Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Come, and trip it as ye go, on the light fantastic toe

And in thy right hand lead with thee, the mountain-nymph, sweet Liberty.

(John Milton -  L'Allegro)

Yoongi is annoyed.

It was the first thought that had crossed his mind as he opened his eyes—just one distant rumble of an engine was enough to pierce his ears, blending into the deafening gray of an early morning. London was presenting itself once again, cold and sullen, making it painfully clear that, today, he would be terribly, unbearably annoyed. More than usual, that is. Annoyed and overwhelmed by every single thing that felt out of place in his life.

He woke up annoyed, took a shower annoyed, got dressed annoyed, made himself a coffee—annoyed.

And now, here he is, sitting in his living room, staring, gloomier than usual, at his roommates—the very embodiment of love, the happiest couple in the world and all that—all smiles and kisses as they put up a damn Christmas tree right in the middle of the room.

It’s supposed to be a quiet Sunday. But Yoongi is annoyed.

Slouched on the couch, his beanie pulled down so low it covers his forehead and eyebrows, he grips his mug of coffee—piping hot, almost burning his fingers. And yet, he holds on.

Seokjin turns to him, one eyebrow arched, the hint of a smile playing on his lips. He’s far braver than Namjoon, Yoongi has to give him that. Namjoon, on the other hand, watches him with the wary look of someone bracing for an imminent meltdown.

"Not gonna help us?"

Yoongi scoffs. "I'm not Christian, last time I checked."

Seokjin laughs. "Neither are we."

Yoongi exhales, slow and heavy. "It's the first time you're doing this..." he mutters, barely more than a whisper.

The house belongs to all three of them, and he knows it well. He’s not the only one who gets to decide how it should look, what can and should be moved, what little changes might make the space feel better—he’s not the only one. They all pay the bills, he and his two old friends. He knows this. But he can’t stop thinking about how this is the first time they’ve done something like this - done something without asking. Made a decision without him.

He’s annoyed because he’s afraid. He’s not naive enough to not realize that. Afraid of being left behind.

Maybe this tree—this stupid tree—is the first step. Maybe in exactly five minutes, one of them will turn to him and say, Yoongi, listen… we want to live together now, just the two of us. Maybe it’s time for you to find new roommates. You know, split the rent with someone else. And sort out the mess in your head, while you’re at it. You know how it is—we’re thirtysomething now. No hard feelings.

He’s annoyed because he’s terrified. That’s all there is to it.

Namjoon sighs. He drops onto the couch beside Yoongi, setting down the box of decorations with little care. “Look how cute these are. Most of them are blue, just how you like it.”

Yoongi glances out of the corner of his eye but, just as quickly, he looks away.

"Okay, I’m kidding." Namjoon clears his throat. "You’re right, we should’ve asked you first. We just thought… I don’t know, wanted it to be a surprise. Something different, for a change.”

For a change. There is absolutely nothing Yoongi wants to change about his life. Not a single thing. Not his job, not the only friendships he has, and certainly not his damn home. Definitely not for this, Christmas decorations on the first of December. None of them had ever really celebrated Christmas back in Korea, and he never imagined he'd have to do it here, nearly on the other side of the world.

Seokjin smiles. Yoongi would rather not look at him—really, he would—but he can’t help it. He locks eyes with Seokjin’s, partly as a challenge to himself, and the longer he stares, the wider Seokjin’s smile grows in response.

“We’ll make it all blue, how about that? With blue and silver lights, since that’s what we got. What do you think?" Seokjin chuckles. "Come on, don’t look at me like that. We just thought we’d lighten the mood… especially since there’s something else we need to tell you.”

There it is. So it wasn’t all in his head. They are moving in together. Or maybe they’re about to tell him to find somewhere else to stay—it would only be the natural course of things, really. Sure, they rented this apartment together, but he’s always had the feeling it belonged to them more than it ever did to him.

They are together. And he is alone.

On those nights when he just knows—they don’t need to say anything, he just knows - that they need a moment to themselves, he retreats to his room. Or leaves the house altogether. He wanders through Brixton on those nights, toying with the idea - that never carries out - of walking all the way to Vauxhall and hopping on a bus, any bus, just to go as far away from their home as possible.

But he never does. He always ends up just circling the same streets, stopping for a drink at a pub, watching strangers chat and laugh, soaking in a kind of happiness that feels light-years away from him. So out of reach. So foreign to him. He waits then. Hours pass this way—until exhaustion wins, until the pull of his room, his own little pocket of solitude, becomes impossible to resist.

Namjoon had once called him out on it. He had waited for him at home, a cup of tea in his hands and another sitting on the kitchen table for him. “If you’re doing it for us, really, you don’t have to,” he had said. “This is your home too, Yoongi.” Yoongi had just shrugged. He hadn’t even known what to say.

It’s his home, too.

But it’s theirs a little more. Theirs, because they love each other, because they live for each other. Because they put up with and take care of each other every day.

He is the third wheel. A temporary decoration, just like this tree. A comma, and they are the period. A leaf, and they are the whole tree. A small wave, destined to crash, and they are the entire ocean.

All of it.


An endless, beautiful ocean, deep as petroleum blue.

“Yoongs.” Namjoon’s hand presses gently on his knee, the one that won’t stop bouncing. “What’s wrong?” His voice is careful, searching. “If you really hate it that much, we’ll take the tree down.”

“Huh?” Yoongi lets out a short, tired laugh. “What? It’s not about the tree. Can I smoke, at least?”

Seokjin sighs. “If you have to ruin yourself, go ahead. Just open the damn window.”

Namjoon opens it for him, quicker than necessary, with the obvious need to do something. The rush of cold air makes Yoongi feel a little better. A sliver of wind, the slow burn of smoke filling his lungs—it’s enough to momentarily quiet his thoughts. Namjoon disappears for a second and comes back with an ashtray, placing it in front of him on the coffee table.

They’d made a rule—no smoking in the house. But the ashtray had stayed, for emergencies. And only now does Yoongi realize that’s exactly what this moment feels like to them. An emergency.

“Do I need to start looking for a new place?”

It was supposed to be a joke, something to lighten the mood like he always does. But he doesn’t trust his own voice, doesn’t trust his face either—probably not as lighthearted as he meant it to be. Namjoon and Seokjin exchange a glance. Just a second, but long enough for him to catch it, to see the unspoken understanding between them, the way their expressions shift. He hears Namjoon chuckle. He doesn’t look at him again, but he hears it. Then Seokjin joins in.

They laugh differently, he thinks. Namjoon’s laughter, when he’s nervous, is lower, uncertain, a bit rough around the edges. Seokjin’s is more expressive, more unbothered—he doesn’t hide from awkwardness, he embraces it.

“Was that a joke, or do you actually think that?”

This time, he has to look up. Seokjin’s eyes are serious instead.

"A joke," he murmurs.

"I don’t think so." Seokjin doesn’t waver, still watching him closely. "I don’t know why, but I have a feeling it wasn’t. Just like it wasn’t last month. Or the month before that."

Namjoon clears his throat. "What we’re trying to say is—you obviously don’t need to find another place. I don’t get why we have to go through this every month."

And it’s true. At the start of every month, Yoongi feels like this, like everything is shifting just enough to unsettle him. He hates beginnings. And he hates them especially when the new year is approaching, forcing him to reckon with all the months that came before. He hates the way time moves forward, how it never stops. Most of all, he hates feeling like he doesn’t belong.

He doesn’t respond. He just keeps smoking, watching the tendrils of smoke drift, caught in the cold breeze. It’s a freezing day, but the sky is clearing. A faint, fragile sun peeks through the clouds.

"Do you really think we don’t want to live with you?" Namjoon’s voice pulls him back from the clouds.

"It’s not about that," Yoongi mutters. "It’s just… at some point, it makes sense for you two to have a place of your own. We’ve talked about it."

Talked is a generous word. More like, a couple of months earlier, it had happened again. One of those moments that creep up on him when he least expects it. A panic attack so sharp it left his head pounding and his throat raw for days.

All over a plate.

A single plate, slipping from his hands, shattering on the floor. And then he’d started counting. Every broken shard, every tiny fragment. But there were too many. Too small to see, too much to grasp.

And the next thing he knew, he was on the couch, curled up between his two silly, in-love best friends, their arms around him like they could hold him together.

And maybe—maybe—he had said too much.

Maybe he had told them over and over that he knew he was in the way. That they deserved to be alone. That he knew he should leave them be, but he was terrified of living by himself, that he wasn’t ready yet, that he didn’t know when he would be.

That he was sorry for not being ready.

And sorry.

And sorry.

And again, sorry.

"If you want us to take down the tree, we’ll do it right now," Seokjin says, settling beside him on the couch despite the cigarette smoke that clearly bothers him. "And for the record, what we wanted to tell you has nothing to do with you finding another place. Very sweet of you to think I’d be thrilled to live alone with Namjoon, though. He can’t cook, doesn’t know how to do laundry. Who’s going to help me? Honestly, I’m the one who’s not ready for that."

Yoongi knows Seokjin is thinking about that night. About the words he had choked out between gasps for air—I’m not ready. About the way they had reassured him, told him to stop talking nonsense, that he wasn’t in the way, that he never would be.

Namjoon chuckles beside him, low and warm, murmuring some half-hearted protest.

It’s Sunday. There’s a Christmas tree half-decorated in the living room. He’s sitting between two people disgustingly in love, and for some reason—he doesn’t even know why—all he can think about is that, in thirty-one years of life, he has never been to the sea.

“So?” He ignores the tree, for now. “What was it that you wanted to tell me?”

His voice is rough as he asks, and he clears his throat. The last drag of his cigarette catches the wrong way.

Seokjin does the same. He clears his throat, but it’s Namjoon who answers.

"Well… it’s another thing we should probably apologize for not asking you first, hyung."

Yoongi hates when Namjoon calls him hyung. He’s told him, time and time again, to drop the honorifics with him. That he doesn’t want to be called that ever again. Namjoon usually does and he's grateful for it, because he doesn’t like the weight of it coming from him, doesn’t want the responsibility it carries.

So, whenever Namjoon does say it, Yoongi knows. It means they’re about to have a conversation.

Like the time he and Seokjin had asked him to move to London with them, right after Seokjin, a promising game developer, had accepted a job offer from a major company expanding into the Asian market. "We’ll find something there too, hyung," Namjoon had said. And he wasn’t wrong to reassure him like that, because neither of them were exactly built for specific career paths the way Seokjin was. They were both smart, sure. But conventionally skilled to navigate this relentless, meat-grinder of a social system... not so much. Now, Namjoon works for a press agency. And Yoongi… well. He spends his days translating Korean subtitles for a media company. The only reason either of them had managed to secure a skilled worker visa was by capitalizing on their native language.

Two years in London, and he feels exactly the same as he did back in Seoul.

Not better.

Not worse.

Just—unchanged. Like the move had done nothing at all.

Yoongi turns to Namjoon, fixing him with a steady gaze, trying to read ahead, to decipher the direction this conversation is about to take. He wants to know, but at the same time he doesn’t. It’s a contradiction that defines so much of his life—he wants things to happen, but he doesn’t want them to. He craves change, yet he clings to the comfort of things staying exactly the way they are.

He manages to intimidate Namjoon, as he often does. Maybe because they’ve known each other the longest—so it’s Namjoon, more than Seokjin, who carries the weight of a lifetime of friendship on his shoulders.

When Namjoon hesitates, silent under the weight of it, Seokjin sighs and takes over.

"Yoongi-ah, I’ll get straight to the point. An old friend of ours reached out from Korea a couple of months ago…"

A couple of months ago. Yoongi notes that down in his head, already holding onto it like anchor. A couple of months ago, and whatever this is, you didn’t tell me a damn thi-

"We’re hosting him, his boyfriend, and a friend of theirs for a while."

Yoongi’s eyes widen. "What?"

"Yeah. His name’s Taehyung, maybe you remember him? He and Namjoon used to study together at university…"

"The one I kept trying to introduce you to," Namjoon chuckles. "You even said he had beautiful eyes. You did, Yoongi."

Yoongi snaps his head toward him. “What?”

It’s all he can manage to say.

"Yeah, well…" Seokjin grins. "I remember that too. He’s clearly taken now, by the way."

Yoongi mutters something about that being fucking years ago and that he couldn’t care less.

"Anyway," Seokjin continues, "they’re coming to London, and he asked if we knew of a place they could rent for a while. And we… well, we kinda suggested they stay here. It’s about time we put the guest room to good use."

"What?"

"Yoongi-ah, are you capable of saying anything other than what?" Seokjin teases, voice soft, gentle. It’s a scolding, but a kind one, with no real bite.

"The guest room…" Yoongi echoes. "Didn’t you say they’re three? How are they supposed to fit in one room?"

He has a thousand questions racing through his mind, yet somehow, this is the first one that makes it past his lips. He clings to logistics like a lifeline, thinking that maybe—just maybe—if he can inject some practical sense into these two...

"Taehyung and his boyfriend, Jungkook, will only be here for two weeks, then they have to go back for work," Seokjin replies, unfazed by Yoongi's logistics issues. "Their friend, Jimin, will be staying longer. While all three of them are here, Namjoon and I will give up our room along with the guest room, open up the sofa bed, and sleep here, right next to this adorable little Christmas tree."

Seokjin laughs. Namjoon clears his throat, but there’s no hiding the small smile tugging at his lips at the thought. Yoongi looks away.

"Yeah, well, we’ll make it work,” Namjoon adds. “There’s enough space. What do you think?"

"Why is one of them staying longer? And for how long?"

From the corner of his eye, Yoongi catches the two of them exchanging an uncertain glance. That hesitation irritates him. "Can you be a little clearer?"

"We don’t know exactly how long," Seokjin admits, his expression suddenly serious. "We’ve spoken to him several times on the phone. He told us he just needs a place to get settled, and then he’ll figure things out. It’s not a vacation, Yoongi. He’s coming here for something serious."

"And that serious thing would be?"

“He was hit by a car and had his right leg amputated over a year ago."

Yoongi lowers his gaze. This time, he doesn’t ask for permission to smoke. He simply takes a cigarette from the pack and lights it, watching as the tip slowly begins to burn away. He inhales deeply.

"Have you ever met him?"

"No." Namjoon shakes his head, eyes fixed on the smoke curling through the air. "Like we said, he’s their friend. He’s a ballet dancer. Or… he was. Well, no, scratch that. He is a dancer. That’s why he’s coming here, for a prosthesis."

"Korea isn’t exactly behind when it comes to prosthetics…" Yoongi murmurs.

He regrets the words as soon as they leave his mouth, but he hopes they know him well enough to understand he’s just trying to piece things together. His way of showing curiosity has always been like this—dissecting facts instead of asking outright. Mapping out the edges of everything life has thrown at him so he doesn’t get lost in the middle of it.

Namjoon and Seokjin must understand because, as always, they don’t take his words as insensitivity. Instead, they offer him concrete facts. As always.

"When Taehyung told me about it months ago, I felt awful," Namjoon says. "Especially because of the dancing. In Busan, Jimin was one of the top ballet students. Jungkook’s from Busan too, so they’ve known each other since then. Later, in Seoul, he trained at different academies, and he eventually became the male lead dancer at Seoul's Metropolitan."

Yoongi sighs. “Very talented, then.”

“Yeah. I’ve watched some of his videos on Youtube these past months. Taehyung asked if we could look around here too, you know... compare options, explore other possibilities. So we did some research, and we asked Hobi to ask around too. And Hobi recommended a specialized prosthetics center funded by the Royal something…”

“The Royal National Orthopaedic Hospital,” Seokjin clarifies.

“That one. It’s well-known, but more importantly, they have a prosthetic technician who specifically works on prostheses for dancers. There are different kinds, designed for different types of dance…”

Yoongi tunes out a little as Namjoon gets into the details. For a moment, his mind drifts to Hoseok, picturing him with his natural, effortless kindness, asking around among the top orthopedic specialists at Imperial College Hospital, where he works. True to the best stereotypes, their only close friend in London is another Korean—one who also happens to be a pediatrician, and a very happy one at that. A Korean doctor in one of the world’s leading pediatric departments, for that matter. A lover of art in every form. And, as far as Yoongi knows, an enthusiastic dancer himself. And simply a fucking good, caring person. All things that must have fueled his dedicated effort to help a fellow Korean he’s never even met.

“There are also a lot of programs in London for amputee dancers,” Seokjin adds. “Specialized physiotherapists, trainers who work specifically with performers. We suggested he apply for one here, Hoseok says it’s the best. They have rehab programs, specialized instructors, support groups, the whole package. If there’s one thing the Brits do well, it’s inclusivity…”

“If you’re rich enough to afford it,” Yoongi mutters.

Seokjin sighs. “Well, the program we found is free for dancers with recognized merit…”

“Oh, of course, wouldn’t want to help aspiring dancers without accolades too.”

Seokjin shoots him a look. “Can you not get all political for a second? Yes, it’s unfair, the world sucks, whatever, we know.” He exhales, voice softer when he continues. “But this specialized prosthesis, Jimin’s paying for it himself. He already has a basic one, and this one's not covered. And apparently, he’s putting a huge chunk of his life savings into it. That’s how much he wants to dance again.”

Yoongi finishes his cigarette in silence. He stubs it out carefully in the ashtray, watching for a moment as the ashes scatter, tiny remnants of something burned down to almost nothing.

"Even with the best prosthesis in the world…” he mutters at last, “he won’t go back to the level he was used to. It’s not like he’ll be the lead dancer at the Metropolitan again. It’s not like they want him there with a prosthesis..."

