok calls loudly, “See you in a bit!” Maybe a bit too loudly – a few people nearby turn to look at the sound – and Yoongi flushes. The other man doesn’t quite manage to turn his grin into a scowl, though, and he actually waves after a brief hesitation. Then he’s walking away, and Hoseok waits until he’s a decent distance away before dashing off in the opposite direction.

Most of the gallery’s lights have been turned off, but some sellers are still around, packing up their art, and Hoseok is thrilled to see the man he needs is still there. They have a quick conversation, the man unpacks the piece Hoseok requests, and then Hoseok is reverently tucking it close to his body. He pays for it, says goodbye and is off, long strides eating up the pavement. His excitement is sailing through his nerves, eager with the prospect of seeing the look on Yoongi’s face, and it makes the walk down Skymont a short one.

Constantly moving, unable to contain the energy, he pushes into the Born Tiger, where lights are shining from the upstairs. Locking the door behind him, Hoseok bounds up the stairs and spills into the connecting hallways between the two spaces on this floor. The kitchen is empty, and he finds Yoongi laying out blankets and pillows on the couch in the living room. Caught by a brief fist of indecision, he halts just outside the room. Somewhat to his surprise, the familiar nervousness is stripped away almost as soon as it appears, just as soon as he reminds himself that Yoongi will appreciate this.

With that thought, he’s back in motion, his hand behind his back, and anyways, Yoongi notices him and straightens, head tilting. Eyes on Hoseok’s face, he asks, “What’re you grinning about?” and Hoseok realizes he is smiling, the unconscious gesture a dead giveaway that he has no control over. He doesn’t care, because without waiting for an answer Yoongi starts smiling too, and the look is too big to leave any room for discomfort.

He didn’t have any time to plan out a big speech, so Hoseok thrusts the boxed scene in front of him. It feels like his grin is going to break his jaw, and Yoongi’s reaction only makes his cheeks hurt more. The pale man freezes, mouth falling open, his face abruptly suffusing with colour, the stunned disbelief making Hoseok itch for a camera – although it’d be a shame to miss the immediacy of something as priceless as Yoongi’s expression. Even better, his smile doesn’t fade. It grows, wider and wider and more and more disbelieving, and it takes several moments before the artist accepts what Hoseok’s offering.

“Are you kidding me?” he mumbles, and though the question is largely rhetorical, Hoseok answers anyways.

“Nope! You’re gonna be able to give it to your Malsoon and she’ll probably fly over here just to thank you.”

Yoongi’s hands turn the little diorama around, and he can’t seem to rip his gaze from the gift. Nonetheless, there’s a rapid thrumming in Hoseok’s heart, and in turn he can’t look away from the stunned joy on the other man’s face. It feels like that same joy is flowing through his own blood, closing little hurts and straightening bent expectations, and it makes him want to be, specifically and exclusively, the reason the emotion continues. When Yoongi’s eyes begin to shine with unshed tears, only then does Hoseok turn away, letting his companion have that moment to himself.

The emotions don’t embarrass him – in fact, he’d rather embrace them – but he knows how Yoongi views tears. Instead he stares out the expansive windows, taking in the dark street and buildings that seem so far away right now. It doesn’t take the tattooist long to recover – he touches Hoseok’s elbow only half a minute later – and as Hoseok twists around he sees the tissue river set with perfect precision in the center of the coffee table. That doesn’t hold his attention.

Yoongi’s eyes are wet, but the light catches in them and softens their hard darkness into something muted and yielding. He licks his lips, licks them again, leaving a sheen, and Hoseok has to forcefully pull his gaze up. Yoongi doesn’t seem nervous, exactly, but he lingers over each word like he’s afraid of where they’ll lead. “…Thank you, Hobi. It’s such a cool gift. I – I don’t know how to pay you back.”

“You don’t owe me for it, Yoongi. You said you’d show me some great stuff tonight, and – well, you did. So we’re even.” His words are automatic, but they leave him unsatisfied, shifting, and he can’t quite figure out what it is he wants to say. He’s become used to the wire-thin tension between them, always and ever present, but it seems heavier now, like it’s pulling on him instead of just existing. Yoongi’s happiness was just too much, overflowing a glass that was filled to the brim already.

