Chapter Text
“I’m getting married today.”
Namjoon blinks at himself in the mirror, a momentarily stunned look in his wide eyes, before an enormous radiant smile breaks out on his face, dimples deepening on his lower cheeks. “Oh, my God. Ohmygodohmygodohmygod. Oh, my God.”
“Hey, calm down,” laughs Seokjin, setting down on the side table a tray on which sit a cup of tea, two slices of toast and an omelette. “You just woke up, no need to get into such a frenzy…”
“Oh, my God, Hyung,” says Namjoon again, turning around to face him. His hair is wild and messy, sticking up in a hundred different directions, pajama top still wet from when he’d let nervous excitement get the better of him and accidentally turned the bathroom tap too hard, and Seokjin has to fight the urge to giggle outright, laughter bubbling like warm sunshine in his chest. Namjoon looks ridiculously small, perched on the dressing table like an eager seven-year-old, and it takes Seokjin a great deal of effort to remember that his brother is a full-grown man now, spending his days doing all kinds of serious adult stuff -- working a full-time job, paying electricity bills, drinking the occasional beer on a sultry Sunday afternoon.
Getting married.
“Eat your breakfast, kid,” he says, smiling, affection drawn into the lines of his face, eyes crinkling in amusement. “You gotta keep those nerves of yours in check. We don’t want you throwing up all over Hobi…”
“I’m getting married,” whispers Namjoon, climbing down from the dressing table and plopping himself down on the bed again. Outside, the sun slowly climbs the cornflower morning sky, spilling its soft golden warmth onto the world and filtering into the bedroom through the violet ivy that shrouds the wall, the white curtains that hang by the window swaying serenely in the morning breeze. They had planted it together, that ivy, back when their father was still alive and their mother was happier, and it has grown with them and seen them through days of sun and storm. Seokjin rather thinks he owes a lot of his existence – and, in a way, his livelihood -- to that creeper. It has taught him sturdiness and strength and hope, if not constancy.
“How do you feel?” he asks.
“Crazy,” says Namjoon, happily munching on his toast, a soft, very becoming sparkle in his eyes, voice low and mellow and perfectly content. He smiles shyly up at his brother, bread crumbs sticking to the side of his lips, and Seokjin instinctively reaches forward to brush them off. “I still can’t believe you’re getting married,” he laughs, playfully punching at Namjoon’s shoulder, soul brimming over with happiness. “Look at you, you’re a baby!”
“I’m twenty-six, Hyung,” says Namjoon, affronted. “I’m an adult!”
“Nope,” disagrees Seokjin, settling down with the one of the pillows that lay strewn over the bed. He smiles at the man before him in a way that presses all the worry lines out of his face, scattering the endless night sky of his kind eyes with sparkling stars. “You’re still my little baby brother.”
There’s a pause as they regard each other quietly, both of them aware how these little moments of warm, sincere silence between them were hard to come by, before Namjoon rolls his eyes in mock annoyance. “Just for today,” he mumbles, but the smile seeps into his words, childish and innocent and gloriously happy, and Seokjin feels his heart bloom.
.
.
.
“Did Hobi hyung call yet?” asks Taehyung, propping up a vase of pink carnations on the dining table. Around him, the house buzzes with life, friends and family pouring in and out of its doors in a steady, relentless trickle, and Seokjin hasn’t had a moment’s peace since morning. He supposes he kind of asked for it – it was on his suggestion, after all, that Namjoon and Hoseok were getting married in his country villa, and not some fancy church in the heart of Seoul. “You deserve some rest. Peace and quiet will do you good,” he’d said to them, fully aware of how hard they’d had to struggle for acceptance all these years, and Hoseok had absolutely adored the idea, hanging onto Namjoon’s arm and wheedling at him to say yes. “Think about it, Joon-ah,” he’d said happily, eyes bright and glowing with all the dreams he had ever harboured of the future. “A wedding in the country! It’ll be glorious!”
So Namjoon had said yes, and now Seokjin is best man.