"And what’s the alternative?" Namjoon speaks up, locking eyes with him, a gaze Yoongi can’t quite escape this time. "Giving up? Wasting away, shutting himself inside? If anyone should know that’s not an option, it’s you."

Yoongi’s first instinct is to get up, leave them both sitting there with their grand words and their naïve dreams about life. His second thought is that he’s not angry enough to do that. And his third thought, following naturally from the second, is that he isn’t actually angry at all, because nothing Namjoon just said offends him. They know each other too well for that. They’ve known each other too long not to understand the weight behind every word.

He catches the flicker of guilt in Namjoon’s expression, a shadow passing through his gaze. A brief hesitation, like maybe he thinks he went too far. But Namjoon doesn’t say anything else, and Yoongi doesn’t need him to. He doesn’t want him to.

"Anyway, it’s… some kind of new-generation prosthetic," Seokjin interjects, his voice smooth, casual, as if he’s listing off ingredients in a recipe instead of talking about the misfortunes of a stranger in their homeland. "Developed by that prosthetic technician we mentioned. She even won an award for it, but don’t ask me which. It’s designed to perfectly follow the leg’s natural anatomy for ballet, don’t ask me how exactly…”

Yoongi finds it hilarious how Seokjin is desperately trying to cut the tension with completely useless information. So hilarious that, for the first time that morning, he lets himself smile.

"Let’s just say you have no damn idea what you’re talking about," he says.

"Do I look like Hoseok to you? Am I a doctor all of a sudden?"

Namjoon chuckles, his gaze warm, soft with quiet affection, as it flickers between his best friend and his boyfriend. No one says anything for a moment. They just sit there, caught in a quiet current of shared understanding—of each other, of themselves, and, somehow, of a stranger they’ve never even met, too.

"They’re trying to help him, Yoongi…" Seokjin attempts again, hesitating, opening and closing his mouth twice before finally settling on what to say. "And we want to help too. You know how we are. We don’t just look the other way."

No, Yoongi thinks. You don’t look the other way.

Namjoon and Seokjin hadn’t looked the other way when he needed them. And if their places were reversed, he wouldn’t have either. This is who they are, that’s who they choose to be. An unspoken agreement that ties them together.

And Yoongi—who hates sharing space with strangers, who hates change, who hates not having control over his surroundings, who despises small talk as much as he treasures deep, soul-baring conversations with the few people he loves—Yoongi isn’t the kind of person who opens up easily. He isn’t good at words, at comforting, at giving compliments. He makes up for it with quiet acts of service instead, small things that say what he can’t. But he can’t just do things for complete strangers in his own home without coming off as weird and-

"They’d be arriving in twenty days. Can we confirm with them?"

Namjoon and Seokjin look at him expectantly.

No, Yoongi too doesn’t look the other way. One glance at his two friends is enough to know that they already have his answer.

"Yeah, sure," he sighs at last. "But you guys are decorating that damn tree yourselves."

He barely registers their laughter or the gentle weight of Namjoon’s hand on his shoulder. 

Yoongi has never seen the sea, but he’s well acquainted with rivers.

He grew up with the sight of the Nakdong River, its misty gray horizons and that shifting color where it merges with the waters of the Geumho. In Seoul, he liked walking along the Han River, so vast, so commanding as it splits the city in two, coolly dividing homes, people, shops, trees, flowers—all without hesitation, all without much care.

Water, endless water in his memories. Gray water, reflecting the heavy clouds of winter. Clear water, bright on summer days. Water that keeps flowing even when people stand still, even when people can’t go on. Even when he couldn’t go on.

That’s how he remembers his homes in Korea—surrounded by water.

River water, fresh water. Water untouched by the salt of tears.

London has given him another river. But the Thames is darker, murkier, slower. It seems to crawl compared to the rivers back home.

You’re not much of a sight, are you?

That’s what he thinks every time he lights a cigarette and watches the water. And he does it often. Whenever he sits on a bench at South Bank. It’s a tourist-heavy area, but after two years, he’s learned the best hiding spots. He knows exactly where to sit, where to observe the river from a distance, framed by trees and oddly shaped fountains. He knows how to return to the water without being seen, like the fish of his own western zodiac sign, slipping out of sight.

London is unbearably loud, all year round, but especially at Christmas. Then again, years in Seoul have trained him well for that. He’s learned how to disappear while staying close to the water.

He knows rivers. But he has never seen the sea.

He thinks about it often, and it makes him smile the way it feels almost metaphorical. Like how he’s felt for far too long now. Trapped between two banks, like a river. Unable to throw himself into the sea.

Yet Namjoon had once said something beautiful when Yoongi had confided in him about this image hidden deep within his soul. "Rivers always keep flowing," Namjoon had told him. "A river moves and moves, and eventually, it reaches something bigger. It doesn’t matter when, it doesn’t matter how. A river never stops."

Damn Namjoon and his damn sophistry.

He pulls out his phone to check the time. Four in the afternoon. It’s Friday and, exceptionally, he managed to leave work early because the internet had gone down in the entire building. A few hours to himself before his therapy session, and for once, he feels… at peace, if nothing else.

It’s that time of winter days when twilight has already claimed the sky, ready to surrender to the night. Wrapped in that soft, pinkish light, he does what he's been doing for the past two weeks, ever since Namjoon and Seokjin told him about the imminent arrival of three fellow Koreans he doesn’t know.

He opens Youtube and searches for that video. The one he’s watched too many times now.

Once before bed. Once during lunch break, away from his coworkers. Once at the bus stop, apart from the strangers waiting beside him. Maybe it’s a kind of possessiveness, a quiet urge to keep it to himself. He types in Korean, and for some reason, that alone fills him with an odd sense of tenderness.

He presses play.

Jimin appears, dressed in white, his face so expressive in that fleeting moment before the music begins. Then he starts moving. Yoongi forgot his earphones at home, and he doesn’t bother turning up the volume. He doesn’t need to.

Jimin dances in the sounds of London. Through the hum of tourists chatting in a dozen different languages, through the cries of seagulls, through the distant murmur of the river. He moves with elegance, with life, with the grace of twilight itself.

On two legs.

Two legs that hold him up, that let him leap, that let him touch the sky.

And Yoongi wonders how he feels now—this young man he’s never met, now that he can no longer touch the sky. He wonders if he feels trapped too, caught between two riverbanks, like water aching to move in all directions but unable to.

He walks home with that thought still lingering.

Maybe he should address his irrational grudge against the Thames in therapy, too. The way it unsettles him every time, the way the stagnant smell clings to his skin, seeping into his bones. It irritates him, but he keeps coming back every Friday, as if marking the end of another workweek.

The first thing he notices when he steps inside is the glow of that damn tree—its blue lights, like water. And then Seokjin’s laughter, bright and easy, as Namjoon must have just said something terribly funny. He takes off his shoes in silence, pulling the beanie from his aching head and shrugging off his heavy black coat. In the dimly lit living room, his two friends are exactly where he expected them to be. Namjoon is adding something to the tree—more decorations, fucking dammit—and Seokjin is still laughing.

"The ornaments you picked out are hideous, Joonie. The designs are terrible."

"No, they’re not. Yoongi, look at them. Oh, hi, by the way. But seriously, look how cute they are. They’ve got little gingerbread houses painted on them. Houses! Gingerbread—"

"Gingerbread houses, yeah, I got that. Gingerbread. I barely even know what gingerbread is.” Yoongi steps into the room, grumbling loudly. “You two are starting to treat this tree like a child. Actually, maybe you should just have a kid at this point. Seems like less work.”

"Aw, Yoongi-ah, do you want to be an uncle? Do you want a little niece? A little nephew?”

Yoongi rolls his eyes, very pointedly, right at Seokjin.

Namjoon just smiles. "It’s past nine. Where were you?"

There’s something calm about Namjoon’s face, but not calm enough to fully hide that familiar trace of worry. Not that his question carries any real surprise. Namjoon knows how much Yoongi loves to wander. It’s just a simple, factual curiosity, in the amidst of his worry. One that carries silent questions. 

Where did you go this time? What places did you see tonight, all alone in this foreign city?

"Walked along the river for a while. And then, you’ll be shocked to hear, I took a bus and stopped at Regent Street."

“Huh."

"Regent Street."

They both stare at him, puzzled.

"Is that not allowed?"

Seokjin chuckles, but the curiosity lingers. "No, it’s just… you’re not exactly the type to go for crowded places full of shops. I mean... you’re not really the type to…"

"To go to Regent Street, yeah. And yet, there I was."

The bag is still in his hands, the same way he’s been carrying it delicately since he left the store, careful not to jostle it, shielding it from the tube passengers, from the neon lights, from the dizzying Christmas season rush of the city.

"Uh, so..." He places the bag down on the couch and slowly pulls out its contents. "I didn’t know you’d already bought new decorations, mind you. Or I wouldn’t have gotten these."

He pulls two glass birds out of the bag, one white and one blue, each with soft, trailing feathers and a small bronze clip at the base to fasten them to the tree’s branches.

"Now, these are actually fucking adorable," Seokjin exclaims, immediately stepping closer to snatch them up.

"Hey, easy…"

Namjoon moves in too, peering over Seokjin’s shoulder to take a look. "These look fancy… it’s glass. Where’d you get them?"

"Hamleys, as you can clearly see from the bag. And they’re not that fancy, really."

"They’re made of glass!"

"Yes, Joonie," Seokjin deadpans. "We noticed, babe."

They both stare at him. Yoongi feels the tips of his ears warm with embarrassment. "What? You’ve got the tree, might as well fill it up a little. It still looks too bare."

That tree doesn’t really belong to any of them, Yoongi thinks. Not culturally, at least. They didn’t grow up putting up life-size Christmas trees and decorations inside their homes. Then he looks at Namjoon and Seokjin again and, for the very first time, it hits him. For the first time, he sees them not just as his two strong willing friends, but as two people who, just like him, might need to feel part of something—part of the Christmas lights glowing in the homes of strangers, their reflections flickering against windows that don’t fully feel like their own. Part of a country that isn’t their own either. Maybe they’re scared too, scared of falling into the same pit that Yoongi seems to be tumbling into every single day.

"You wanna put them up?" Seokjin offers him the birds gently.

No one’s laughing now. No teasing remarks. The three of them are quiet, solemn almost, as if performing some kind of ceremonial ritual.

Yoongi takes the blue one first—the same shade as the Han River on summer days, its crystal feather stark against it - and clips it onto a branch with a soft click. Then he picks up the other one, its long feather a placid white instead. One of its little glass legs is stretched out, mid-motion, like it’s about to leap, while the other is bent just slightly, almost hidden beneath its delicate body, like it's not even there. He stares at it for a moment before placing it on the tree.

There’s something oddly tender about it.

Over the weekend, he catches himself glancing at the two birds again and again. He notices Namjoon and Seokjin doing the same, their eyes lingering on the tiny glass creatures, as if expecting them to breathe and suddenly come to life.

"To be honest," Namjoon murmurs, "it kinda feels weird that you got them.”

Yoongi turns toward Namjoon, frowning. The other is standing there in his pyjamas, a cup of coffee cradled in his hands.

"Dammit, Namjoon, they’re literally just fucking birds."

"They’re fucking cute birds. And you went all the way to Hamleys to buy them."

"I didn’t go exactly for that. How the hell was I supposed to know? You think I scroll through Hamleys’ online catalog in my free time?"

From across the room, Seokjin chuckles, emerging from the kitchen with puffy, sleep-heavy eyes and a mug of hot tea in his hands. "Maybe you secretly browse toy store websites at night and we just don’t know about it. Not that there’s anything wrong with that!"

"There’s nothing wrong with that, but I don’t spend my time flipping through multinational retail catalogs for fun."

"It’s Sunday, Yoongi-ah," Seokjin grumbles. "Don’t get too political on a Sunday. Besides, you still walked in and gave money to a giant corporation, sooo—"

Yoongi groans dramatically, throwing his head back in exasperation. Namjoon, unfazed, keeps staring at the two glass birds, wearing an expression that Yoongi finds almost ridiculous.

"No, it’s just… you willingly pushed through the crowd on Regent Street and walked into Hamleys to buy Christmas decorations."

"Yes, Namjoon, and I swear it’s also the fucking last tim—"

A sudden ringtone cuts through the room. All three of them turn toward the source—it's Seokjin’s phone, left abandoned on the couch. Seokjin grabs it quickly. "If this is spam again, I swear...oh! It’s Taehyung! Hey, Taehyung! No, you’re absolutely not bothering! No, you absolutely didn’t wake us up, don’t worry, it’s already eleven here…"

Yoongi watches as Seokjin chuckles, and for some reason, a fleeting thought crosses his mind. These two are genuinely good people. It passes through him like a sudden gust of wind.

"…Yeah, I kept messing up the time difference at first too, don't worry. Namjoonie used to call his parents when it was like, two in the morning for them..."

Namjoon shakes his head, too fondly to be truly embarrassed.

Dammit, these two.

"Put him on speaker."

"Namjoon says to put you on speaker. And Yoongi’s here too, he also wants to say hi."

Yoongi barely has time to shake his head in protest before Taehyung’s voice—warm, bright, full of easy laughter—rings out through the room.

"Hi, Namjoon hyung! And hi, Yoongi-ssi. It’s nice to finally hear from you properly! I remember you from Seoul, but I don’t think we ever actually introduced ourselves. I’d do a video call, but Jimin won’t let me, he says he’s not presentable…"

Yoongi barely registers Taehyung’s laughter. The unexpected knowledge that Jimin is also on the other end of the call momentarily throws him off. Namjoon nudges him lightly with his elbow, and Seokjin, exasperated, gestures for him to say something.

“Umh… hi. Hi, nice to hear from you…” He promptly shuts his mouth again, and Seokjin shoots him a glare. With a silent sigh, he opens it once more. “Nice to hear from you and, umh… you don’t have to use honorifics. Actually, I’d prefer if you didn’t. I tell everyone that, really.”

Everyone. As if he had more than two—three, if he counted Hoseok—people in his life. Seokjin gives him a mildly embarrassed look, like he’s regretting pushing Yoongi to speak only for him to say that of all things, to a stranger, within seconds of meeting. Namjoon presses his lips together, visibly holding back a silent laughter.

On the other end of the line, Taehyung chuckles, completely unbothered. “Got it. I just wanted to thank you too for letting us stay. We really appreciate it. Jungkook thanks you too, but he just ran out to grab dinner. It’s past seven here, and since we’re leaving in five days, we’re trying to empty the fridge… which means we basically have nothing left to eat. We’re starving.”

And then, in the background, Yoongi hears it. A soft, delicate laugh. A little shy, light as a feather.

“Taehyungie, don’t bore him with your rambling. Hi, Yoongi-without-honorifics. Uh, I’m Jimin. I just wanted to thank you too, I haven’t had the chance yet.”

Yoongi feels his face go up in flames. He hears Seokjin and Namjoon greet Jimin warmly, and then—just like before—Seokjin turns to him expectantly, eyebrows raised in a silent plea to say something. Preferably something socially acceptable. Yoongi is sure that’s included in his silent request.

“Hi, Jimin…”

I've watched one of your videos almost every day for the past two weeks—

“You alright?”

The second the words leave his mouth, he regrets them. Seokjin’s mouth falls slightly open, and even Namjoon’s eyebrows lift in quiet horror. The sheer weight of the embarrassment nearly crushes him. He waves his hands frantically in their direction, scrambling for anything else to say. But before he can, he hears it again—another chuckle, quiet and breathy, on the other end of the call.

“I’ve been better,” Jimin says. He doesn’t sound offended. His voice is as gentle as before, delicate, a little shy. As languid as the Han River under the moon, Yoongi thinks.

“Yeah, of course. Sorry. I’m not really great at, uh, talking like this… y’know.” His tongue feels heavy as he forces the words out.

Jimin just laughs again, quietly, like he doesn’t mind at all. "Don't worry. Me neither, really. How are you?"

"Oh, umh. Fine, I guess..."

Seokjin takes control of the conversation again. "Jiminie, how’s the packing going? Do you have everything ready?"

Yoongi is still a little on edge from the social exchange, but he smiles at the familiarity in Seokjin’s voice. He wonders how many times they’ve already spoken on the phone over the past few weeks. How many times Seokjin and Namjoon have checked in on him, sent him messages, cared about a person they hadn’t even known about until a few months ago. Judging by how comfortable they sound, it must have been a lot.

He, on the other hand, has only been aware of the situation for a short while, and he doesn't quite know what to do with that information. At first, it had bothered him. Then he thought about it some more and decided he understood—and with that, it suddenly stopped bothering him at all. His two friends, and Hoseok with his kindness, had been looking out for Jimin for months, while leaving Yoongi out of it for reasons he feels able to understand. The same thought crosses his mind again - they're good people.

They stay on the phone for a good half-hour. At one point, Jungkook joins in, back from picking up dinner. His voice practically radiates smiles, different from Taehyung’s yet somehow similar. He thanks Yoongi too, and Yoongi once again tells him to drop the honorifics, which earns another round of chuckles—even from Seokjin this time, who suddenly looks at him with a smile he can't quite decipher.

Yoongi listens to them talk but doesn’t say much. Jimin, too, mostly stays quiet, yet when he does speak, he already sounds at home with them, completely at ease. There’s something about his voice he can’t quite put into words, something both gentle and weighted. It reminds him of both the stillness of a river and the vastness of the sea combined.