In a similar state, Yoongi drags his fingers over his neck in a constant, thoughtless motion. “Yeah. I just want…” The sentiment dies out, leaving them in frozen silence, and Hoseok has a sudden vision of them being stuck in this state forever, a candid photograph taken a few seconds too soon, capturing only the strain of consideration and never the release of choice. He could turn away right now, leaving the look in Yoongi’s eyes untouched, leaving them exactly as they are. A photograph, and nothing more than that.

Or he could do something else. Something like moving forward.

His thoughts have heated to a haze, but it doesn’t affect his coordination when he reaches out, gently slides his hand under Yoongi’s to rest against his neck, stilling the uncertain, delicate fingers. Beneath his light touch Yoongi’s skin is hot, and the temperature sinks into his palm and then travels up, searing his nerves along the way. The artist holds himself still, perfectly still, too still, and Hoseok finds himself leaning over to break up that apathy. He pauses – just for a second, just to give Yoongi the chance to pull away, dazedly certain it won’t happen –

And Yoongi closes the distance between them, and then they’re kissing.

If he makes a noise at all, it’s drowned by his heart, throbbing in his ears. If he breathes at all, it’s captured by Yoongi’s warm mouth, pressed hard against his own, and he cares less for oxygen than for eradicating the space between them. Yoongi’s arms encircle his back, pulling him nearer, and Hoseok cups Yoongi’s neck with one hand, his thumb steady on his jaw. His other hand tangles in the artist’s hair, pulling too roughly, but he has to get closer. The frantic need boils under every piece of skin that isn’t touching the other man.

Yoongi’s hands move with equal fervor as they curl into his back, and then they’re falling down to clutch Hoseok’s waist in a grip so tight it might have hurt if Hoseok remembered what pain felt like. They cling to each other and it still isn’t enough. As Yoongi’s tongue parts his lips, their breath mingles hot and wet and heaving, and Hoseok’s vision is tilting, slanting, spinning into a blur of colour that doesn’t disappear when his eyes close. His lungs are straining but he doesn’t remember air, he only remembers Yoongi, only remembers fitting against him like they were sculpted to be together, and it still isn’t enough.

His grip on Yoongi’s jaw becomes harsher, their lips pressing together so hard their teeth are cutting into each other’s skin, and he doesn’t know if he’s tasting his blood or Yoongi’s, if he’s breathing his own air or not, if it’s his heart shuddering in his chest or if he’s somehow stolen the tattooist’s. It all blends, sights and sounds, taste and touch, and over it all is the rush of their blood, thick and getting thicker. Under his closed eyelids, blazing streaks of light form and dart away, as quick as emotion, like thought, like he’s thinking – but it’s not just him, it’s Yoongi, too, and he can’t tell where his blistering desire begins and Yoongi’s fierce relief ends, and it’s finally, finally almost enough –

And Yoongi breaks away from him, suddenly and violently, and the duality is shattered like a dream, like a fantasy, like hope with no happy ending.

Hoseok lurches as his eyes snap open, his vision scattered with swirling spots, and he has a sickening impression that he’s – that he’s looking at himself, looking out from Yoongi’s eyes, but then he blinks and the impression is gone, leaving him bewildered. The artist has staggered a few steps away, is leaning against the couch, and their harsh panting can’t quite cover up the hollow sound of the space between them. He doesn’t feel – he’s not upset. Nothing even remotely like it. But it feels like his emotions have been heated to such a high point they’ve melted together, all the colours turning into a muddied brown. There are no sharp points to hold onto and so it all eddies together and slips away from him; even the burn in his groin flickers lower.

Exhaustion is an abrupt weight, personalized for each of his muscles, and Hoseok sags, runs his hand through his damp hair. They’re both regaining control of their gasping, and slowly Yoongi straightens, his skin glistening with sweat. Hoseok wearily prepares himself to be shut out, to have a wall put up in his face by word or look or gesture, but the artist doesn’t make any move to increase the distance between them. He doesn’t try to decrease it, either, but it’s still an improvement.

Eventually Yoongi speaks, his voice husky with the breath he hasn’t quite managed to catch yet. “We should have done that last Friday,” he says, startling a laugh out of Hoseok.