“Not yet,” says Jungkook, going around the table carefully placing name cards next to plates. “They should be here soon, though -- didn’t Namjoon hyung say they were supposed to leave Seoul by nine-thirty?”
“There’s some business of picking up their best man from his apartment,” says Seokjin, wondering if the daffodils on the mantelpiece needed more water, and finally deciding that they didn’t. “He was supposed to return from America last night, Hobi said they’d pick him up on their way here. Namjoon did tell me he reached Seoul alright…”
“Talking about Yoongi hyung?” asks Namjoon, walking into the room with only one sock on. “Yeah, he and another friend of theirs are coming with Hobi. I can’t find my other sock – Jungkook, why are you working?!”
“I want to help!” exclaims Jungkook, hurriedly shoving the name cards behind his back, cheeks turning bright pink. “You’ve all been on your feet since morning, it’s only fair –”
“You are a guest,” Namjoon says sternly, glaring at Taehyung in disapproval. “Honestly, Tae, I told you to make sure your friend was comfortable –”
“Ah, don’t worry, Joonie hyung,” Taehyung grins cheekily at his cousin before pointedly winking at Jungkook. “Jungkookie doesn’t mind working, do you, Kook-ah? Didn’t Mama Jeon tell you to make yourself useful?”
Jungkook rolls his eyes at Taehyung, a reluctant yet fond smile playing at the corner of his mouth. “Really, Hyung. I want to help,” he says again, waving his cards in the air and determinedly nodding his head at Namjoon. “Seokjin hyung is so busy – and why are you out of your room already?! I thought the groom wasn’t supposed to make an appearance until the groom arrived!”
“I can’t find my other sock,” wails Namjoon desperately, pointing at his sock-deprived foot and latching on to Seokjin’s arm. “Come help me look for it, Hyung, I can’t let Hobi and Yoongi hyung see me like this!”
“Shouldn’t Hobi be used to this by now?” laughs Seokjin, extricating his arm from Namjoon’s grasp to pat him sympathetically on the shoulder. “He’d better get ready for some intense domestic life, if he hasn’t already! But I suppose that boy must be braver than the US marines, marrying you…”
Taehyung laughs as Namjoon playfully shoves at Seokjin, and suddenly the telephone in the hallway rings. “That must be Hobi,” squeaks Namjoon, rushing to answer it, the back of his neck flushed a warm cherry red.
Seokjin follows him into the hallway, faintly making out the wry buzz of static from the other end before Namjoon hangs up. “That was Yoongi hyung,” he says happily, throwing an arm around Seokjin’s shoulders as they walk out into the front yard, the poor lost sock forgotten. “He and Jimin-ssi met up with Hobi, they’ll be here in less than two hours,” he confirms, running an appreciative eye over the decorations that furnish the lawn. Rows of golden chairs have been set up on two sides, the aisle that Hoseok is to walk down scattered with rose and daffodil petals, white-and-golden banners separating the makeshift altar from the seats. The arch above it is flowered and blooming, golden streamers embroidering the delicate poles that hold it up, ribbons tied together in big bows by its iron edges. Seokjin had offered to take charge of the décor himself, planning every refreshment table on the lawn and every golden bauble that hung from the tree branches to the minutest detail, and everyone had agreed that he surpassed himself. Namjoon turns in a slow circle, letting his eyes rest on every inch of the garden and drinking in every intricate detail, honey-glazed face glowing with admiration.
“I still can’t believe you did all this by yourself.”
Seokjin waves his hand, dismissive. “It was nothing,” he says warmly. “I told you, you deserve a break. Both of you.”
Namjoon smiles, dimples pressing into his sun-kissed cheeks. “Thank you, Hyung. I really appreciate it,” he says shyly, reaching up to gently touch one of the flower ribbons that hang from the arch under which he is to recite his vows. The arch is a personal favourite of Seokjin’s garden, built with love and delicately dotted with all his beloved blossoms. Clusters of white gladioli adorn its borders, weaving their way inwards to blend into a festa of colours that would make a rainbow blush.
Namjoon takes a deep breath, words spilling out of his mouth before he can stop himself. “I’m really happy, Hyung.”