When it’s finally time to say goodbye, all three of them address him directly. They thank him again, one after another, and an unexpected urgency swells in Yoongi’s chest—the need to make sure they understand, really understand, that there’s no need to thank him at all. Every time he speaks to people he doesn’t know well, he’s terrified of being misunderstood. He’s terrified that they’ll mistake him for someone who doesn’t feel.

“Have a good Sunday, Seokjin hyung, Namjoon hyung…" Jimin gets the last word. “Have a good Sunday, Yoongi hyung."

Jimin says it anyway and he does it naturally, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

For once, Yoongi doesn’t care about it.

The night before their guests arrive, Yoongi comes home from work, and the tension hits him all at once. His back aches, his stomach is tight, almost painfully so, and a dull headache is already forming, bad enough that he pops a painkiller before it has the chance to keep him up all night.

Part of it is his own nerves. But most of it is coming from the other two. Seokjin is obsessing over what else to cook for their new friends, making sure everything will be perfect. Namjoon is vacuuming the floor for the second time since he got home.

Namjoon. Vacuuming. For the second time.

"What time are they arriving?"

Seokjin groans. "Tomorrow at four in the afternoon, Yoongi-ah. I’ve told you this three times already."

"And I wanted to ask again because I forgot! You’re making me anxious just standing there."

Of course, he hadn’t forgotten. It was just something to say.

"Well, I am anxious, Yoongi. And do you know why?" Seokjin turns to him, throwing into the air his gloved hands still covered in the remnants of peeling the steamed shrimps in the massive bowl in front of him. "Because without me, this place would have collapsed under the weight of you two’s laziness!”

"Dammit, stop being dramatic. Let me help you."

Yoongi quickly washes his hands, slips on a clean pair of gloves, and starts peeling the shrimp with the same practiced ease as Seokjin. He’s a good cook too, and he enjoys cooking for others, but he’s just gotten back from work. Seokjin, judging by the sheer amount of food already prepared, has clearly been at it for a while.

"You're not working tomorrow either then?"

"No. I took two days off, today and tomorrow," Seokjin replies, still working beside him. "We’ll peel some of these, I’ll marinate them. With the rest, I’ll make the best Korean BBQ shrimp the world has ever seen."

Yoongi chuckles. "You made a ton of food."

"Mmh. I spent hours making gimbap, we’ll have enough to eat for two days. And I have everything ready for tteokguk tomorrow."

"Is it New Year’s already?"

“I don’t care, it’s a special occasion, just go with it."

Namjoon reappears from the living room. "Vacuumed everywhere. Oh, hey Yoongi, when did you get home? I didn’t even see you. Anyway, all I have left is to make the bed in the guest room, ours is already done."

“Great, babe,” Seokjin chuckles.

"I set up a chair by the edge of the tub and another next to the bed. Think that'll be enough?”

Seokjin nods seriously. “Jimin says it’s all he needs, so.”

“Alright, I’ll go make the bed. See you later.”

“Okay, love,” Seokjin calls after him.

Yoongi watches Namjoon dash off from the corner of his eye before turning back to the shrimp. “What are the chairs for?”

“For resting the prosthesis when he takes it off. One for the bathtub, one for sleeping.”

“So he can wear it all day? You two know everything about this, and I know nothing.”

Yoongi feels like a child asking questions, unaware of certain things. He asks because he's been kept in the dark and knows far fewer details than they do. Occasionally, that mild sense of frustration resurfaces.

Seokjin tilts his head slightly. “He said he can wear it all day now. But he’ll still bring crutches, just in case.”

He doesn’t add anything else, just keeps watching Yoongi like he’s trying to read something off of him. Yoongi lowers his gaze back to the bowl of shrimp. “Namjoon is more nervous than you,” he murmurs at last. “It’s weird.”

Seokjin chuckles softly. “We just want to make a good impression, I guess. It’s been a while since we had guests over.”

Yoongi nods, more to himself than to Seokjin. He knows exactly why they never invite anyone over, why those few friends visiting from Korea has always stayed somewhere else. Even Namjoon’s parents last year and Seokjin’s parents over the summer—none of them stayed with them. This house, from the moment they set foot in it two years ago, has always been their safe space - his safe space, more than anything. A place built to make sure he was okay. And while he wouldn’t say he feels okay, at least he feels a little better. At least, he’s not what he was before.

“You have therapy tomorrow, right?” Seokjin asks gently, without even looking up, his focus still on the shrimp.

“Yep. Six to seven. I’ll be back by eight. That okay?”

“Sure. Just in time for dinner.”

He could come home earlier—half an hour, maybe even more. But that extra half hour before heading home is important to him, one he needs to keep for himself.

Seokjin doesn’t comment on it. He doesn’t ask him to hurry, doesn’t tell him to come back earlier for the guests. Seokjin never asks him for anything. He asks far fewer questions than Namjoon in general, but when he does, Yoongi always notices how different they sound.

Namjoon worries, and he doesn’t know how to hide it. He’s good at offering advice, at helping Yoongi see things from a different angle, at shifting the shades of his days just enough to find a combination that looks… decent. But he can’t fake it.

Seokjin, on the other hand, can. Yoongi doesn’t think it’s a skill the other particularly likes having. He thinks about it often—every time he sees Seokjin on the verge of saying something but holding back, every time he feels his gaze on him only for Seokjin to look away the moment their eyes meet. But it’s not the kind of pretending that tries to make everything seem fine, and Yoongi knows that. It’s not that kind of act. Seokjin writes stories for a living, creates characters and imaginary worlds, but in real life, he’s grounded. He knows right from wrong, what works and what doesn’t, every single day.

He’s aware of things, Yoongi thinks. And with him, Seokjin offers less concern because he knows that’s what Yoongi needs—space, distance, room to breathe. He says only what he thinks is necessary, leaving the rest in Yoongi’s hands, trusting him with a responsibility he isn’t sure he deserves.

Seokjin stresses out more easily than Namjoon, snaps more often, gets irritated more quickly. But with Yoongi, he’s found a way to carve out his place. He steps in when Namjoon asks too many questions Yoongi doesn’t want to answer, and Yoongi is grateful for that. He does it the way he always does—with a teasing remark, a touch of lighthearted warmth. And when even Seokjin can’t help but speak, like now, he has a way of making everything sound so natural, never forcing anything.

“You’ll be fine with them,” Yoongi hears him say. He hadn’t even noticed the silence between them—comfortable, fitting. “Well, I’ve only met Taehyung in person. But the other two… they seem easy to get along with, too.”

Yoongi hums softly. “I’m sure they are.”

“The house is going to be a little crowded for a while.” Seokjin pauses, choosing his words carefully. “But it’ll be fine. And anyway, I’ll keep an eye on them. All three of them, actually. I’ll make sure they treat you right.”

“Hyung—”

“You’re always my priority, you know that.”

Yoongi scrunches his nose slightly, suddenly feeling warmth spread across his face.

“Well, and Joonie too, I guess…” Seokjin laughs softly.

Yoongi lowers his gaze. His lips curl unintentionally into a faint smile, caught somewhere between embarrassment and quiet satisfaction. He’s learning to accept compliments. They have pointed it out to him. Even he has noticed. He’s trying to believe them, at least a little bit.

“And besides…” Seokjin starts again, his voice soft, serious but not heavy, carefully searching for the right words. “Taehyung and Jungkook need to trust us too, in the end. It’s not easy for them either. About Jimin, I mean, to leave him here. I mean, well…” He pauses for a moment, reworking his thoughts. “Not that he’s not capable. If anything, he seems like a really determined person. But he struggles a lot with English, and in his situation… it’s better to have people around, right? People who can help.”

Yoongi turns slightly toward Seokjin, studying the serious lines of his profile, catching the meaning in his words that stretches far beyond what he’s actually saying.

“You did the right thing,” Yoongi says at last. “You don’t have to explain yourself.”

Seokjin nods. “But we should’ve asked you first. For that, I apologize.”

“No, really—”

“I’m apologizing,” Seokjin insists. “Joonie wasn’t happy about not asking you first either. You know how he is. He spent days telling me we were both terrible, terrible people.”

Yoongi chuckles. “Dramatic.”

“Very much.”

They don’t say anything after that, and that’s fine. Yoongi doesn’t repeat that there’s no need to apologize, even though he thinks it. He can imagine what went through their heads when they made that impulsive offer to their three guests. He doesn’t tell Seokjin that they’re not terrible people, not even close. It's a thought so ridiculous it almost makes him smile.

Seokjin doesn’t expect him to say it.

He feels drained. Worn out by words, by sounds, by the noise of the world around him. Exhausted by the murky cold, even though it’s a familiar kind of cold, the kind that still feels a little like home. Worn out by the river, too.

The Thames, in the dark of the evening, feels like it’s mocking him. Yoongi is grateful they live in Brixton, far away from it. Even if he has to go near the riverbanks every day for work, at least when he gets home, he can leave it behind. He can put the gray waters of the river at his back.

He checks the time again. 8:02. Hoseok was supposed to be here ten minutes ago. They’re going to be late getting home.

Hoseok is invited to the big welcome dinner. Yoongi had gotten a call from him that morning, his voice bright and energetic, ready for another exhausting workday with the kind of satisfaction that only comes from doing something you love. They had agreed to meet outside the South Bank Centre, since Yoongi would be in the area, and head home together.

That glowing cultural hub, all modern facades and warm lights, is Hoseok’s favorite place in London—after the hospital where he works, apparently. There, he helps organize free music events for children with cancer and their families, and at least once a week, after his shift, he stops by to check in with the volunteers and hold what he likes to call a collective brainstorming session.

That morning, he had asked Yoongi if he wanted to come along, but Yoongi had said no. Maybe next time. Hoseok hadn’t pushed, just cheerfully reminded him not to be late. And yet, he's the one running late now.

Dammit, Hobi.

Yoongi doesn’t stand too close to the entrance. He lingers halfway between the building and the river, in a spot a little more sheltered from the wind and the passing crowds. The lights ripple across the water, blending with the vibrant glow of the London Eye in the distance. He’s exhausted—drained from his therapy session, tense at the thought of what’s waiting for him at home. Who’s waiting for him at home.

Namjoon and Seokjin had driven to Heathrow to pick them up that afternoon. Seokjin had sent him a quick update a few hours earlier. 'All set. We’re in the car. Managed to fit all the luggage in the trunk. See you tonight!!'

Yoongi shifts his weight, his gaze catching on the shimmer of city lights dancing on the river. The anticipation settles heavily in his chest, blending with the fatigue, a sharp undercurrent to the night’s icy stillness.

Compared to his years in Seoul, London shouldn’t feel so suffocating. Seoul has a denser population in a smaller space. London is larger but more spread out, with more empty pockets to escape into. It’s not the chaos that unsettles him, though he doesn’t like it, though he hopes that one day he’ll find somewhere quieter to exist in. It’s the vastness that gets to him. The endless sprawl of possibilities, the undefined spaces, the blurred edges he can’t quite make out. It’s all too immense, and all he wants is quiet.

He lights a cigarette, exhaling into all that immensity.

And yet, somewhere within that anxious uncertainty, there’s something else—a small flicker of curiosity. The idea of having strangers in the house unsettles him, but the thought that he might get along with them as well as he does with the only three friends he has… that’s something unfamiliar. Foreign. He hasn’t felt it in a long time. He doesn’t know what to call it, but it feels almost like hope.

Hope that he’ll make a good impression. That he won’t come across as detached, adrift, too odd, too socially inept for them to even bother. There’s a good chance they’ll see him that way. But there’s also a small chance they won’t. And for the first time in a long while, he allows himself to consider it.

Maybe, if he hadn’t watched that video of Jimin dancing in the dim light, over and over again, he wouldn’t feel this strange, restless hope in his chest. Maybe he wouldn’t care about making a good impression.

But he does care. Because in those movements, in the way Jimin’s white outfit cut starkly through the dimness, there was something vast, something ancient, something as old as the world itself. A dance that echoed the first humans who stood upright, who stretched their arms to balance. Humans who learned they could use their bodies to run, to leap into the air and reach for the sky, to dance and become one with the earth and the sea.

Faced with that other kind of ancient immensity, Yoongi feels something stir inside him—an urge to protect it. To be part of it.

He wants Jimin to like him.

The thought hits him so hard, so suddenly, that it knocks the breath from his lungs for an instant.

Hoseok’s arrival snaps him out of his thoughts. He’s hurrying over, almost running, clutching a massive shopping bag in one hand. “I know! I know! I’m late, don’t say it. I know!”

Yoongi chuckles. “Good evening to you too, Hobi. How’d it go?”

They start walking together towards Waterloo station. Hoseok pulls his coat tighter around himself, looking exhausted but satisfied. Yoongi often wonders how he manages to hold onto that calm, that hope, when every day at work he’s surrounded by suffering and pain and…

And death.

Hoseok is close to life. The closest person to life that he knows.

“It went great. We’re organizing a fundraising party on December 27th. In a week! One week!” Hoseok seems almost taken aback by the realization. “And there’s still a thousand things to get done. A theater company is coming. And, uh, a dance company too.”

Yoongi’s ears perk up. “Sounds nice…” he says vaguely.

“Maybe I could ask our new dancer friend if he’d like to come. Or do you think… well, maybe not.”

Yoongi dodges people with every step, navigating the rush-hour crowd—commuters hurrying home, tourists heading to dinner or back to their accommodations. “Uh, I don’t know…”

“Yeah, maybe not. We’ll see. He seemed pretty calm over the phone, though. Not that it means anything, but… he sounded at peace. As much as possible, I mean.”

“You spoke to him?”

The closer they get to the station entrance, the denser the crowd becomes. Yoongi shrinks in on himself instinctively, pressing closer to Hoseok until their shoulders brush.

“Many times! About the prosthesis and the rehab program he could join in Chislehurst.”

“I don’t even know where that is.”

Hoseok laughs. They step quickly into the entrace of the tube, swallowed by the crowd.

“It’s a really nice place down south, about half an hour by train from Charing Cross,” Hoseok says, raising his voice to be heard over the noise. “Lots of green, trees, small parks, little lakes, ducks, that kind of thing. And there’s this center, hidden away in the quiet.”

“Sounds… nice.”

Ponds and rivers. Rivers and ponds. Always water contained within a space. At least a river flows, Yoongi thinks. At least it goes somewhere. The stagnant water of an artificial pond, though... where the fuck does it go. Water that doesn't move, water that can't break free, just waiting and waiting until it's time to be kidnapped by the earth or by the air.

“It really is a nice place," Hoseok replies, “and fully accredited, too. They’re accepting new applications starting in January. I’ve already talked to them about his case. And honestly, he’s bound to get in, he’s got several recommendations from Seoul. The artistic director at the Metropolitan, the main choreographer there, and whatever. With his credentials, I’d be shocked if they didn’t take him.”

They tap their Oyster cards against the reader automatically—a meaningless action, purely functional. It doesn’t mean anything to him anymore. Probably not to Hoseok either.

“No, because…” Hoseok picks up the conversation again as they move through the tunnel towards the Northern Line. “I watched a bunch of his videos and, fuck, you know?”

Yoongi shrugs.

“I mean, have you seen him dance? He’s incredible.”

“No. I haven’t.”

He’s not sure why he’s lying. Hoseok is just making conversation, after all. And apparently, he knows way more about Jimin than Yoongi expected. In the end, the one who knows next to nothing is Yoongi himself—who clutches onto that one video, that single performance, like a secret treasure.

“So, this program… how does it work?”

He’s trying to change the subject. Namjoon and Seokjin had given him a rough idea over the past few weeks—about the prosthesis, about the renowned technician who designed it. But Hoseok is more qualified than either of them, and hearing things from him is far more enjoyable. He knows how to explain complex things in a way that makes them sound simple.

“He’ll go there every day for a few months. Or he can stay overnight if he wants, they have accommodations. But that’ll be once he gets the new prosthesis, not before. That won’t be ready for at least a month. That’s why he came as soon as he could, to have his first consultation.”

“It’s not ready yet?”

Hoseok chuckles. “Of course not. Every prosthetic leg has a socket that needs to be an exact mold of the residual limb. They’ll take his measurements and everything.”

Yoongi realizes he knows absolutely nothing about prostheses. “Namjoon and Seokjin hyung told me it’s really expensive.”

Hoseok snorts. “You sure you wanna know?”

“How much are we talking?”

“Close to 120k pounds. Yeah.”

“Fuck. That’s an awful lot.”

“Yeah, he pretty much put everything he had into it, and his parents helped too. Salaries aren’t that high for ballet dancers, even if you’re the superstar of the Seoul Metropolitan Ballet. End of the day, you’re still just a dancer. No respect for artists whatsoever.” Hoseok lets out a dramatically loud sigh.

They turn the corner and reach the platform. The board shows the next train arriving in two minutes. A crowd is already gathered, dense and impatient. It’s the time of day Yoongi hates most. He instinctively steps back until he’s pressed against the wall, grounding himself.

“And imagine,” Hoseok goes on, “he still had to pay a chunk for the prosthesis he has now. And it’s just a standard one, a basic model for walking. He still had to cover about a third of the total cost himself. Insurances, uh? They suck everywhere.”

“This is your field, you doctor guys should make some noise instead of just whining about governments not supporting you.”

Hoseok chuckles beside him. “You’re wasted, Yoongi. You should’ve been a union leader.”

Yoongi smirks back. “Just because I have some damn basic opinions on fundamental rights.”

The train arrives. They both wait behind the crowd crammed against the doors, all determined to snag a seat. The two of them, more pragmatic, don’t even bother expecting an empty one at this hour. Sure enough, they step inside calmly and remain standing near the doors. Hoseok gently sets his bag down on the floor, keeping it in place with his feet while gripping the handrail with one hand.