“It would have been better,” the student agrees. “Although…” Yoongi tilts his head inquisitively, and Hoseok grins. “We might have been kicked out after that.” He has no idea how long it lasted – time turned liquid within their kiss – but he has a feeling it was long enough to have attracted attention on the dance floor.

Yoongi smiles wanly. “Good thing I know most of the bouncers.”

Slowly his emotions are stretching out, finding themselves again, and an overwhelming sense of rightness is at the forefront. It’s like a pain he’s never noticed before, scarred into the tissue of his lungs, is gone, and now that it’s disappeared Hoseok can breathe like he’s supposed to. A lingering ache in his bones has replaced that pain – faint, a phantom sensation – but it’s nothing compared to the restless itch he could never scratch, the relentless pressure he could never escape.

He has no idea what the hell just happened. It’s not like he’s never kissed someone before, not by a long shot, but that was – what the hell was that? “Have you ever–” Hoseok begins, changes tack at the last second. “Did you feel that?” The answer is plain in their violent upheaval, in the sweat darkening Yoongi’s hair, but Hoseok needs to hear it from the man opposite him, a confirmation he’s not going crazy.

For a moment he thinks Yoongi is going to deny it, but then the artist raises a shaking hand, brushes it over his lips in a way that makes the fizzling fire deep in his core flicker stronger before fading again. “I felt it,” Yoongi says, drawing his fingers back and examining them like he expects them to be stained with something. There’s nothing there, and his gaze drifts over to Hoseok, an eyebrow tiredly arched. “What did I tell you, Hobi? Don’t need to be soulmates for there to be – whatever the fuck that was.”

Even as he laughs, the comment doesn’t sit quite right with Hoseok. He’s too tired to examine it carefully, though, and besides, the draining hasn’t stopped, pulling his memories of the kiss into an uncertain vortex. All that distinctly remains is the heat and the satisfaction, and he doesn’t want to question that too closely.

“So,” Yoongi says suddenly. “You think your soulmate’s out there somewhere, jealous as all hell?”

Hoseok meets his eyes – his tired, hopeful eyes – and shrugs. “I don’t think so. But if they are…” Each breath he takes is freer than the last, and Hoseok finds himself smiling faintly. “If they are, I don’t care.”

---

Hoseok is just as restless in sleep as he is awake. He twists and turns on the couch, so much so that Yoongi’s a little concerned he’s going to fall off, and his hands track across his body in brief, agitated swipes. He looks ridiculous in the oversized pants Yoongi had found at the bottom of his drawer, won from a contest years ago, though it’s not in a bad way. His mouth moves but nothing comes out – or at least nothing Yoongi can hear, a good few feet away, arms crossed and leaning against one of the room’s walls. He wants to move, to go do something – not sleep, sleep hasn’t come to him before one or two in the morning in years – but he stays where he is.

His lips are tingling, and it feels achingly good. He can’t say he hasn’t kissed someone recently, but that had left the taste of stale cigarettes and booze in his mouth; now something deeper lingers heavily on his tongue, sweetness and the rust of blood combined, a faded echo of their kiss. When he wipes his hand across his lips, it doesn’t do anything to dispel the sensation, and he wonders if it’s going to be there for however long he has left. He’s not sure if it’s a pleasant thought or not.

Yoongi would lie if someone confronted him, but he’s been thinking about doing that for as long as he’s known Hoseok. Hell, even before noticing the tattoo, the thought had darted through his head, there and gone because it wasn’t a desire worth holding on to. The kiss wasn’t a disappointment, and that’s an understatement Yoongi doesn’t know how to fix; his breath keeps catching and his heart has been spinning out of control for the last hour. He’d known it was going to be intense, but he’s been dealing with the bond for months now. He thought it couldn’t knock him off balance anymore.

Wrong.

If Hoseok is at all like him, the other man’s distinct memories of the moment are dwindling and mixing together into a flurry of pleasure and relief with nothing certain in between. It’ll be better that way. Yoongi’s not sure how he could explain that grain of sand, falling at last to the bottom of the hourglass, when they’d been more than together, more than two – when they’d been one and the same. He can barely even explain it to himself. He’s heard it doesn’t happen to every bonded couple – or even most of them – and the only thing he can guess is that the constant denial, the repression of the bond had led to that explosion of need that blurred the lines between them.