Seokjin smiles, fond. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” says Namjoon, stepping back to look up at the arch. “I really love him, you know.”
“Don’t get all sappy in my garden now,” huffs Seokjin, laughing at the disgusted look that his brother throws at him. “Yah, don’t be mean, Hyung,” comes the petulant reply, Namjoon’s bottom lip pushing out in affronted pout. “When you fall in love with someone, you’ll understand. And then you won’t blame me!”
As though on cue, time stops, and a hysterical bubble of panic rises in Seokjin’s chest, rushing to his brain and erasing his cheeks of heat. For a brief, jolting second, he feels strangely lost, suddenly transported back in time to the ghost of Namjoon’s small hand pressed tightly into his, and an all-too-familiar voice screaming in the distance.
He tries to swallow it down – as always – and lock it away at the back of his mind – as always – deep inside the dark alleyways of miserable, depraved memory that he doesn’t care to visit anymore. “I guess we’ll see,” he murmurs nonchalantly, shrugging his broad shoulders in an expression of unconcerned dismissal and trying to hitch the smile back on his face. Namjoon seems not to have noticed, however, too busy inspecting the merrily-bubbling chocolate fountain. “Hyung, this is awesome!” he exclaims happily, and Seokjin tries his best to get his heart to beat and for his breathing to return to normal again, desperately casting his mind around for a new subject to talk about.
He doesn’t have to search for long.
“So, have you met this Yoongi before?” he asks, trying to sound as offhand as possible.
“Yoongi hyung?” asks Namjoon, still admiring the fountain, and Seokjin is thankful his brother doesn’t see the red slowly ebbing from his face. “No, I’ve never met him, but I sure am looking forward to. He’s an excellent photographer.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, he works for some hotshot agency in the States, but Hobi says he’s more of a freelancer, if you know what I mean. Takes off for a few days and nobody has any clue where he’s gone, or even when he’ll be back… he’s a wild sort, Hobi says. Emails his photographs sometimes. I’ve seen them, they really are something.”
“Sounds fascinating.”
“I’m sure he is,” laughs Namjoon, finally straightening up to look at Seokjin again. His smile is warm and infectious, eyes nearly brown under the mild springtime sun, and Seokjin wonders if any of this is worth it.
He thinks of how happy his brother has been recently, and how he deserves it after all those terrible years of pointless, unnecessary trepidation, and he wonders if it would ever be worth it to acknowledge and let himself own something similar to the pure joy that has been fuelling Namjoon’s blood for the last few months. He thinks of the many things he doesn’t know and has told himself he mustn’t have, what he can bring himself to confirm and what he doesn’t dare to trust, and he wonders if confronting his truth – and his fears – in the world that he has made his own is supposed to be this hard.
He thinks of the promises he’s made, to all people he has ever cared for, to his brother and to his mother, and to himself – promises he has battled to keep unbroken all these years, pricking at his conscience whenever he sits down to write, and he remembers how he can’t bring himself to anymore. Namjoon doesn’t know, cannot know, and will probably never guess, but when Seokjin thinks of his life, all he sees now is his work table, strewn with blank manuscript pages and inkpots sealed back with wax, his laptop discarded and gathering dust on top of a cabinet he doesn’t open anymore, his favourite typewriter lying silent and unused for immeasurable months now. He thinks of the books he’s written and all the effort they’d taken to write, and he thinks of the stories he’s told, locked in once-lifeless pages with bits of himself embedded into every line and every word and every mark of punctuation, famous and bestselling and beloved and not real, and he wonders if anything about his life since has ever been real at all.
.
.
.
Yoongi has spent all his days knowing he doesn’t belong.
He tries and he fails, every time, each cell in his body crying for redemption, for answers to questions he doesn’t know how to put into words and can only feel deep within himself, in the paths he tries not to traverse too intensely for fear of losing himself in their unknown, maddeningly familiar darkness. He tries to fit in, to mould himself into the binds of the life he leads, tries to narrow his expectations and remember what he can and cannot have, what is his and what isn’t, what he can ask for and what he must only regard from afar. He tries and he fails.