“It was starting to get heavy,” he laughs.

Yoongi glances inside the bag, spotting neatly wrapped packages with labels that are obviously alcohol. “Well, well. Look at that. Alcohol. You.”

“I couldn’t exactly show up empty-handed for our new friends, could I? Two boxes of fancy whisky, some fancy wine, and some very fancy soju too, straight from New Malden.”

“You really love going to Little Korea, huh.”

It’s the most Korean neighborhood in London, and Yoongi never sets foot there. Nostalgia’s a trap he’s not interested in falling into.

Hoseok smiles at him. “You should do it too. It’s nice, feeling at home. I like chatting with the old folks and having a little sip of soju now and then.”

“Uh. You hardly ever drink. Planning to make an exception tonight?”

“Tonight, I’m definitely planning on having a little drink. The rest is for you guys.” Hoseok looks at him for a moment, his smile fading slightly as he reflects, suddenly hit by a realization. “You can drink now, right? Is it still… like that?”

For a long time, Yoongi didn’t like the idea of Hoseok knowing certain things. Neither Namjoon nor Seokjin had ever shared any information without his consent. And the consent had been given, but only out of necessity, not pleasure. But Hoseok had taken him under his wing so easily, with that effortless warmth of his. He’s the one who found him a therapist he could speak to more easily in Korean, and it’s to him that Yoongi turns when there are things he doesn’t want to tell even the two people he loves most in the world. Letting people in had always been difficult for him. He needed time, space, familiarity. But now Hoseok has become part of that small, tight circle of people he cares about, and it no longer weighs on him that his friend knows those things. He meets his gaze, calm and steady. Then he smiles.

“Yeah, it’s still like that,” he replies, loud enough to drown out the noise of the tube.

Hoseok nods, returning the smile. They spend the rest of the journey in silence. At Stockwell, they stop to change lines, and in fifteen minutes, they’re already at the Brixton station exit.

Yoongi is hit by the sounds of the neighborhood. He likes Brixton. It’s full of diversity, of people who are calm, simple, and unpretentious in a way that other parts of London aren’t. People who exist as they are, and where he can exist as he is, too. Here, he doesn’t have to shape himself into something he doesn’t recognize. It’s a bit chaotic, but not because of the tourists, or the commute, or because it’s at the heart of the city’s economy. It’s chaotic simply because it’s alive, and that’s a kind of chaos he enjoys. That’s why he’s always turned down Namjoon and Seokjin’s suggestions to move to a quieter area. Brixton works fine for them too, and he’s always told them there’s no need to move for him.

That there’s noise and then there’s noise, and this is the good kind.

Hoseok lives in a more residential area in the northern part of the city, the opposite direction. And every time he comes over to their place, he always says the same thing.

“You guys could move somewhere quieter now, you know. You have stable jobs, decent salaries, now.”

Yoongi laughs. “Knew that was coming.”

Hoseok rolls his eyes. “Yeah, the life of creatives. I get it. I’m very creative too, it’s just…”

“It’s just that you like the kind of creativity that comes with overpriced coffee and reclaimed wood furniture,” Yoongi smirks.

“Yoongi-ah, you really should get into active politics. I swear I wasn’t joking before.”

“Politicians do what’s in their own interest, what do you think?”

“I mean actual activism. Join a political circle, a movement, do something like that…”

Yoongi groans. “Sure.”

“I’m serious. Think about our dancer friend. He lost a leg and now he’s draining his bank account just to get back to dancing. A story that would make headlines.”

Yoongi sighs. He thinks Hoseok’s not entirely wrong. It would make headlines. The closer they get to home, the more a strange unease builds inside him. He’s tried to suppress it all day, tucking it away in a darker corner of his heart.

“Do you know if he’s walking well now? I mean, with his current prosthesis.”

“He’s doing okay, but not as well as he wants to be. Still limps a little. Well, think about it, he couldn’t even move for the first two months. Had to wear a shrinker until the wound healed completely. Then they fitted him with a temporary prosthesis, and that took another month. And then he did rehab for nine months, but still had to wait a full year before getting a permanent one.”

Yoongi thinks Hoseok really loves talking about medicine. And he especially loves tying medicine to people’s struggles. He listens carefully every time.

“That’s because the residual limb goes through a lot of changes before it heals,” Hoseok continues. “He’s lucky it’s a below-the-knee amputation, and that he has strong upper leg strength and is in good health. Some people don’t even get back on their feet for many months.”

Just two more blocks, and they’ll be home. Yoongi’s heart starts racing, and his stomach tightens. Hearing all of this isn’t helping. He forces himself to walk, forces himself to think everything will be okay. He wonders if there will ever be a day when he can handle things—handle people—without this coil of anxiety tightening inside him. All the therapy that’s been telling him he’s normal, or whatever it is that people tie to normality these days - and yet that’s the only thing he can think about himself. That he’s not normal. It’s unfair, even cruel, to think that way about himself. He knows that. But he can’t stop it. He’s torn between his bitterness toward himself and the sadness he feels for Jimin.

“And then…” Hoseok continues, oblivious to Yoongi’s inner turmoil, “even when he tries this new prosthesis, he’ll only be able to use it for limited periods at first. At the specialized center I told you about, he’ll still need to keep doing therapy with the one he has now. And even when he starts the specialized program for dancers, in about a month, it’ll still take two or three months just to regain balance with the new prosthesis, let alone dance.” He exhales deeply. “I mean, it’s tough.”

Yoongi hums softly. “It’s so unfair,” he murmurs. He doesn't think he’s ever empathized with someone as much as he does right now. “It really isn’t fair.”

“It’s not,” Hoseok whispers. “But this prosthesis is seriously cool. So, the foot is basically made of carbon fiber and gypsum mold…”

Yeah, Yoongi thinks again. Hoseok really does love talking about medicine.

“… built with an honeycomb compression system that activates when he shifts his core forward. Eventually, he’ll have great control over his movements.”

“I understood nothing, Hobi.”

Hoseok laughs. “Long story short, it’s en pointe prosthesis, with a very narrow tip of the foot. It means that eventually, if everything goes well and he adapts to the prosthesis, he’ll be able to wear ballet shoes and dance en pointe again.”

Yoongi thinks about the video again. He remembers Jimin’s legs holding him up, strong and steady beneath him, and the way his feet carried him higher, always higher, as if gravity had never truly belonged to him. A sharp gust of wind cuts through the street as they turn the corner, chilling his skin. It’s a cold night, heavy and quiet, steeped in a kind of melancholy that seeps into his bones. A melancholic night, like the picture he has created himself and locked in his mind—the one of Jimin falling to the ground, unable to get back up ever again.

“Yoongi-ah,” Hoseok sighs, interrupting his thoughts. “I'm so tired. At least I'm free tomorrow. Imagine if I had to work? Why the hell do you guys live so far south? It’ll take me an hour to get back.”

“Take an uber, then. Or, for once in your life, actually get drunk and crash here.”

“You should let me crash with you. Need I remind you, you have three guests in your house tonight?”

Yoongi smiles. “Yeah, no. Get an uber.”

At the doorstep, he pauses for a moment, listening. He hears voices, laughter, the lights of the damn Christmas tree reflecting its colors on the living room windows.

“Wait. Is that…” Hoseok cranes his neck toward the lights.

“Forget it, long story.”

Yoongi fumbles with his keys, hands shaking slightly as he slides one into the lock. He takes a breath, then another. He’s relieved that Hoseok is too caught up in the absurdity of the Christmas tree to notice the tremor in his fingers. He’s grateful for his friend’s presence, grateful not to have to make this entrance alone. But the thought only helps so much.

He thinks of all the times he’s stammered in front of strangers over the past three years, all the panic attacks, all the anxiety that clings to his ribs and wraps around his throat. He thinks of those months that destroyed his life, those months that that took him from an ocean to a dwindling stream, carving its path through dry earth with no strength left to break free, no hope of reaching the vast, endless sea. And now, standing here, slightly shacking on the threshold, he thinks about how he’ll look in Jimin’s eyes. Jimin, who just flew more than twelve hours across the world. Jimin, who came all this way just to leap into the sky again, to soar from his branch once more, like the glass birds waiting among the branches of the tree in the living room.

“Yoongi-ah, hurry up, I’m freezing here.”

Yoongi turns the key and opens the door. He slowly takes off his shoes and walks down the hallway, peeking into the living room. He’s immediately greeted by Namjoon and Seokjin’s hellos and three unfamiliar heads turning his way. Hoseok steps past him, introducing himself effortlessly before locking eyes with Jimin. He pulls him into a hug—naturally, as if this weren’t their very first time meeting. Jimin returns the hug with force, smiling genuinely at Hoseok, a smile that lights up his whole face. Yoongi sees Namjoon approaching, feeling his hand gently on his back - a hand that gives him a little push, though it’s hardly noticeable. Taehyung and Jungkook smile as they step closer.

“Hi Yoongi. Finally nice to meet you.”

“Hey.” Yoongi clears his throat. “Taehyung, Jungkook. Nice to meet you too.”

Jimin looks at him from the couch, his head tilted slightly. Then, he slowly stands and approaches him at a measured pace. Yoongi meets his gaze and moves towards him, careful not to shift his attention elsewhere. But he notices it anyway—the faint limp in his walk. It’s subtle, just the lightest brushstroke on the canvas of his poised, upright stance. There’s grace in the way he moves, a quiet dignity that seems to fill the entire room. His gaze is tired but serene. He smiles.

“Pleasure to meet you, Yoongi hyung.”

And then, he hugs him.

Yoongi can’t remember the last time someone outside of his small circle of friends had embraced him like this. He figures Jimin must have done that with everyone that day. With Namjoon and Seokjin right at the airport. He would have done the same first with Hoseok, if Hoseok hadn’t beaten him to it. And now, he’s embracing him. Maybe it’s his way of saying thank you.

It’s a long embrace, one Yoongi doesn’t quite know what to do with. He feels the slight weight of Jimin’s chin resting against his shoulder. He gathers the courage to return the hug, gently wrapping his arms around Jimin’s body—a gesture he didn’t think he could still make.

“Pleasure to meet you too,” he whispers back.

Jimin carries a light scent, the kind that seems to engulf the summer breeze of Busan’s ports. Maybe it has nothing to do with it, but that's how Yoongi imagines the smell of the sea.

Chapter Text

Yoongi can't quite remember the last time he found himself in a room with so many people, excluding the occasional pub visits or the few dinners out with Seokjin and Namjoon, sometimes even Hoseok. 

So many people. He chuckles at his own thoughts, because many isn't exactly the right word. He counts and recounts every single head in the room, just to remind himself that the others are only six. He keeps pressing his palm against his chest, a quiet confirmation that he, too, is here—that with him, they are seven.

And seven is a nice number, he thinks. Seven days in a week. Seven colors in the rainbow. He once read somewhere that the ancient Greeks believed there were only seven planets. The same Greeks who had also divided the world’s waters into seven seas, wrapping around the earth. They only knew of seven, and their ignorance was forgivable. But Yoongi has never seen the sea, and nothing can excuse that. No reason justifies having never stood by a shore, not even in Korea, in his own country.

Yet, once, he was an adventurous person. Once, he wanted to see the world. But after moving to Seoul, he had been so consumed by his ambitions, by the songs to compose, the music to create, the dream to chase—always that first, always that before the sea. In Seoul, the only water he ever truly ended up knowing was the rain that fell, the river that flowed, the tap water and the shower water, the water poured from bottles and steeped into tea… and the water that welled up in his eyes, spilling over as tears.

Namjoon’s hand settles on his knee, grounding him. Pulling him back to the present, back into the warmth of the room. Only now does Yoongi realize his leg was bouncing. Yoongi glances to his right, but Namjoon doesn’t acknowledge him—just keeps smiling, laughing, effortlessly weaving in and out of conversation. But his hand remains, a quiet pressure on Yoongi’s thigh, steady, grounding.

Yoongi tries to focus. Seokjin, seated next to Namjoon, throws him a look—subtle, knowing. Then, a small smile. Yoongi sits at the far end of the table, by the window, with no one beside him on the other side. Across from him sits Jungkook, with his insatiable appetite. He doesn’t talk much—perhaps the quietest of them all, aside from Yoongi. But unlike Yoongi, Jungkook’s silence is easy. When he wants to speak, he speaks. He knows how to join in effortlessly, slipping between the waves of conversation with ease. He laughs when there’s laughter. Every now and then, he leans his head on Taehyung’s shoulder. And sometimes, it’s Taehyung who leans into him.

Another couple in the house. Dammit.

Yoongi hesitates for a second before letting his gaze drift past Taehyung. Jimin is sitting beside him. His hair is dark, natural, different from the blonde he remembered from the video. His profile is striking, something out of some stolen statue he saw in the British Museum. Yoongi thinks it, and the thought embarrasses him. But it’s true.

He allows himself to glance at him in brief intervals, shifting his focus between the barely touched food on his plate and Jimin’s delicate features. His fine nose, the soft curve of his full lips forming a gentle smile as he listens to Hoseok. Hoseok, who has clearly had more than the single drink he had planned. Hoseok, who is going on and on about how beautiful London is, how full of life—you’ll love it, we’ll make sure you have the best time, you’ll see. Yoongi shifts his gaze towards him and his face flushed from the alcohol. A small smile tugs at his lips as he watches his determined efforts to make Jimin feel at home.

“...It was funny, at the airport, really...”

Jimin’s voice pulls him back into the moment. The room has quieted. Everyone is listening now, intrigued by his story.

“Taehyungie kept explaining that we’d requested a private screening, but apparently, the request got lost somewhere. The metal detector kept going off, so I told them—look, there’s carbon fiber and titanium in this thing I’m wearing. Of course it’s gonna go off.” Jimin says it casually, even smiling. And yet, Yoongi feels it—that faint trace of sadness, that veil in his eyes. And something else, something that makes his stomach tighten—because no, that doesn’t sound funny at all.

"First, they wanted him to take off his shoes," Taehyung adds, "which obviously wasn’t possible. Then they started touching his prosthesis, even though we had the physician’s certificate." His hand tightens on Jimin’s arm, his frustration still simmering. “I get it, they had to check for themselves. But they could have done it somewhere private, like we asked. They could have just handled it differently.”

Taehyung is still angry. Visibly so. Yoongi doesn’t blame him.

“So basically, Jimin hyung drove the metal detector crazy,” Jungkook chimes in, trying to lighten the mood. Yoongi watches Jimin smile, but it’s a bitter one.

“Honestly, by the time airports upgrade their scanners to distinguish a prosthesis from an explosive, it'll already be too late,” Hoseok points out. His face is tense, his voice edged with the weight of both his medical knowledge and the alcohol. “This happens all the time. In Seoul, in London, everywhere. It’s unacceptable. Especially when the technology already exists.”

“I’m sorry, Jimin,” Namjoon adds gravely. “That’s awful.”

Namjoon’s hand is still resting on Yoongi’s thigh, just like Taehyung’s hand remains on Jimin’s arm. It’s one of the many things Yoongi notices, beneath the anger simmering in his chest, the sadness curling around his ribs, the discomfort of not knowing how to contribute to the conversation.

“Our Yoongi here, he’s pretty serious about these things,” Seokjin joins in, leaning slightly towards him with a little smile. “I bet he’d fire off a complaint email to the airport management on the spot.”

Yoongi feels six heads turning towards him all at once. Like the six ancient seas crashing in his direction.
Like the six colors of the rainbow reminding him that, without the seventh, the spectrum is incomplete.

Except Yoongi isn’t the sea. And he isn’t some missing color in the rainbow either.

A flush spreads across his face, creeping up to his ears.

I wasn’t always like this, he thinks. I wasn’t like this at all.

“I’ll ask you next time, then.” Jimin’s voice cuts through his thoughts, and Yoongi is forced to look up. Jimin is watching him, a small, tired smile playing on his lips, his eyes heavy with exhaustion and tinged with sadness. “I’ll let it slide this time. But next time, I’ll count on you, hyung.”

Hyung. Again. The only person to call him that. The only one who pretends not to notice that Yoongi doesn’t want honorifics, not even the informal ones. He doesn’t want to be defined by anything, not even language.

But Jimin had called him hyung from the very start, without even knowing him much, without hesitation. In doing that, he had ignored the weight of conventions, too. Maybe that’s why Yoongi lets it slide. Maybe that’s why—he realizes just now—he actually likes the way it sounds when he hears it from him.

He knows he can’t just stay silent. “Uh, the thing is…”

He looks around, clears his throat. Jimin watches him, head tilted slightly, eyes filled with quiet curiosity.

“The thing is, it’s not the fault of the people working security. I mean, yeah, they should’ve been more respectful. But…” He hesitates, uncertain now, but he’s already started speaking, so he keeps going. “But the real blame is on the people higher up. The ones who don’t invest in smarter metal detectors, who push all the responsibility onto the workers at the bottom…” He pauses for a second. “Uh, at the bottom…the ones standing there, doing their job, are afraid to step out of line because they know they’ll get fired in an instant because, uh, that’s how it works. No one trains them for situations like this….” He lowers his gaze. “The ones making decisions pretend there’s nothing outside their narrow version of the world, nothing beyond what’s convenient for them…” He pauses again, uncertain. He realizes he's rambling, but the damage is already done. “And, uh. Yeah. That’s… what I’d say, I guess.”

He hears Seokjin clear his throat and senses Namjoon shifting uncomfortably in his chair.