He hopes that’s it. He’s definitely not gonna be able to keep it together if it happens every time they kiss. Against the secret Yoongi has to keep, and against the pain knifing below his skin, the thought of kissing Hoseok again makes him smile.

It’s hot in the room, but then again, he also hasn’t taken his jacket off since getting here. With Hoseok safely asleep, he shrugs out of it, throws it over one of the sturdier, taller plants Seokjin gifted him. It sags – hyung would have a fit if he saw – but it’s not one of Yoongi’s concerns right now. His first is the sun on his arm, a sun which is still largely grey, but has been steadily gaining in colour since Hoseok saw his video yesterday. The center in particular is reverting back to the white-hot tones it’s supposed to have.

At least now, with his lie planted, he can stop hiding it so much. That’s been a pain in the ass this last while, constantly keeping his arm turned down, or covered up with clothes. Plus, Hoseok’s probably not knowledgeable enough to know there’s no way it could look so clear less than a week after being done; give it a few more days, and even if Hobi comments on it, he’ll claim he’s a fast healer. There’s a part of him that feels bad about the lie, but it’s nothing in the face of the collection of others, and he shrugs off his guilt exactly like he took off his jacket. Easily.

This night, though… He’s surprised how good it had felt to talk about his parents. About Jihong and Malsoon. These days lying comes as naturally to him as breathing, and telling the truth is the equivalent of forcing himself off a cliff with pointy rocks at the end of the fall. With Hoseok… the little truths, the ones he keeps jealously close to himself, those had rushed off his tongue like they were glad to leave. He’d planned on revealing some of his backstory, on giving a bit of honesty – he was pretty sure that was the only way to mend the break – but it hadn’t turned out like he’d planned. He’d given away almost everything. Almost too much.

Fuck, there’d been a point, when Hoseok had smiled for the hundredth time – encouraging and bright and blinding and just as sincere as the first – that he’d almost blurted out the truth. The big one, the one that would probably destroy the both of them.

That was dangerous. At first, Yoongi had kept it to himself simply because he wasn’t about to let some random stranger come swinging into his life to save the day, and he didn’t even know if Hoseok would, anyways. Now, though… God, he can’t even think about how hurt Hoseok would be if he found out. Besides, he almost has enough money. One more month should be enough. Who cares what they say, about urgency and “too little too late”? When have “experts” ever been right about any of that shit? They just want his money faster.

He’s good at lying to himself, too, but it doesn’t do much for the disquiet in his chest. Instead, Yoongi focuses on the little scene Hoseok bought for him. It’s peaceful, in a way that doesn’t really touch Yoongi, but he thinks Malsoon will like it. He hopes she will. It’s embarrassing how much he’d collapsed when his soulmate had proudly presented it. Call it a really rough night. Even worse, he’s pretty sure Hobi noticed. Actually, he’s positive he did. But Hoseok has that effect on him, assaults him with emotions he’d long ago buried, and grateful joy isn’t the least of them. His soulmate has a truly vexing ability to make him embrace all the things he shouldn’t, and as he watches Hoseok toss, he can’t even be annoyed about it.

Asleep, Hoseok is fucking beautiful. Oh, he is awake, too, but awake there’s always this little tension, this undercurrent of anxiety that all the fidgeting in the world can’t dismiss. When he sleeps, the energy remains, but it’s cleaner, more relaxed. Yoongi briefly entertains the notion of waking him up, of kissing him until he looks as secure awake as he does asleep. It’s an idle fantasy but a pleasant one, and he lulls himself with the lie that he could be that for Hoseok, that he could be the person who finally makes Hoseok feel right with himself.

Like Hoseok keeps trying to be for him.

“I’m not drunk,” he observes quietly, eyes watchful for any sign of Hoseok stirring. The other man doesn’t react to his voice, and he continues after a moment. “I guess that’s breaking a promise, but I don’t think it’s a big deal. This is pretty much cheating, anyways.” His breath starts seizing, like the very air in his lungs is reluctant to leave, but Yoongi keeps talking. “I said I’d tell you my secret, right? That was supposed to be a lie, but I just – I wanna say it, you know? I want you to know and I – fuck, you can’t. You can’t. But I wanna say it so fucking bad.”