“Hyung, I’m so happy,” sighs Hoseok contentedly from next to him, snapping him out of his reverie and drawing his attention away from all the verdure they have been driving through. Shrubbery adorns the edges of the quaint cobbled roads, opening beyond to vast fields of green and grain, high grass swaying lazily in the morning breeze. Trees that he doesn’t know the names of are strewn over the hills, and Yoongi wonders why it has never crossed his mind to just give up his life and his job in the States to come and photograph the splendour of Korea’s countryside for the rest of his life.
Jimin whips around to grin at them from the passenger seat, freshly-dyed ebony hair shining gold in the rays of the sun. “You’ve said that about a hundred times already, and we only just got here!” he says mischievously, drawing back with a chuckle when Hoseok reaches forward to smack at his head. “Don’t be cheeky, Park Jimin,” Hoseok says, wagging a finger at him in stern disapproval. “Any more sass from you and I’ll take back my invitation!”
“You didn’t invite me, I invited myself,” sniggers Jimin, narrow frame heaving with a mad fit of giggles as he straightens in his seat. “Besides, you know you won’t, Hyung. You love me too much.”
“Give your Hyung a break, Jiminie, I think he’s entitled today,” says Yoongi, smiling at the way Jimin clutches at his stomach and falls onto the car door to support himself, body shaking with helpless laughter. Next to him, Hoseok makes a noise that lies between a snort of disgust and a sigh of resignation, and Yoongi chortles as he looks out of the window again, letting himself drown in the familiarity the both of them bring. He’d missed this back in the States, what with Hoseok here in Seoul, battling for acceptance and existence, and Jimin miles away in New York, pursuing his degree. He’d had nothing but photography, depending on his camera’s lens and the adrenaline that the unfamiliarity of America’s wilderness brought, living with a wild sort of reckless abandon, knowing he was never home no matter where he breathed. The forests and the waters and the animals of the dark seemed to understand him in a way he hadn’t been in a long while.
Hoseok and Jimin helped, though, in ways indescribably themselves. Yoongi thinks this is what he had probably missed the most, Hoseok’s eternal hope and infectious happiness, unwavering still despite the many hardships Yoongi knows he’s had to face, and Jimin’s overflowing affection, making them laugh till their stomachs ached. It was an existence he didn’t know how much he’d needed till it was gone, and the full force of his loneliness would hit him in all sorts of unholy, melancholic hours, when all he wanted was to look for somewhere – anywhere – that would feel like his own and would welcome him whole-heartedly -- if only he knew where to go.
But being back home was – it was good. It felt good, in a way, the familiarity not his entirely, but unassuming and peaceful and so unlike Washington that it made his heart sing. Not with joy, nor regret, nor expectation – just with a quiet sense of freedom that he knows he has lived far too long trying to find. A part of him tells him he has tried too hard.
He has failed.
The twin chimneys of a dust-red villa rise into view above the trees in the distance, and Hobi squeals in excitement. “There it is,” he says, grabbing Yoongi’s elbow tightly, warm colour flooding his cheeks, and the palpable joy in his voice has Yoongi smiling up at the villa as they approach it.
“Guess this really is it, huh?” laughs Jimin, turning around to look at Hoseok, all the childish mischievousness washed clean out of his face, now warm and rosy and glowing with affection. “Come on, Hobi hyung. Let’s go get you hitched.”
.
.
.
The wedding is perfect. The spring sky is a beautifully placid azure, mellow and kind and graceful, and the flowers in the garden seem to blush under the sincerity of Namjoon and Hoseok’s vows. They become husbands amidst tears and laughter, much professions of love and just as many promises of happiness, the guests cheering loudly and demanding kisses that they bestow on each other more than gratefully. Seokjin smiles like a proud father all through the wedding and the cool black-haired hyung from America snaps away with his camera at every opportunity he gets after the ceremony. Hyejin sings Chapel of Love, Jackson hyung nearly proposes to her on the spot, and San and Wooyoung challenge the newlyweds to a dance battle that has Namjoon hyung on the ground in less than ten minutes, clutching at his side in helpless laughter as Hoseok hyung suggestively wiggles his hips at him.