"Well, Yoongi’s not wrong…" Namjoon tries, hesitant. Yoongi knows Namjoon agrees with him. He knows they are on the same line. The thing is, Namjoon is also better at knowing when to say certain things and when to hold them back.

“Oh, our Yoongi has some very strong opinions about the world, really,” Hoseok tries to laugh it off, his face even redder, maybe not just from the alcohol anymore.

Yoongi already knows what Seokjin will tell him later. He can picture it perfectly.
That he should have just said something simple. That they all know what he thinks.
That they understand why he thinks it. That he’s right.
That they love him, and he’s right, and the world sucks, and he’s right, and no one in this shitty world will ever hurt him as long as they’re with him—etcetera, etcetera. But that all he really needed to do with Jimin was to offer unquestioning solidarity. That there’s no need to get all political all the time.

That he should have just simply said, I’m so sorry, Jimin. I can’t possibly understand what you’re going through, but I’m so sorry.

Maybe he should have. But it’s because the world is awful that he said what he did. Because some people should take more responsibility than others when the world is this awful. Because it’s not everyone’s fault in the same way.

He feels Taehyung’s gaze on him, but he doesn’t dare meet it. Instead, he dares to look at Jimin. And Jimin’s eyes are heavy with sadness. His lips hold a faint, bitter smile, but his eyes—his eyes are just sad.

Jimin nods slowly, holding his gaze. “You’re right,” he says at last. “Some people should pay more than others.” Then he looks away, lowering his gaze to his lap, still nodding slightly to himself. “Like the person who took my leg,” he murmurs. The words come with a bitter smile. “The one who hasn’t paid me a single won in compensation because, apparently, he’s the son of some big finance executive in Seoul."

Yoongi watches as Taehyung’s grip on Jimin’s arm tightens, his face tense. Jungkook leans across the table for a brief moment, resting his hand over Taehyung’s. A silent reassurance. A quiet I’m here too.

Yoongi wants to say something. But he’s run out of words. Run out of social battery. He doesn’t know what the other three think of him right now, and the uncertainty gnaws at him. The anger gnaws at him. The sheer, unrelenting rage at this world that—yes—it really, truly, fucking sucks.

“That bastard will pay,” Namjoon says then, pouring a little more soju into Jimin’s glass. Seokjin fills his plate. Hoseok squeezes his shoulder.

And Yoongi realizes—they all know Jimin’s story well. Once again, he’s the only one left in the dark. He is the one Namjoon and Seokjin decided not to tell, because it would bring up uncomfortable memories. And the thought of someone who should pay and doesn’t, someone who ruins a life and gets away with it—is a difficult memory.

He wants to ask what exactly happened, but he also knows he can’t. Not now and not here. That it’s not his place. So he does the only thing he can. He observes. He notices the way Taehyung’s hand lingers—protective, firm—on Jimin’s arm. The way Jungkook’s brief gesture carries its own quiet weight, another thread in the fabric of shared care surrounding Jimin.

The same quiet intention that keeps Namjoon’s hand resting on his thigh. Namjoon, who pushes a barely touched plate towards Yoongi in this moment of silence—without looking, with all the nonchalance he can muster.

Yoongi forces himself to pick up his chopsticks, to eat the rest of his gimbap, to simply remember that he is alive. That nothing is quite so catastrophic. But then his gaze falls on Jimin again as he tries to eat. Jimin looks back at him, smiles at him again like a secret code, wrapped in understanding and acceptance. A silent, mutual acknowledgment of the words they exchanged.

Then Hoseok gets up and returns with the whiskey bottle he had left in the kitchen.

Seokjin raises an eyebrow at him. "Doctor, are you quite sure that’s wise…?"

“I’m off tomorrow. And Yoongi said I could stay.”

Yoongi nearly chokes on his gimbap. “That’s not exactly what I...”

“We’ll sleep together like two lovebirds, Yoongi-ah. Want a drink, Jimin?”

Jimin laughs as he holds out his glass. Jungkook leans across the table, his own glass held up. “Me too, please, Hobi hyung.”

“Do we really all need to get drunk tonight, huh…” Taehyung remarks, amused.

“Except for you, as always,” Jungkook shoots back. “Just have a sip, babe, it’ll help with the jet lag tonight.”

Namjoon chuckles in Taehyung’s direction. “Might not be a bad idea. You’re gonna feel a little out of it for the next couple of days.”

“Oh, more than usual, you mean,” Jimin quips. He tries to smile, but Yoongi sees it. That subtle grimace of discomfort when Jimin isn’t pretending, that flicker of pain that occasionally crosses his face.

Taehyung must see it too—his arms are now crossed, his gaze sharp and attentive. He leans in to whisper something in Jimin’s ear when the others’ voices are loud enough to cover them. Then Taehyung gives Jungkook a look, a slight nudge with his elbow and a raised brow. Jungkook nods and quickly finishes his whiskey.

They speak in code, Yoongi thinks. They understand each other instinctively, the way people bound by something deep and ancient do—older than the seven ancient seas on earth, older than the seven ancient planets in the sky.

“You’ve all been so kind tonight,” Taehyung says then, standing up. “More than you needed to be, really. But if you’ll excuse us, I think the three of us are about to crash.”

Seokjin jumps to his feet. “Oh, of course. Get as much rest as you can.”

All three guests move to help clear the table, but Namjoon and Seokjin immediately wave them off. “Leave it. Seriously.” Taehyung and Jungkook thank them.

Jimin pushes himself up, his face still tense with that same persistent grimace of pain.
“It’s just that…” Yoongi watches as he braces against the table, Taehyung’s arm immediately steadying him.
“It’s starting to hurt now,” he mumbles. “Because of the flight,” he quickly adds, as if the pain must be justified.

Hoseok stands as well, a steady hand landing on Jimin’s shoulder.
“Nothing serious,” he reassures him gently. His words are a little looser now, his voice thick with the warmth of alcohol, but the doctor in him still speaks with the same certainty.
“The air pressure, the humidity...it can make the leg swell a bit. It’s normal. Completely normal. You, uh, used the gel pads… like I told you?”

“Yes.” Jimin’s voice drops, meant only for Hoseok now. A whisper between them, something he doesn’t intend to share with the others. He trusts Hoseok enough to take him seriously, even like this—just as Yoongi always does. 


“I also took it off at regular intervals on the plane. It really helped.”

Hoseok offers a small smile, his grip on Jimin’s shoulder firm.
“Then all that’s left to do is let it breathe and rest.”

“And if the swelling doesn’t go down by tomorrow?”

Yoongi wishes he hadn’t heard the quiet worry in Jimin’s voice, but he catches it all the same.

“It will,” Hoseok murmurs, voice slipping into something soothing. “Nothing a good night’s sleep won’t fix.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Yoongi sees Jimin nod, though there’s still a flicker of unease in his expression.

“Thanks, hyung,” Jimin whispers. “For everything. You know that.”

Then, as if flicking a switch, Jimin turns back towards them, anxiety smoothed away, a smile perfectly in place once more. Maybe years of dancing taught him this, Yoongi thinks. How to tuck away the tremble in his hands, how to push down the darkness on stage and pull up the light.

“Thank you,” Jimin says again, dipping his head slightly. “Goodnight.”

Taehyung and Jungkook echo him. Namjoon and Seokjin say goodnight with all the warmth of perfect hosts, telling them to call for anything, to make themselves at home.

Yoongi doesn’t say a word, only offers a small parting smile and hopes it’s enough. Hopes that tomorrow, he’ll manage more—that he’ll be able to speak, to show up in a way that feels more… right. Jimin meets his gaze one last time and returns the smile.

As soon as the guests disappear down the hall, Hoseok collapses back into his chair, finally letting himself sink into his drunkenness.

“You’re a little tipsy, old man,” Namjoon teases, clapping him on the shoulder. “What would your little patients think if they saw you like this?”

“They’d still say I’m their favorite doctor,” Hoseok slurs, grinning. “Because I am. The best doctor. The most…”

“The best,” Seokjin allows, voice laced with irony. “The greatest doctor in the entire universe. A doctor who will now help us clear the table.”

Hoseok groans loudly in protest, but he still stumbles to his feet. Yoongi chuckles to himself, gathering the plates and carrying them to the kitchen.

“Start unfolding that damn sofa bed,” Seokjin instructs the other two. “Namjoon, babe, the sheets are on the couch in case you somehow missed them. Don’t break it.”

“I saw them,” Namjoon grumbles. “Come back here, love, where are you going…”

Yoongi realizes he overestimated Namjoon’s sobriety. He’s tipsy, too. Shaking his head in amusement, he listens to them fumbling with the sofa from the kitchen. Seokjin joins him, hands full of dishes.

Yoongi leans against the sink for a moment, meeting Seokjin’s gaze with quiet urgency.

“I need a smoke,” he mutters at last. “I really, really need a smoke.”

Seokjin sighs, closing the kitchen door behind them. “Do it here. It’s freezing outside, and I pity you. We can open the window.”

He moves to crack it open, shivering immediately as the cold air rushes in. “Shit, it's cold as hell.”

Yoongi pulls a cigarette from the pack and presses it between his lips. He can feel Seokjin's stare on him.

“What?”

Seokjin smirks. “There you are.”

Yoongi lights the cigarette, inhales deeply, and watches the smoke curl into the air.

“When are you finally gonna quit?” 

“In the year of never, hyung.”

Seokjin sighs. “Starting tomorrow, no smoking in the house. Not with guests here.”

Yoongi groans. “When the hell have I ever smoked inside?”

“A few weeks ago.”

“You let me.”

“Also last month.”

“And you let me then, too.”

Seokjin grins. “I sure give you a lot of permissions, don’t I? And here I thought I was the strict dad.”

Yoongi raises an eyebrow, cigarette balanced between his fingers. A small smile tugs at his lips. “Namjoon would be the kind dad then? May I remind you I’m his hyung here?”

Seokjin leans against the counter beside him. “Now you care about the hierarchy," he smirks. "And well, Namjoonie… he really is kind. The kindest person in the world, actually.”

Yoongi nods. “I’m not arguing with that. But please don’t get all sentimental on me.”

Seokjin huffs a laugh. “You’re kind too, you know.”

Yoongi groans. “I’m too tired for this.”

“You really are.” Seokjin smiles at him. “You did well tonight.”

Yoongi looks away, taking another slow drag of his cigarette. “I don’t know.”

“I mean it. Sure, you went a bit political, as usual, but—”

Yoongi rolls his eyes. “It’s not political, it’s just common sense.”

Seokjin ignores him. “But Jimin seemed to appreciate your little speech there.”

“It wasn’t a speech, it was—”

“Common sense, yeah, yeah, I got it. But you’d be surprised to know that, for many, it’s not that common.”

Yoongi huffs a quiet laugh and lets his gaze settle on Seokjin. “Not for me, I’m afraid. For me, it’s as common as breathing.”

Seokjin nods, slowly, thoughtfully. His expression softens. “You did well tonight,” he repeats.

This time, Yoongi doesn’t argue. He turns on the faucet and stubs out his cigarette, watching it crumble between his fingers—just another fragile thing, good for nothing but wrecking his lungs. Then, he turns back to Seokjin.

They hold each other’s gaze for a moment, until Namjoon’s frustrated cursing echoes from the other room, followed by Hoseok’s slurred, utterly useless instructions.

“They might be smart and all,” Seokjin chuckles, “but they sure are two of the clumsiest people I know.”

Yoongi laughs. “Should we go help them?”

Seokjin stretches as he moves from the counter. “Yeah, let’s go.” With a lazy grin, he drapes an arm over Yoongi’s shoulders as they step out.

The room is heavy with light, too bright, and with a groan he realizes he forgot to close the curtains last night.

Then, a steady sound reaches his ears. It takes him a second to remember that Hoseok is next to him. He turns his head slightly, peeking over his shoulder. Hoseok is sprawled on his back, having claimed a good portion of the bed, a faint snore slipping past his lips.

Yoongi lets his head sink back into the pillow. Now that he thinks about it, it’s been a long time since he’s had to share a bed with someone. Last night, he’d showered, changed in the bathroom, then dragged himself into his room, exhausted. Hoseok had already been in his bed, wearing pyjamas borrowed from Seokjin, lying in the dark, half-asleep.

And for a moment—just a moment—Yoongi had felt afraid. It had been fleeting, irrational, a sudden, sharp thought in an evening already unusual and exhausting, full of things he wasn’t used to anymore. In the quiet of the night, Hoseok had murmured sleepily, telling him to just get in bed.

“It’s okay,” he had said, turning over. And then, drowsily, as if it was the most natural thing in the world, he had told Yoongi he cared about him. And a few other things, hazy and alcohol-softened, that Yoongi still isn’t sure what to do with.

Yet, Yoongi had slept well. A sleep flat and neutral, mostly undisturbed. And he wishes he could slip back into it instead of facing the day ahead. Another day with strangers in the house. Or almost strangers, or whatever they are. He doesn’t even know when strangers stop being strangers and start becoming acquaintances…and then friends. Hearing Hoseok’s soft snoring, he remembers how it had taken him nearly two years to see him as a friend. He certainly doesn’t have that kind of time with their three guests.

With a sigh, he slowly sits up, careful not to wake Hoseok—though he soon realizes it would take a cannon blast to wake him up. After all, it was Hoseok's first time getting drunk in years, and maybe this kind of deep sleep is exactly what he needs. He works more than anyone, spends his days helping people, doing good.

Yoongi wonders what it must feel like to be that useful.

He rubs his eyes, standing in the middle of the room. Then, as he reaches for his wardrobe, he pulls out whatever comes to hand—a black sweatshirt, light jeans, socks, and boxers. He cracks open the door, peeking out into the hallway—clear. He hurries towards the bathroom and locks the door behind him. So far, so good.

Who knows what the day will bring.

If he calculates it right, he could slip out without anyone noticing. Pretend he has errands to run, a project to work on, some paperwork to sort out. He could take the tube, head to his usual spot by the murky water of the Thames, sit and watch the river crawl by until his eyes burn and his brain stops making sense.

He looks at himself in the mirror and, as expected, doesn’t like what he sees. But it’s a thought he’s used to by now. Tired eyes, faint dark circles he can never seem to erase, a sickly complexion, a face that seems to shrink by the day. Sometimes, he fears that one day his face will disappear entirely—that he’ll become just a body, faceless and undefined.

Or worse, that he’ll vanish completely, leaving only an empty outline.

Like that Magritte painting Namjoon had taken him to see last year, when it was on temporary display at the National Gallery. Namjoon had explained its meaning to him—how the modern man is increasingly alone, lost in the crowd, torn between the need to appear and the desire to simply be. Next to the real figure of a man stood its surreal counterpart, filled not with flesh, but with the rolling waves of the ocean. Not a grimy, grey river, but a vast, endless blue, with a sunlit shore stretching beyond.

The shower, at least, helps clear his head. The warm water soothes his skin, grounding him. He dries off and dresses slowly, savoring these final moments of solitude before the day inevitably swallows him whole. Then, with a deep breath, he opens the door.

He walks through a house that no longer feels like his own. Namjoon and Seokjin’s room, where Taehyung and Jungkook are staying, is silent. As he approaches the guest room, he thinks of how Namjoon had once wanted to turn it into a shared study, a space for all three of them. A place for Namjoon’s books, Seokjin’s gaming setup, and maybe, just maybe, a piano for Yoongi.

Namjoon had brought it up so many times, the idea of getting him a piano, until Yoongi told him to stop. Sitting at a piano, placing his fingers on the black and white keys—that’s an image that no longer belongs to his life. Hasn’t for a long time.

The guest room door is slightly ajar. Yoongi can't help but steal a glance, just for a moment. No piano, no books, no gaming setup. And no Jimin, either. The room holds only two half-unpacked suitcases, lying open on the floor, a pair of pyjamas tossed onto the bed, and scattered personal items—so many skincare products, Yoongi notes, as he thinks of his own dull, neglected face. A pair of crutches lean against the wall. Guilt creeps in, and he quickly averts his eyes, stepping away.

Before he even rounds the corner into the living room, he notices the Christmas tree glowing, its lights twinkling uselessly in the daylight.

"Do we really need to keep them on all day? Isn’t that a waste of fucking—" he starts grumbling.

He stops in his tracks at the sight before him. The sofa bed is already folded away, and Seokjin, Namjoon, and Jimin sit with coffee mugs in hand. Seokjin and Namjoon are still in their pyjamas, but not Jimin. Jimin is already flawlessly dressed—a beige turtleneck sweater, wide-cut black jeans, two neat strands of dark hair falling perfectly over his forehead. Not a single thing out of place. Yoongi, suddenly self-conscious, wonders how miserable and unkempt he must look in comparison.

"Good morning to you too, Yoongi-ah. Cheerful as ever first thing in the morning," Seokjin teases, smiling.

Yoongi has no choice but to step further into the room. "Uh, morning," he mumbles.

Jimin watches him, curious.

"There’s fresh coffee in the kitchen. Still warm," Namjoon offers.

"Okay. Thanks."

Yoongi hurries into the kitchen. He wonders what Seokjin and Namjoon must think of him, seeing him like this—so different from when it’s just the three of them. And Jimin? What is Jimin thinking?

As he pours the coffee into his favorite mug—a childish one, painted with little boats floating on the sea—he suddenly feels embarrassed. He lingers in silence, mug in hand, listening to the conversation in the next room.

"I’ve been to London a few times," he hears Jimin say, "but I never had time to go around. I was always here for performances. I’ve never really explored much."

"What would you like to see first?" Seokjin asks.