The pressure on his eyes is threatening with tears; his voice is getting hoarse with the weight of them. God, he’s just been so – so by himself. So alone. He could never dream of imposing on Seokjin and Namjoon’s happiness, whining like a spineless fuck to them, and even now, even with his soulmate right in front of him, he’s still alone. In this quiet, pathetic moment, he wants to wake up the wiry man on the couch. He wants to share the weight, because he’s just that much of a selfish son of a bitch.

Except he’ll regret it right away. He’ll regret it as soon as Hoseok’s sleepy smile disintegrates. He’ll hate himself as grief and anger replaces all of the happiness they could have had. Isn’t it better this way? He’d rather enjoy whatever time there is between them and try to get Hobi used to a life where he supports himself just as much as he supports everyone around him. That’ll be Yoongi’s goal for the next few months, to have the sun in his life so bright he’s even bright enough for himself. That’s a good goal. Fuck, even his parents couldn’t spit on him for it.

The sun is down right now, though, the moon his only witness, and there are too many words in Yoongi’s chest to contain them all. He edges closer, careful steps and broken thoughts, and kneels next to the couch. “Hoseok?” he asks, even more softly than before, and this time Hobi twitches in his sleep, twitches but doesn’t quite escape. “I’m sorry I can’t tell you this for real. I hope you can forgive me, and – fuck. It’s – it kind of sucks, you know? Because I feel so stupid, but I think I actually love you and – how do you even say something like this? I don’t know. I just –”

His throat closes, and his eyes do, too, and Yoongi has to drag out each syllable, jagged, painful, blunt. “I have cancer. Surprise, right? Can’t afford any of the treatment or – I almost can, now, thanks to you. But – I dunno. I had an appointment this week, and – fuck, they use so many fucking terms, I can’t remember it now. They – the doctor said it’s changed. Not for the better, that doesn’t happen, right? It’s gotten worse. She said it might even be too late or – or something. That’s probably bullshit, but – fuck, I hope it is. It’s just… I’ve felt so shitty lately. I was supposed to have time, but the doctor said – well, should I even fucking care what she said? She was so wrong that I–”

Hoseok twists restlessly, the sound loud enough to make Yoongi’s eyes open, darting to the troubled face of the still-sleeping man. There’s no relief in his heart – he’s selfish enough that he almost wishes he’d dragged his soulmate out of his peaceful rest – but the crease on Hoseok’s brow makes him quiet himself. His hand reaches out, hovers for a moment before gently, carefully brushing back the fringe of hair from his soulmate’s forehead. His fingers skim across Hoseok’s skin, and slowly the worried lines smooth away, until there’s nothing but relaxation left.

“I was going to tell you,” he says, and the pressure is too much, it’s driving out the tears in silent rivulets down his face. It only gets worse, a horrible weight on his lungs, and he can barely breathe. “After we fought, I decided that we – that I couldn’t take it anymore, that I’d… But – but –” Yoongi chokes, can’t get the words out until several heaving moments have passed and the grip on his throat loosens faintly. “Now I can’t. Not if I can’t get – if I’m not gonna get better. I’m sorry, Hoseok. So fucking sorry.”

He can’t wrestle with the suffocating grief anymore and Yoongi breaks off, hunched over, his hands braced against his thighs. He lets the tears fall, takes deep, shuddering breaths to keep himself from shattering into sobs. It’s a skill he’s had since he was a kid. It takes time, but eventually the splintered pieces quit stabbing him so hard, leaving the usual dull ache. Yoongi teeters to his feet, hands clenched into fists, and looks down at Hoseok for a minute or a moment or a meaningless eternity. At least his soulmate is okay. At least Hoseok can only get better from here.

That’s the only thought keeping him together, and the artist repeats it over and over as he puts his jacket on and quietly leaves the studio. He’s not going to be able sleep, and he doesn’t want to risk waking Hoseok up. The solitary night isn’t a friend, but it is an old companion, and it surrounds him as he walks out into the darkness. He’s running away, but not for long.

He’ll be back when the sun rises.

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