Taehyung thinks he would have had incredible fun, laughed lots, and maybe even cried some if he hadn’t more pressing concerns on his mind.
“Can you stop vibrating?!” bursts out Jungkook finally, smacking his forehead in despair as they hover by the fountain, Taehyung nervously trying to get a better look at Yoongi hyung’s current photographic conquest. “If you like him so much, why don’t you just go talk to him?”
Jimin’s eyes briefly flick over to where they stand, moving away again to Yoongi’s camera as soon as they land, and Taehyung colours instantly, cheeks turning beet red.
Jungkook sniggers. “Very nice, Hyung. So subtle.”
“Shhh!” whispers Taehyung loudly, grabbing at Jungkook’s hand and steering him away towards the groves that grow some way behind the villa. “What are you screaming so loudly for, you brat? Now he’s going to think I’m a creep!”
“Well, you kind of were acting like one,” says Jungkook helpfully, digging into his third slice of wedding cake. “Really, Hyung, it’s not a big deal. Just go talk to him, he won’t eat you up. He looks too nice.”
“Ah, I can’t –” begins Taehyung uncomfortably, when Seokjin’s voice cuts through the air. “There you are, Taehyung-ah, I’ve been looking for you everywhere! Quick, it’s group photo time!”
“Here’s your chance, dumbass,” Jungkook whispers conspiratorially into Taehyung’s ear. “Go stand next to Jimin-ssi, and for God’s sake, don’t be so obvious!”
“You’re coming with me, spawn of Satan,” grumbles Taehyung, dragging his friend by the hand towards the arch, under which the others wait expectantly. Jimin’s cheeks are dusted fairy pink, the tips of his high cheekbones scattered with faint brown stars as he smiles shyly at Taehyung, and his eyes are wide and hopeful. The smile grows broader when Taehyung heads over to stand next to him.
Jungkook pretends to gag on his cake. “Gross.”
.
.
.
In all fairness, Yoongi hadn’t been planning on this.
His job was to be the best friend. Hoseok’s best man. The quiet, mysterious stranger from America. The photographer for after the ceremony, the one who was supposed to act as though he was delighted to meet the guests, indulge in small talk about the weather, insist on taking a picture or two for the wedding album, and then promptly remember that he would never see them again in all his life. The one who knew he would be a hundred times better off by himself, mingling only when necessary, watching Jimin and the charming young cousin from Daegu hit it off almost immediately after Namjoon and Hoseok are properly married, and laughing at their youthful shenanigans -- sprightly, boisterous, and absolutely devoid of any hint of shame.
The man who walked into every wedding he was ever invited to with a quiet sort of bemusement, wondering if the kind of understanding needed between two people to marry in the first place was something that he believed in at all.
Didn’t love mean to belong? To someone, somewhere? Anywhere, as long as it was home? Perhaps because it was home?
Yoongi has never belonged.
But, as a rule, Yoongi has also never harboured any particular aspiration for all the life lessons he has ever picked up to blatantly backfire in his face.
And so, naturally, he hadn’t been planning on this. He hadn’t been planning on accepting Hoseok’s invitation to dance, hadn’t been planning on getting carried away by Jimin’s admiring shouts of encouragement, hadn’t been planning on – somehow – ending up slow dancing to his favourite song ever – with Namjoon’s best man.
But then, he hadn’t been planning on a lot of things.
Technically, Spring Day wasn’t a song meant for weddings. It was a ballad about loneliness, missing somebody so desperately that it felt like being trapped in eternal winter, one that never seemed to end – not really appropriate for a wedding. But it was Yoongi’s favourite song, one that echoed in his soul, the first he ever felt mirrored his own heart. He couldn’t explain it really, would only say the intensely poetic lyrics and the vivid imagery they conjured offered him comfort in ways he didn’t have words enough to describe, hitting on a deeply personal level when he compared them to the unending search for that evasive something that his own life had grown to become, even if a part of him had given up looking for answers entirely. He knew wasn’t missing someone so much as missing something, something that seemed to exist just beyond his reach, tantalizingly close and haunting – and the solution to everything he felt was wrong.