"Uh." Jimin's delicate voice falters, as if overwhelmed by the endless possibilities of the city. "I don’t know… Hyde Park? Is that too basic? I… I like parks."

"It's not basic," Namjoon replies. "Parks are always a nice place to go, and Hyde Park is very pretty. We could go today if you're up for it, since it’s sunny…” Yoongi hears Namjoon chuckles. “Well, if the others ever wake up."

Jimin laughs softly. "I'm up for it. But knowing them, they’ll probably sleep the whole day. I should wake them up or their sleep schedule will be a mess."

Hyde Park. Yoongi stops listening. He can only think about how little he wants to go. In two years, he’s only been there maybe twice. A huge park, filled with happy families, children running wild, couples strolling hand in hand, cyclists, joggers making the most of a sunny weekend. Not a single category he belongs to.

He could step outside for a smoke. Instead, he pushes the thought away, steels himself, and slowly walks back into the living room.

"Ah, there you are." Seokjin seems unusually cheerful today. "We were just telling Jimin about that spot in Hyde Park where people stand and give their little speeches to the world."

"Okay..." Yoongi sits next to Seokjin, on the very edge of the sofa bed. "You folded it up already?"

"Yeah, it takes up too much space during the day."

"I can sleep here for now," Jimin offers. “I’m sorry we’re putting you guys out of your way."

"Oh, don't be silly," Seokjin answers immediately. "It’s no trouble, the guest room is yours. And honestly, we like sleeping out here."

"Oh, right," Namjoon adds. "The tree is really..."

"A companion," Seokjin finishes for him.

"Yeah. A companion. It makes the place feel warm, doesn’t it?"

Seokjin turns towards Yoongi, but Yoongi pointedly ignores him, focusing instead on blowing on his steaming mug, eager for the first sip.

"It is really cute, actually,” Jimin offers. "Yeah, it’s kind of... comforting."

"And look at those adorable little birds," Seokjin points them out. "Yoongi bought them, you know. And to think he didn’t even want the tree."

Yoongi feels his face heat up. "I never said that."

"Oh, come on. You sat here sulking the whole time we put it up."

Yoongi’s ears are burning now. “I did not."

"Anyway," Seokjin continues, grinning. "Point number one, he bought those adorable little birds himself."

Out of the corner of his eye, Yoongi sees Jimin smile.

“They’re really cute,” Jimin agrees.

“And point number two,” Seokjin adds, “the speech corner. It’s called Speaker’s Corner, to be precise. That’s where Yoongi will one day kick off his political career.”

“Goddammit, I have no intention of going into politics.”

“Just write a speech about anything. An injustice, there are plenty. All you ever do is complain.”

Namjoon chuckles. “We’ll write one together. Like Marx and Engels. Did you know Marx gave speeches there too?” He turns to Jimin.

“Oh,” Jimin says politely. “What about?”

“Well, it was in 1855, and—”

“Oh, no, we’re not doing this now,” Seokjin cuts him off. “Jimin-ah, I share a house with two revolutionaries. It’s tough.”

Jimin smiles. “Someone has to do it.”

Yoongi glances up at him, and for a second, their eyes meet.

“Alright then.” Seokjin gets to his feet. “I’ll go get ready, so we can free up the bathroom for the rest of them.” He turns to Namjoon. “Coming, babe?”

“Yeah. See you in a bit guys.”

“Just leave the mugs,” Yoongi murmurs. “I’ll wash them.”

“Aw, thanks, love.” Seokjin pats his shoulder lightly before disappearing down the hallway with Namjoon.

Yoongi watches them go, taking another sip of his coffee. Only then does it hit him—he’s going to have to make conversation. He searches for something to say, but Jimin beats him to it. His voice is natural, easy, though laced with the slightest hint of shyness.

“Did you sleep well?”

Yoongi turns to him slowly. “Yeah. You?”

“Well.” Jimin offers him a small smile. “But when I woke up, it took me a moment to realize where I was. I thought I was still in Seoul.”

Yoongi nods. “Yeah… that happens when you go somewhere new for a while.”

“Seokjinie hyung and Namjoonie hyung told me you all moved here together?”

“Two years ago, yeah.” Yoongi is grateful to have a mug in his hands, something to focus on.

“Do you like living in London?”

Jimin is trying to make conversation with him. Yoongi takes a barely perceptible breath, forcing himself to return the kindness.

“London is…” He pauses to think. “It’s nice. Sometimes a bit… a bit too much, I’d say. But yeah, it’s nice.”

Jimin hums in agreement. “Well, Seoul can be exhausting too, with all those people.”

“Yeah… I loved and hated Seoul too.”

Yoongi doesn’t look at Jimin. His gaze stays fixed on the little birds perched on the Christmas tree. 

“You’re from Busan, right?” He asks finally. Only then, not wanting to seem rude, does he force himself to glance at him.

Jimin’s smile widens. Yoongi thinks this must be one of his genuine ones.

“Yes, I’m from Busan. But I moved to Seoul early on to study dance.”

“It might sound weird, but I’ve never been to Busan,” Yoongi admits. “Did you like living there?”

The sea, Yoongi thinks. Tell me about the sea.

“Oh, it was the best childhood I could’ve had. It was so fun. As kids, we’d run all the way to the port and play in Gijang Gongsu, among the fishermen’s nets. We’d have little contests to see who could find the most abandoned fishing lines. And in the summer, we’d dive into the water between the boats, even though we weren’t supposed to.” Jimin chuckles softly. “Yeah, it was beautiful. The coastline there is so pretty.”

Yoongi holds his gaze. He has a nice shape to his eyes, he thinks. Warm, bright. Deep.

“The closest thing to the sea in Daegu was the lake at Duryu Park,” he murmurs slowly. 

“I’ve been to Daegu many times for shows,” Jimin offers kindly. “It’s been a while, though.”

“I imagine the fun.”

Jimin chuckles. “It’s a nice city.”

Yoongi shrugs, looking down at his nearly empty coffee mug. “I don’t know, it was all I knew,” he mutters. “Then I moved to Seoul too.”

“What did you do in Seoul?”

Yoongi drops his gaze to the mug. He could really use a cigarette right now.

“I wanted to produce music, I don’t know. Become a producer. I did a little bit.” He stops, suddenly unsure of what he even wants to say or how to say it. “Nothing special, um… nothing compared to you, obviously.”

Jimin chuckles. “Namjoonie hyung told me yesterday that you studied music and that you’re really good at it. And that you wanted to open a recording studio in Seoul.”

Yoongi shifts uncomfortably in his seat. “Yeah, well. Dreams, you know.”

“Dreams are a beautiful thing.”

Yoongi turns to him again, without even thinking. He wants to tell him that dreams are a burden for most people, a weight that crushes them. He wants to tell him that, in the world they live in, dreams are nothing more than a lie, something to pay for with a lifetime of disillusionment. That it’s better not to have them at all. But then he looks at Jimin and he feels ashamed. He realizes how unfair it would be to say that to him, out of everyone. To him, who worked hard for his dreams, and who is here to keep chasing what’s left of them.

So he stays silent, locked in a miserable quiet.

“The little birds are really cute,” Jimin says softly.

Yoongi follows his gaze to the two delicate glass birds perched on the tree’s branches. Then, instinctively, he looks back at Jimin, but Jimin doesn’t return the glance. His eyes remain fixed on the tiny creatures, lingering there for what feels like an eternity.

“Speaking of it, I should go wake up the two lovebirds,” Jimin finally murmurs, as if pulling himself out of a daydream. He rises with a sigh. “It still aches a bit from yesterday.” He looks down at his right side. “Maybe the altitude messed with it. I had to wear a tighter compression sock this morning, hurts less that way.”

Yoongi stands too, a quiet pang in his stomach. “Maybe… um, maybe you guys should take the car to the park today.”

Jimin looks at him, confused. “You’re not coming?”

Yoongi blinks, caught off guard. “Well, we wouldn’t all fit in the car…”

Jimin’s lips curve into a small smile. “Then we’ll walk. That’s what I use this thing for.”

This thing. Yoongi notices that’s how Jimin refers to his prosthesis, just like he had done the night before. As if he doesn’t want to even name it.

Jimin glances at the mugs on the coffee table. “Can I help you with those?”

“Oh, no. No, no.” Yoongi shakes his head, embarrassed. “I’ve got it. Really.”

Jimin tilts his head slightly, the smile still playing at his lips. “Alright. But I won’t just sit around and do nothing all the time, you know.” He gestures toward the hallway. “I’ll go wake those two.”

Yoongi watches him leave, his steps ever so slightly uneven, the limp more pronounced this morning. But despite the stiffness, Jimin’s posture remains upright, poised with a quiet dignity. There’s an elegance in the way he carries himself, like someone always ready to take flight.

By the time they finally step outside, it’s nearly noon. The winter sun hangs bright in the sky, casting a faint warmth—feeble, yet sincere. It’s trying, Yoongi thinks. A bit like he is.

They spill onto the sidewalk like a line of schoolkids. Taehyung, effortlessly refined, embodies the spirit of West London—polished, cultured. Jungkook, in contrast, is all streetwear and easy confidence, more East London in his energy. Both have cameras in hand. Jungkook’s is a sleek, modern reflex. Taehyung carries something far older, a small, black metal box dangling from a leather cord around his neck.

“It’s a box camera,” he explains to Namjoon. “A Rolleiflex. Ever used one before?”

Namjoon shakes his head. "I've never really been into analog photography."

"Ah." Taehyung chuckles. "Back in university, I thought you'd eventually get into everything."

"He does get into everything. Too much, even," Seokjin cuts in. "Encourage him just a little, and by tomorrow, he'll be hunting one of these things down at some flea market."

Namjoon grins. "I'd turn into Thomas from Blow-Up, wandering around London, snapping pictures. And you'd be my Jane, love."

Seokjin raises an eyebrow. "What the hell are you talking about, Joonie?"

"A film from the Sixties," Taehyung laughs. "A classic one."

Seokjin sighs. "Never heard of it. Yoongi-ah, have you?"

All three of them turn briefly toward Yoongi. He shakes his head. He finds himself caught between two conversations, half-listening to the banter ahead of him, but more absorbed in the one unfolding behind him.

From the back, he hears Jungkook firing off a string of questions at Hoseok about the prothesis and the rehabilitation program—everything he must have held back yesterday.

"Ah, Jiminie, in a few months, you'll be back dancing en pointe," Hoseok says. Yoongi thinks Hoseok enjoys saying en pointe a bit too much.

"When you meet the technician on Monday, you'll see. She's incredibly skilled. And she's passionate about ballet, that's why she started this whole project…"

"You'll be there too, right?" Jungkook asks. "Because, well… our English…"

Yoongi hears Hoseok chuckle. "I already asked for a morning off. I worked it out with a colleague."

"You didn’t have to, hyung," Jimin murmurs. "Seokjin hyung and Namjoon hyung have already used up too much leave because of me."

"Oh, come on, Jiminie. A few hours off won't kill me. And you don't have to worry about the language, they're well-equipped to communicate beyond that. Everything will be fine, really."

"Let’s just hope this discomfort is gone by Monday…" Jimin mutters.

"Which is exactly why we should've stayed home today," Jungkook insists. "Or at least taken the car." He sighs. "But you’re as stubborn as ever when it comes to resting."

"Walking won't harm him," Hoseok counters. "There's no swelling, no real issue. Just some sensitivity, it'll pass eventually. Nothing some movement can make worse, anyway. It's not because of it.”

"It's phantom limb pain, hyung. It comes and goes, just like that. It happens a lot to me, especially when it gets very cold,” Jimin says, his voice growing quieter. "Or even when I'm tired or more stressed...it happens more then, but maybe I’m just imagining it. Or it just comes with no reason. It's like… I don’t know how to explain it. Sharp pain, as if the wound is still there."

"They explained to you why that happens, didn't they?" Hoseok asks gently.

"Uh, more or less, yeah… I think I get it," Jimin replies. "It’s because the nerve tissue is still active around the area…"

"Yes." Yoongi can imagine Hoseok nodding behind him. "Basically, the nerve tissue keeps sending signals to the brain, as if nothing ever happened… as if…"

"As if I still have my whole leg," Jimin whispers.

Yoongi shoves his hands into his pockets, holding his breath. He doesn’t dare turn around.

"Exactly," Hoseok says gently. "The brain receives those signals and sometimes misinterprets them as pain, because it doesn't fully grasp what has happened."

"What do you mean by signals?" Jungkook asks. "Honestly, whenever doctors explain things, they make it impossible to understand."

Jimin lets out a bitter chuckle. "Yeah, you really need a translator sometimes. And when you ask them to break it down for you, they just get annoyed and treat you like an idiot. A lot of them do, anyway."

"I'm sorry," Hoseok offers kindly, patiently. "I actually like explaining things…"

Yoongi thinks about all the times Hoseok has explained something to him over the past two years. Layer upon layer of how the brain works, always broken down into words simple enough for him to grasp.

"Anyway," Hoseok continues, "the brain receives all kinds of signals from the nervous system—about movement, body temperature, touch. Through these signals, it knows everything about us. The problem is, it gets confused. It’s wired to perceive the body a certain way, and when a part of that body is no longer there, it struggles. It misinterprets the signals and translates them into pain."

"Well, that sucks," Jungkook mutters. "What a scam, the brain."

Yeah, Yoongi thinks. What a fucking scam.

“If you look at it that way, it is a scam," Hoseok agrees. "But I always say our brain is incredibly smart. First of all, it’s hardwired to know everything about us, and as you can see, it’s not easy to fool. It knows us, even when we think we don’t know ourselves. And it never truly leaves us alone."

What a fucking scam indeed, Yoongi thinks again.

"But," Hoseok goes on, "the brain can be retrained. Like I said, it doesn’t leave us alone. It has a precise map of who we are, but we can help it redraw that map."

Words Hoseok has told him a thousand times before. You can help that smart brain of yours redraw the map, and so on.

"I did a lot of therapy like that in Seoul… to train my brain," Jimin murmurs, his voice tired. "Hours and hours in front of the mirror, moving my leg, trying to convince my brain that… this is who I am now."

"We used to stand in front of the mirror, all three of us, moving our legs back and forth," Jungkook chuckles, trying to lighten the mood. "One, two, one, two. Hey, Jimin hyung’s brain… please listen to us."

"Didn’t listen much," Jimin adds. There’s a faint smile in his voice now, at least.

"Mirror therapy, you mean. That’s one. Did you do anything else?" Hoseok asks.

"Yeah, a bunch of other things. Like stimulating the limb with hot and cold water, weird mental exercises… imagining movements as if I still had my whole leg. You just sit there like an idiot, pretending. I didn’t like it, so I stopped. Taking painkillers is easier."

"You could try again here," Hoseok says gently. "These things take time, but eventually, they help a lot. You just need patience…"

No one answers.

The tube entrance is just a few steps away now. Jungkook tells Jimin to wait outside while they go inside to get their travel passes. Yoongi watches him walk past, joining Taehyung. Namjoon and Seokjin escort them inside.

Yoongi slowly turns around then. Jimin smiles at him, hands tucked into his jacket pockets to protect them against the cold.

"You guys already bought the travel cards for the tube, right?" Yoongi asks, just to contribute somehow. To show he’s present.

Jimin nods, a small smile on his face. "We bought them online," he clarifies. "If Namjoon and Seokjin hadn’t helped us… with everything, really."

Yoongi lowers his gaze. He feels out of place, thinking he didn’t do anything for them. "Yeah, they’re the best people…" He pulls his coat tighter around himself.

"Thanks for the consideration, Yoongi-ah," Hoseok teases.

Yoongi smirks. It’s easier with Hoseok there. "Is this where I’m supposed to say, you too, Hobi?"

"Exactly."

Yoongi raises an eyebrow. "Mm."

"I’m waiting."

Yoongi tilts his head. "Not sure about that."

Hoseok chuckles, turning dramatically toward Jimin. "He acts like this, but deep down, he’s really soft. I swear."

Jimin looks at him, still smiling wide. Yoongi can’t hold his gaze. Instead, he stares at the ground, suddenly fixated on a stain right beneath his feet. Soft - he doesn’t think he is. Jimin looks like someone who would be instead.

"Yoongi-ah, I’m not moving from here until—"

Yoongi sighs. "You’re also one of the best people I know, Hobi," he mutters under his breath. "Happy now?"

Jimin chuckles, openly this time. Hoseok laughs too, giving him a light tap on the cheek before slinging an arm around his shoulder, too quick for Yoongi to dodge.

"Okay, okay, fine. Let go of me."

"You’re so cute, Yoongi. It’s been a while since I told you."

Yoongi feels his ears burn. He risks a glance up and finds Jimin still in the same spot, still with the same expression—amused, intrigued by the scene. He’s relieved when the others return.

"All set?" Jimin asks, a hint of apprehension in his voice.

Yoongi thinks about how everything related to life in London must unsettle Jimin, and yet, the moment he forgets where he is, that’s when he looks at peace. That, at least, is something he can understand well.

"For you," Jungkook hands him the travel card. "Monthly pass. Tae and I are doing weekly ones."

Jimin takes the card, staring at it for a second. "Thanks," he murmurs.

As if that small piece of plastic reflects more than just the weak winter sunlight. As if it’s a mirror to something deeper, something far beyond its size. Yoongi pictures it like that—a portal, one that leads to every single street in London. A magical doorway, waiting to pull them into new dimensions at any given moment.

I’m losing it. More than usual, dammit.