It was his song.
But Seokjin danced gracefully, his movements fluid and easy to keep up with, and Yoongi thinks maybe, just maybe, perhaps this once – he could share.
“You dance well,” says Seokjin to him a few hours later, when they run into each other again by the champagne table. Outside, the gilded chariots of Apollo escort the sun to set behind the trees that dot the far horizon, the sky painted gold and purple, flecks of orange tracing cotton candy clouds. The French windows of the villa’s living room open into Seokjin’s garden, bathed in the pastel shades that roll off the edges of the sun and sky.
Yoongi squints up at Seokjin, porcelain cheeks rosy from the champagne. “You, too.”
Seokjin smiles. “We still haven’t officially met,” he laughs, taking a step closer, and Yoongi notices that the red flush on Seokjin’s face works down his neck to his collarbones, under his white shirt. “I’m Seokjin. Namjoon’s brother.”
Yoongi shakes the hand offered to him. Seokjin’s fingers are long and crooked, but his hand is warm and its reassuring press is solid in his own.
“I’m Yoongi.”
“I know,” says Seokjin softly. His eyes are bright under the golden light of the crystal chandelier, hair falling over his forehead in dark ocean waves, and Yoongi feels a sudden, unexplainable urge to simply reach out and sweep his fringe out of the endless night of his twin ebony orbs.
The dancing was a bad idea.
Following it up with champagne was worse.
“So, I hear you’re a photographer,” says Seokjin, oblivious to the faint warmth spreading in Yoongi’s chest. His voice tilts up into a question, the ghost of a smile playing on the corner of his plush lips.
Yoongi grins. “I’m alright,” he says, suddenly shy. Under the light of the chandelier, Seokjin seems to be glowing, illuminated by an aura of radiant gold that makes him look soft and comfortable – comfortable enough for Yoongi to want to grab his hand and ask him to dance again.
Seokjin laughs. “I hear you’re more than alright,” he says. “You’ll have to show us your photographs someday.”
Yoongi doesn’t have much time to mull over Seokjin’s statement. His thoughts are interrupted by a loud whooping from the other side of the room, accompanied by an enthusiastic smattering of applause and an embarrassed groan. “Time for the couple to dance!” comes Taehyung’s voice, joyful and clear, and Yoongi peers behind Seokjin to see Namjoon sitting in an armchair by the fire with his face buried in his hands, Jungkook and Jimin laughing as Hoseok sheepishly stands to accept.
“Hey, Yoongi hyung, why don’t you play for us?” asks Jimin, nodding in the direction of the piano that stands in the centre of the living room. “Everybody’s gone home, it’s just family now. Go on.”
“Aww, yes, Hyung, we haven’t heard you play in years!” Hoseok exclaims, nodding in approval, a warm smile spreading on his face. It seems to have no effect on Namjoon, however, because he makes a noise similar to a strangled cough that has Jungkook and Taehyung dissolving into peals of laughter, clutching at their stomachs and collapsing onto the ground.
“Alright, alright, but only because I love you guys,” Namjoon huffs, finally giving in and standing to join his husband at the centre of the living room floor.
“Don’t try to kid us, it’s because you love Hoseok hyung,” says Jimin loudly. “That’s okay, hyungies, nobody’s going to tease you today, right, boys?” he asks the two youngest, who are too caught up wiping away tears of mirth to grace him with an answer.
“For God’s sake, Yoongi hyung, come and play for us before I make a fool of myself and chicken out in front of the kids,” cries Namjoon desperately, Hoseok pressing his forehead to his shoulder and shaking with uncontrollable laughter in his arms.
Yoongi sets down his glass on the champagne table and nods at Seokjin in farewell. He walks across the room to the piano, convinced that the dusting of fairy pink that had bloomed on Seokjin’s cheeks was merely a trick of the light.