Slowly, they all drifts towards the entrance of the station. Yoongi never knows where to place himself. He thinks walking in a group might just be one of the worst things in life. Walking alone is easy. Walking in pairs is manageable. Walking in threes—like when he gives in to Namjoon and Seokjin’s invitations just so their friendship isn’t solely confined to the walls of their home—that’s already pushing it. More than three is unbearable.

Walking ahead or behind means standing out. Walking alongside means having to match everyone’s pace instead of his own—and his own is probably a slow, dragging, uncertain, tired pace. The pace of someone trying to balance on a spinning ball. Which, in the end, is exactly what the Earth is. A spinning ball that keeps rolling, forcing people to find their balance and not fall flat in front of everyone.

That’s life, he thinks. Nothing more, nothing less than an act of balance.

One by one, they pass through the turnstiles, each with their card in hand. Namjoon and Seokjin lead the way, perfect tour guides in a European metropolis they pretend to call home. Taehyung trots alongside them, clearly enamored with everything around him. A curious person, Yoongi thinks. Jungkook, maybe slighlty less so. Or maybe he is, but he doesn’t show it. Instead of feeding off the world around him, he draws energy from people—listening to Hoseok, laughing at Jimin’s jokes meant to lighten the quiet tension of taking first steps into the unknown.

When Hoseok and Jungkook get caught up in a lively debate about London’s architecture—Hoseok arguing that, compared to Korea, it all looks the same—Jimin slows his pace, as if waiting for him. The group, now, shrinks into a pair, him and Jimin.

“At least the station lines are colored, like in Seoul,” Jimin says. “Makes it easier.”

Yoongi hums. “Well, I think that’s the case almost everywhere, right? At least in big cities, they all have colors.”

Jimin chuckles. “Fair enough.”

Yoongi clears his throat. “It’s actually easier here than in Seoul, though.” He searches for something to add, something to keep the conversation going, anything to avoid seeming distant. Which, truly, couldn’t be further from the truth.

If only you knew just how little of that I actually am.

“There are way fewer lines,” Jimin comments.

Grateful for the prompt, Yoongi nods. “Exactly. About half, actually. They just opened a new one recently, dedicated to the Queen. But…no offense to her, I don’t think they really needed it.”

Jimin laughs. “Maybe they built it just so they could dedicate it to her.”

“They’ll never admit it, but…I have my suspicions.”

Jimin hums softly. Yoongi realizes his pace has slowed even more now, unconsciously. He isn’t sure anymore if he’s matching Jimin’s steps, still fatigued from the journey, or if Jimin is the one slowing down for him. Either way, he finds that he likes walking like this. Slowly, in a city that never stops moving too quickly.

“And is it true what Hobi hyung said? About the architecture? That everything looks the same?”

Yoongi likes answering questions like these. This isn’t small talk, the kind that makes his throat close up, the kind that burns like fireballs rising from his chest to his lips. Not another where do you work, how do you spend your days, what’s fun to do here.

Jimin speaks the way he dances—graceful, gentle, never forced. The thought makes Yoongi smile.

“Hobi likes to pretend he’s a great architecture enthusiast,” he whispers, like a childhood secret shared behind an adult’s back. “He likes to impress sometimes.”

Jimin smiles. “So he’s wrong, then?”

Yoongi shrugs. “A little right, I guess.”

Laughing affectionately about Hoseok, Namjoon, or Seokjin is easy. That much he can do. But making sense of the rest, so that not only he understands, but also the person listening—is much harder.

“Well, it’s a big city, so of course, there are lots of things,” he adds then. “The… famous things, the ones everyone knows…”

Jimin chuckles. “And so far…”

“No, I mean…” Yoongi tries to gather his thoughts.

Jimin places a brief hand on his shoulder. They’re nearing the platform now, but it’s a quieter time of day, with fewer people crowding around them than usual. “Only teasing. I get what you mean. The famous things are all different. They’re famous for a reason.”

“Well, yeah.” Yoongi is relieved by the way their conversation is going. “They’re called attractions, after all. Bait for the tourists.”

Jimin smirks. “Not all of them. Some things are beautiful. The Royal Opera House, for example. I don’t know if you’ve ever seen it from the inside, but it’s really stunning.”

Yoongi pauses for a moment. “Uh. Have you danced there?”

Jimin's smile fades a little. He looks away, doesn’t answer, but the response flickers in his eyes for just a second. A light glimmer, quick and fleeting, gone before he could hold onto it. Brief as a sneeze, a falling star, or something like that. Yoongi curses himself for asking.

“And beyond the attractions,” Jimin continues, his voice slightly lower, slightly rougher, “doesn’t everything look the same to you? Coming from Heathrow, I thought that. And I’ve thought it every other time I’ve been here too.”

Yoongi doesn’t really have an answer. He wonders if things feel the same to him more out of habit than truth, and how the few things that do catch his eye never seem to spark anything too positive.

“There’s some variety…” he says eventually. “Like the buildings they put up in hipster neighborhoods. Weird shapes, built by the most pretentious architects in the world. The stranger they are, the more expensive they get. It’s like…” He shuts his mouth for a second, wondering if he’s being annoying about it. “Well, like you have to pay for their imagination, I guess.”

They reach the platform, the usual swarm of bodies lined up behind the yellow safety line. A little further ahead, Yoongi notices Namjoon glance back at them, intrigued by the unusual scene.

Jimin tugs his wool beanie lower over his ears and stuffs his hands into his pockets. Now that they’ve descended into the belly of the underground, the cold feels sharper, the sudden gusts of damp air more irritating.

“So what you’re saying is…” Jimin picks up where they left off. Yoongi thought the conversation had run its course, but Jimin doesn’t seem in any hurry to let it go. “The rest of the houses all look the same because they’re cheaper.”

Yoongi scratches his head. “Uh, cheaper… that’s a big word. Not that much, really. Living in cities today is fucking expensive, even in the outer neighborhoods. One day, it’ll be a luxury. Like, for the rich-rich.”

Jimin locks eyes with him. “I’m almost broke, you know,” he tries to laugh it off. “Spent everything on… well, this. This madness I’m doing. That’s not exactly comforting.”

Yoongi thinks back to the price Hoseok had mentioned for the prosthesis. The very thought of it being a luxury is absurd. The thought that Jimin has to consider it madness is even worse. He wants to say something, but he doesn’t know what, or how.

Jimin doesn’t seem bothered by the silence. They hold each other’s gaze for a moment, and that’s enough. Then, Jimin looks away, checking the board where the train’s arrival counts down its last half-minute.

“But I like that everything looks the same,” Jimin murmurs at last.

Yoongi has to strain to catch the words, not letting them drown in the noise around them. He fixes his eyes on the back of Jimin’s dark-haired head, so different from the bright blonde he was used to seeing on screen. He doesn’t mind that it’s not blonde anymore. He never imagined him like this, and maybe that’s why the Jimin in front of him feels more real than the one he had built in his mind.

“Why?” Yoongi asks. He’s not used to asking, even when he wants to know. It’s easier to come up with the answers himself, to invent what people meant but didn’t say. And he’s not used to holding eye contact, but he does when Jimin turns back to him.

Tell me why.

“Because sometimes, it’s nice when everything looks the same,” Jimin replies simply. “It’s nice,” he repeats. “It’s like dancing, you know? The stage is the same for everyone. But the rest…you really have to imagine it yourself.”

Jimin shrugs just as the train arrives, its rumble indifferent to the conversations it interrupts. Yoongi doesn’t have time to say anything. He wonders how many conversations have been cut off by the arrival of a train, a bus, a plane. How many words lost forever.

The ride goes by quickly. Not everyone finds a seat, so Yoongi, Namjoon, and Seokjin stay standing, leaving the spots for their guests. Hoseok has no problem settling in among their new friends, fully embracing his role as the ever-enthusiastic tour guide.

It’s in moments like these that Yoongi wonders if Hoseok really believes it all, or if it’s just his way of masking a quiet, melancholic nostalgia for home. He’s always talking about London—London this, London that—but maybe he’s the one who seeks out fellow Koreans the most.

Jimin, sitting next to Hoseok, seems to be listening intently, tilting his head slightly toward him. Yoongi, gripping the handrail, realizes he’s already seen Jimin do that many times since last night - that quiet act of leaning in, just a little, to hear better. And maybe it’s not just to hear better. Maybe it’s an invitation to communicate, a way of silently reassuring the other person that he’s listening.

Maybe that’s something dance has taught him too, Yoongi thinks. How to move in the right way among others, how to speak without speaking at all.

He remembers an essay Namjoon had read to him months ago about nonverbal communication—how Namjoon had laid it all out in such detail that it almost feels like he read it himself. How to communicate through the body and all that.

Yoongi had told him he wasn’t exactly the best recipient for that kind of thing. He had told Namjoon he was well aware he was one of the stiffest people in the world—if not the most, then pretty damn close. And that his therapist, actually—and this, he had admitted in a rare moment of honesty - had pointed out how he always kept his arms crossed, how crossed arms meant defensiveness, and how he was trying to do it less.

Namjoon had gone quiet for a second, as he always does when faced with Yoongi’s rare confessions. But, as always, he had recovered quickly, saying that, well, everything can be learned. That was Namjoon’s philosophy, after all—the one he lives by, the one he preaches—everyone can learn anything if given the right conditions to learn, and so on.

Yoongi pulls his gaze away from the others, guilty of lingering too long. Next to him, Namjoon and Seokjin are chuckling over something, and Yoongi follows their line of sight instead. A fake sign sticker, left there by someone, that reads: No eye contact. Penalty £200.

“A fine Yoongi will never have to worry about in his life,” Seokjin remarks slyly. Yoongi rolls his eyes. Namjoon chuckles more with his shoulders than his mouth.

“Leave him alone,” Namjoon says then, amused. “He’s done more public relations and eye contact today than in the last ten years combined.”

Seokjin raises his eyebrows at him. “That’s true. You don’t have a fever, do you? Are you sure?”

Yoongi is tempted to let go of the handrail and cross his arms over his chest in protest, but then he remembers—he’s working on that. So instead, he keeps his hand right where it is, gripping the cold metal tightly.

Namjoon gives him that signature smile of his—the one that probably says something like: everyone can learn anything if given the right conditions to learn, and so on.

Or maybe it’s just Yoongi, as always, connecting the dots in other people’s sketches. 

Stepping out of the underground and blinking at the sudden return of daylight is one of those small things that lifts his soul for a second.

The walk from Green Park station to the park itself is short, though stretched out by Jungkook and Taehyung’s eagerness—more Taehyung’s, really—to play tourists. The moment they step through one of the park’s side entrances, Taehyung wastes no time pulling out his camera.

It’s always a whole process with that old analog thing he carries around his neck—adjusting, repositioning for better light, carefully turning a worn-down dial to focus, his fingers moving with a patience that belongs to another era. Yoongi doesn’t even realize he’s moved closer, drawn in by curiosity, until he finds himself listening to Taehyung explain, in great detail, exactly what he’s doing.

“And the film for my camera isn’t the usual kind. It’s a square format, 400x120…”

Yoongi nods politely, even though he has no idea what Taehyung is talking about.

“They’re just square and way more expensive,” Jimin laughs from beside him. Yoongi hadn’t even noticed him there. “Half his paycheck goes into it.”

Taehyung ignores him, too caught up in his own enthusiasm. “We need to capture this moment! Our first day trip in England. Group photo, everyone!”

“And you?” Namjoon asks.

“I’m the photographer,” Taehyung says brightly. “For a proper all-together shot, we’ll just use a phone, like the true children of our time.”

Jungkook grins. “The eternal struggle of the photographer. Never in the picture.”

“Someone’s gotta do it,” Taehyung says solemnly. “Alright, everyone get in.”

Yoongi has no choice but to follow along, surrendering to the only thing he hates more than walking in groups—group photos. If it were just Namjoon and Seokjin, he’d complain loudly, dragging his words out in that whining mannerism of his, like he always does when they get one of their brilliant capturing-the-moment ideas. But this time, he can’t.

So, silently, he takes his place between Namjoon and Hoseok, both of whom immediately rest their hands on his shoulders. Jungkook positions himself next to Hoseok, already grinning, Jimin beside Seokjin on the other side.

“Squeeze in,” Taehyung motions with his hands.

Somehow, Yoongi ends up completely sandwiched in the middle of the group, and he has no idea how it happened or why he didn’t stop it in time.

“One,” Taehyung counts.

Yoongi sighs.

“Two…”

He shoves his hands in his pockets.

“Three!”

He tries to smile.

With the photo taken, the walk through the park unfolds exactly as Yoongi expected. Cyclists weaving through paths, kids racing ahead of parents, couples drunk on the soft golden warmth of the sun as it begins its slow descent from the sky’s highest point.

They stop at the Serpentine, the so-called lake in the middle of Hyde Park that, despite its grand name, is really just an overgrown pond. Ducks paddle noisily across the surface, some waddling along the shoreline.

Yoongi has lost count of how many photos Taehyung has taken of the ducks. He watches from a distance as Taehyung carefully removes the spent roll of film from his camera while Jungkook hands him a new one.

"Ah, but it really is beautiful here." Jimin is suddenly at his side again. Yoongi shrugs, a little uneasy.

"It looks huge," Jimin speaks up again. "It’s my first time seeing it."

"In summer, you can rent pedal boats and go all the way across," Yoongi murmurs.

Jimin’s eyes light up. "Have you ever done it?"

"Uh, no. Seokjin and Namjoon did once, though, you can ask them..." He glances around, searching for them, but they’re too far away, and he doesn’t feel like calling out in front of everyone.

Jimin doesn’t seem too concerned. He doesn’t move to go ask them either. "Well, it’s winter now. I doubt it’s possible…"

"It's not," Yoongi confirms. "Though I don’t really get why. I mean, sure, it’s cold, but it’s still a lake. It’s not like it’s the sea. How dangerous can it be?” His voice fades into a quiet laugh.

Jimin smiles. "Lakes rise too, you know. When it rains or the wind is strong. Water is always water."

Water is always water. But there’s water, and then there’s water, Yoongi thinks. And the sea must be different from this, from an artificial lake built to make the city forget itself for a while.

"You’ve got no idea what water can do. Some of the storms I’ve seen in Busan…" Jimin smiles, but there’s something distant in it. "They used to scare me as a kid. And they’ve only gotten worse. A few years ago, we had the worst typhoon in decades in Gyeongsang…"

Yoongi hums. "I think I remember hearing something about that…"

"Yeah, it made the news. The sea is like that. It gives, and whatever it gives, it takes it back."

Yoongi doesn’t know what the sea gives. And he doesn’t know what it takes, either. So he asks again, for the second time that day. "What does it give then?"

And what does it take back?

Jimin laughs. "Fish to eat."

"Oh."

Right.

"And summer swims."

"Well, sure…" Yoongi suddenly feels ridiculous for asking at all.

Jimin watches him. His lips curve into a small smile. "No, but really. Much more than that."

Two questions are too many. Three feel absurd. Jimin doesn’t say anything else, and Yoongi doesn’t ask again.

Jimin stretches beside him, a quiet murmur of protest slipping from his lips as he massages his right thigh. Yoongi quickly looks away, not wanting to appear intrusive, though he knows he hasn’t been all that subtle.

”This discomfort just won’t leave me today," Jimin comments casually.

Yoongi doesn’t want him to feel obliged to explain himself, but he doesn’t know how to say that.

"It comes and goes," Jimin continues, somewhat uncertain. "But sometimes, it’s worse. It’s like a headache. Once it’s there, it just keeps getting worse."

Yoongi’s gaze rests on him. "I’m sorry," he murmurs.

Jimin shakes his head. "Like Hobi hyung said, I have to re-train my brain to accept that…well, this is what I am now."

Yoongi wishes Jimin wouldn’t speak about himself like that, but again, he doesn’t know how to tell him that either.

"Maybe I’ll have to start those stupid mental exercises again," Jimin insists, though it feels more like he’s speaking to himself than to Yoongi now. “Well, right now I’d rather just go home, take some painkillers, and sleep it off."

Yoongi opens his mouth before the words fully form. One second of hesitation before he speaks. "If you want, I can take you ba—"

He’s interrupted by Jungkook’s arrival, and the attempt dies in his throat.

"And how’s my cute hyung doing?" Jungkook exclaims cheerfully, wrapping his arms around Jimin’s neck. In his hands, he holds Taehyung’s old camera. Jimin laughs, gripping Jungkook’s arms in return. Yoongi can only dream of having that level of intimacy with someone.

"Do you have Tae’s permission to hold his precious camera?"

Jungkook squints as he laughs, his chin resting on Jimin’s shoulder. “You have no idea what Tae lets me do. In every single aspect of our lives..."

"Okay, okay," Jimin squirms, laughing. "We get it, no need for the details."

"Look at him..." Jungkook chuckles, now wrapping an arm around Jimin’s shoulder.

Jungkook is taller, as are the others, while Jimin is about the same height as Yoongi. Yoongi notices it out of the corner of his eye, something that’s been obviously right in front of him since the day before but hadn’t thought about much until now. Somehow, Jimin still looks taller in his eyes. As he watches Jungkook leaning into him, Yoongi realizes that Jimin’s posture is slightly hunched now, all the weight shifted onto his left leg, the one that’s still…

"Now he’s trying to make friends with the ducks..." Jungkook continues, both of them smiling as they stare at Taehyung in the distance. "The animal whisperer."

Yoongi turns in the direction of their gazes, hearing their muffled chuckles in the background. Taehyung is kneeling down, trying to get the attention of a cluster of ducks. Hoseok, standing in front of him, is laughing loudly, speaking—about what, Yoongi can only guess.

"Hobi is probably still telling him all the weirdest things that have happened to him in London," he murmurs. He isn’t sure if he’s spoken loudly enough to be heard, but the others laugh anyway.

"Hobi hyung is a force," Jungkook comments. "He gave me a whole list of must-see places before we leave."

"He talks a lot," Yoongi notes without turning, muffling a chuckle in his usual way.

Jimin hums. "But that’s a good thing," he murmurs. "Being sociable is a good thing."

Yoongi turns to look at him. Being sociable is a good thing. Everything he feels is not and never will be.

Jimin meets his gaze for a moment but quickly shifts his attention to Jungkook, who is fiddling with the camera.

"I wanna try taking a picture," Jungkook announces.

Jimin rolls his eyes. "What a waste of precious film. It’s going to be shit, and you’ll have to apologize to Tae."

"Oh, don’t worry about me, hyung. I have my own special ways of apologiz—"

"And we do not want to know!" Jimin moves to playfully cover Jungkook’s mouth.

Jungkook dodges, laughing as he steps back. He eyes them for a second, then squints like a seasoned photographer. "Alright, get in position."

It takes Yoongi a few extra seconds to realize that the request includes him, too.

Jimin tilts his head, intrigued. "Oh, you’re that serious."

Jungkook motions with his free hand. "Come on, move closer you two. Pose!"

Yoongi reluctantly steps toward Jimin. The third thing he hates most—after walking in groups and group photos—is couple photos. The kind where the other person always looks better than him. The kind where the other person always knows how to pose, how to smile just right, while he never does.

Jimin smiles at him. "Everyone ends up with a photo by a lake at some point in their life. Come on." He takes off his beanie and extends an arm, waiting. Yoongi has no choice but to step into place beside him. He pulls off his own beanie too, only because Jimin did so, trying to fix his bangs as best as he can. That’s when he feels it—Jimin’s hand, light but steady, resting on his shoulder.

Jungkook opens the lid of the old camera box. “Just a second, alright?”

“This is gonna take more than a second, I’m afraid,” Jimin chuckles.

Yoongi considers stepping away, seeing how this is going, but Jimin doesn’t move—and so, neither does he.

Jungkook squints, his open eye shifting from the surface of the box to the peculiar pair standing in front of him. Jimin stifles a laugh, and Yoongi feels it—the slight tremor of his arm against his shoulder, moving with the rest of his body. Yoongi tries not to smile too, pressing his lips into a thin line and scrunching his nose slightly.

By the third attempt at adjusting the lens and advancing the film, Jimin finally gives in. He lifts his arm from Yoongi’s shoulder and bursts out laughing. “Jungkookie—”

“I got it, hyung, just a sec! Get back in position.”

Jimin shakes his head, turning toward Yoongi as if to rest his arm on his shoulder again. But halfway through the motion, he pauses. He studies Yoongi for a moment, his head slightly tilted.

“You’ve got a strand out of place… can I?”

Yoongi parts his lips slightly. “Uh, sure…”

Jimin’s fingers graze his hair with gentle precision, parting his bangs and smoothing out a few stray strands ruffled by the wind.

There’s a moment of hesitation. But then, instead of pulling away, Jimin moves his fingers move lower, tucking a loose lock behind Yoongi’s ear. “Much better,” he says with a small smile.

“Uh, thanks.”

“No problem, hyung. And my hair?”

Yoongi’s wandering gaze flickers to Jimin’s eyes first, almost forgetting to check. When he does, though, he doesn’t see anything out of place—no stray strands, nothing needing fixing.

“Your hair looks fine…” he murmurs.

Jimin raises an eyebrow. “Really? Nothing out of place?”

Yoongi shakes his head.

“Look closer,” Jimin teases with a laugh. “I care about my hair in photos, you know.”

Yoongi’s lips twitch into a small smile. “Well… maybe this part, back here.” He leans in slightly, reaching behind Jimin’s ear to fix a small lock near the nape of his neck. “There, you almost couldn’t see it.”

“See? There was something,” Jimin teases. “No one can be always perfect… not even me, always pretty damn close to it.”

Yoongi snorts, eyebrows quirking as his lips curve into an amused smirk. “The modesty is touching…”

He's being sarcastic with someone other than Namjoon, Seokjin, or Hoseok. The thought flutters away, caught in a sudden gust of wind that undoes all their effort. Their hair lifts, rebelling against their careful attempts to smooth it down.

“Okay, got it.” Yoongi had almost forgotten about Jungkook. “Get back in position before I lose the light.”

Jimin grins. “Well, fuck it. We don’t even know if this picture will ever see the light, anyway.”
He rests his arm back on Yoongi’s shoulder, slipping effortlessly into place. Yoongi can feel him shifting his weight slightly from one side to the other.

“Ready? One…”


Yoongi tucks his hand into his pocket.

“Two…”


His other arm sways, once, twice, before settling, lightly, against Jimin’s back.

“Three!”


He feels Jimin’s fingers graze the back of his neck, a fleeting touch, light as laughter.


This time, he doesn’t have to force the smile.

In the end, they end up walking for a solid half-hour toward Soho, heading to the Korean restaurant that Namjoon and Seokjin love. Yoongi follows quietly, his footsteps dragging behind them. Jimin doesn’t seem eager to talk anymore either.

Hoseok doesn’t join them for lunch—“I’ve been out and about since yesterday morning”—so they part ways halfway, promising to meet soon for some dinner.

The restaurant is packed, buzzing with the weekend crowd, two days before Christmas Eve. They manage to find a table after a ten-minute wait, unconsciously seating themselves in the same arrangement as the night before—Jimin between Jungkook and Taehyung, Yoongi on the other side, next to Namjoon and Seokjin.

Jungkook keeps giggling as he stares at the sign—Jeon’s Kitchen, the name of the restaurant.

“What an incredible coincidence…” Taehyung rolls his eyes. “You’re acting like it’s rare and the only Jeons in existence are you and the restaurant owner…”

They all laugh at that. Jimin chuckles too, but it’s short and nervous.

Yoongi notices.

“Oh, come on, that’s not it…” Jungkook is saying, feigning offense. “It just cracks me up that the first Korean restaurant we eat at in London is…”

The arrival of the waitress cuts him off mid-sentence. There’s something comforting about ordering food in their own language, the ease of it, the way the waitress seems just as happy to dust off her mother tongue. Distance dissolves, miles shrink into nothing more than an invisible thread tying East and West together. The world is your home, and your home is in the world—something like that, Yoongi thinks. Whatever that thing is that Namjoon always says. Sitting here, all six of them crammed around a table in a Korean restaurant, it has to be true somehow.

Now that Hoseok, always effortlessly chatty, isn’t with them, Yoongi notices how Namjoon and Seokjin seem to put in twice the effort to keep the conversation going at what they’d both consider an acceptable social level. He doesn’t think about it often. Sometimes he forgets, lost in the idea that he must be the only one to struggle with social interactions. But the truth is, Namjoon and Seokjin aren’t exactly the biggest social butterflies either.

They’re kind, sure. They know how to talk, how to fill silences. They sure aren’t trapped in them the way he is. But they are reserved too, and Yoongi recognizes the signs—when Namjoon’s social battery starts running low, when his mind is so full of thoughts it’s like white noise humming in the air, an electrical buzz, the faint scent of something burning. When Seokjin gets flustered when too much attention is on him, his ears turning bright red, his comebacks losing their usual sharp edge, and his gaze starting to drift, searching for some invisible exit, some quiet corner where he can finally exhale.

And maybe, Yoongi realizes, that’s why they work so well together. The three of them. That’s their balance. They never step on each other’s toes, never talk over one another. They know when to speak and when to let the silence settle between them, each lost in their own thoughts.

When the quiet starts to feel awkward, something in him—a desire to spare his friends from a strain they’re no longer used to either—pushes him to speak.

“What do you guys wanna do tomorrow?” He murmurs, unsure where to rest his gaze.

“Oh.” Jungkook smiles. For a second, Yoongi feels like he’s caught them off guard, as if they weren’t expecting any sort of question from him. “We were thinking of going to Camden Town. The markets, the ones with…”

“You guys want to go to Camden Town,” Jimin murmurs. He’s trying to smile, as always, but there’s something off. Something different from before, something Yoongi can’t quite put his finger on.

“But it’s cool,” Taehyung chimes in. “Tell him, hyung.”

The question is meant for Namjoon, not him. Anything even remotely cultural is always directed at Namjoon, and Yoongi doesn’t blame them. It’s the same for him, after all.

“Well, it’s… eclectic,” Namjoon begins. “The vintage markets have just about everything, you can find every kind of street food imaginable, and if you go all the way up to Primrose Hill, you get this view of the skyline in the distance. That’s really beautiful…”

“Especially in the evening, when the city starts to light up,” Seokjin adds.

“Yeah. From sunset onward, it’s really…” Namjoon trails off, making a vague gesture with his hands to fill in the feeling.

“And where would you rather go?” Yoongi asks Jimin. He can feel the slight weight of everyone’s attention shifting toward him. I’m doing my part. It’s just that, my part.

Jimin is leaning slightly over the table, looking down at him with faintly raised eyebrows. “Uh.” His lips stretch into a not-quite-there smile. “I don’t know.”

“Do you remember what you said once…” Taehyung chimes in, turning to Jimin. “You said you liked the view of that church from the bridge when you were here last time…”

“Yeah.” Jimin suddenly seems to have lost his social energy too. Now that his gaze is turned to Taheyung, Yoongi can watch him more closely. There’s something heavy somewhere on his face.

“Maybe you mean St. Paul’s Cathedral,” Namjoon offers kindly. “It’s the one you see straight ahead when you’re crossing Millennium Bridge. It’s a great sight, especially at night…”

“Yeah, that. That’s what I’d like to see,” Jimin says, dragging the words slowly from his lips. “From that bridge. Yeah.”

Jimin’s expression flickers, barely noticeable. Yoongi catches it anyway. And then he feels guilty for noticing. He feels guilty for always noticing.

The food arrives, bringing with it the kind of easy conversation that food invites. Light chatter about the tteokbokki, playful commentary on the quality of the samgyeopsal. Simple laughter, the weight of waiting lifted. Yoongi searches for Jimin from time to time, and he never sees him smile.

“And we still have plenty of leftovers from yesterday,” Seokjin chuckles. “Dinner tonight and tomorrow’s meals, all sorted.”

“And it was all amazing, hyung,” Taehyung adds.

“You’re a super chef, hyung,” Jungkook echoes.

Seokjin smiles, flustered. “Well… you know…”

“He really is,” Namjoon says, warmth laced in his voice.

Yoongi sighs. The only dissatisfaction that comes with a full stomach is the sharp, persistent need for a cigarette—the one he’s put off all day for some reason he can’t quite name. He rises from the table slowly.

“Uh, I’m gonna go smoke,” he murmurs, more to the questioning gazes of Seokjin and Namjoon than anything else. As he shrugs his jacket on, he can feel Jimin’s eyes on him too. Their gazes meet, just for a moment, before Yoongi walks away.

The cold air, now that the sun is beginning its slow, inevitable descent, greets him almost with relief. The hum of the restaurant fades behind the door, leaving room for what little silence still lingers between the rush of passing cars and the murmurs of pedestrians.

He takes the first drag slowly—maybe one of the most satisfying ones of his life.

By the fourth, a familiar voice makes him turn.

“Hyung.”

Jimin is suddenly beside him, jacket pulled tight around his frame, beanie snug over his head, his face touched by the evening chill. He looks… almost scared.

Yoongi doesn’t move, cigarette nearly forgotten between his fingers.

“Sorry, uh, do you think…” Jimin leans back against the wall behind them. “Do you think you could do me a favor?” He sighs heavily.

“Of course,” Yoongi murmurs. His gaze falls from Jimin’s face to his bended posture, his right hand pressed just below his knee, just above—

“Are you okay?”

Jimin shakes his head, sharply. He doesn’t even look up. “Uh, listen. I want to go home. I—” Another deep sigh. He closes his eyes for a second. “It hurts,” is all he says.

It takes Yoongi a moment to piece it together. “Okay.” He nods to himself as he quickly pulls out his pocket ashtray, snuffing out his half-finished cigarette without a second thought.

“Uh, can you call a cab for me? And can you tell the others that…” Jimin folds his arms tightly around himself. Yoongi realizes that only now, out there, Jimin is finally letting go of all the pain he had tried to suppress while sitting at the table with the others. “Can you tell them I was just tired? I don’t want to ruin their day. They’re having fun, I don’t want to…” He rubs at his eyes with force. “I don’t want to…”

Yoongi is already pulling out his phone, opening the app to call an uber. “It’s okay,” he says, sparing him a quick glance before lowering his gaze back to the screen, his fingers moving quickly. He requests a ride faster than he’s ever done. “Alright. Ten minutes and it’ll be here, okay? Only ten minutes.”

Jimin nods, once, twice, like he’s reassuring himself more than acknowledging him. “Okay. Uh, thank you.”

Yoongi glances around, spotting a small table at the corner. “Go sit there,” he says, placing a light hand on Jimin’s elbow. “I’ll go tell the others.”

“No, no… wait.” Jimin doesn’t move from the wall. “Let’s wait until it gets here. I’ll leave first, then you can tell them. Otherwise, they’ll insist on coming with me and I don’t…” His hand grips at his right leg again, fingers pressing hard. “I can’t always be…”

“Jimin…”

“A fucking burden, always a burden…” Jimin looks around frantically. “They only have two weeks here. And from next week, they’ll already have to deal with me every morning and…" He breathes out, voice trembling slightly. "They had their whole day planned. Today. Tomorrow. And…”

Yoongi places his hand on Jimin’s elbow again—this time, for longer. “Jimin, go sit there…”

“I have the keys,” Jimin continues, his voice tight, the words slurred. He winces, sucking in a sharp breath. “Seokjin hyung gave me a spare last night. I can just—”

“Sit,” Yoongi insists gently.

Jimin finally looks at him, eyes wide, clouded, lost. Yoongi tries to smile. “Just sit for now. I’ll explain it to them.”

Jimin stares at him, almost dazed.

“Sit,” Yoongi repeats, his hand firm but careful as he presses just slightly on Jimin’s elbow, enough to urge him forward.

“Wait. No, wait. Are you coming back?” Jimin asks anxiously.

“Of course I am,” Yoongi says sofly.

“Before the taxi gets here? I don’t know how to explain where I need to go. I don’t know English well, I don’t...” He flinches, a sharp pain shooting through his side.

“Just sit down,” Yoongi urges him once more. “I’ll be right back. I’ll come home with you, if you’re okay with that.”

For a second, Jimin looks surprised. Yoongi is surprised at himself too, but he shoves the feeling down. He squeezes Jimin’s shoulder lightly. “I’ll be right back.”

Jimin finally moves, maybe reassured enough now. Yoongi watches him limp to the table at the corner. He sits, turns to look at him. Yoongi nods, offers him another small smile.

Then he steps back inside.

The chatter and warmth of the restaurant rush back in, hitting him almost painfully. His mind scrambles for the right words, for the right way to say them without sounding intrusive or out of place. Jimin is their best friend, not his. He is a perfect nobody to them—a perfect nobody who doesn’t know what to say. All the composure he’d managed to summon just minutes ago has vanished.

When he reaches the table, the others all turn toward him. He speaks first, before he loses his grip on his words. “Uh, Jimin and I are heading back home.”

I sound ridiculous.

Taehyung raises an eyebrow, lips parted slightly. “Where is he?”

“He’s sitting outside.” Yoongi holds his gaze. “Uh, he wants to go home, and he asked if I could go back with him.”

That’s not exactly how it went, he thinks, but he doesn’t have the energy to explain it better. It sounds slightly less ridiculous this way.

I still sound ridiculous.

Taehyung moves to stand, Jungkook following a split second after. “Is he okay?”

“Well, uh…” Yoongi shifts slightly, positioning himself in front of Taehyung. “Sorry, I really don’t mean to push. I know it’s not my place. But, uh…” His voice drops just a little, as if lowering it might help Taehyung understand all the things he can’t quite say. “He’s a bit upset, and, uh… he’s in some pain.” The words feel heavy in his mouth, but he has to say them. “And… he wants to go home. He doesn’t want to bother you. He really…” Yoongi exhales. He understands—it’s a feeling he understands all too well, the one Jimin is carrying. “He really wants you all to stay and do… whatever you want to do.”

I sound fucking ridiculous.

He doesn’t know what else to say. Taehyung studies him, gaze sharp and unreadable. It’s nearly unbearable to hold, but Yoongi does. Jungkook shifts slightly, about to step past them, but Taehyung’s hand on his arm stops him. Then, his attention is right back on Yoongi, piercing and searching. Just a second of unspoken things, but to Yoongi, it stretches far longer.

Namjoon clears his throat. “Uh, we’ll stay back with you two,” he offers seriously. “If anything happens, Yoongi will let us know.”

Yoongi gives a small nod. Taehyung and Jungkook keep staring, twin sets of deep, searching eyes. Taehyung is the first to give in, his expression softening. “I know how he gets,” he murmurs. “Alright, but please… keep us updated?”

“Of course,” Yoongi murmurs. He realizes he’s running out of time. He moves to take out his wallet, but Seokjin groans loudly.

“Yoongi-ah, don’t be ridiculous please. Just go.”

Yoongi sighs. “See you later, then. Uh, have fun…”

He spares one last glance at the table before heading out. Taehyung and Jungkook sit back down, still a little hesitant. The noise of the room feels lighter as he walks away, and the air outside isn’t quite as cold against the heat in his face.

Jimin is exactly where Yoongi left him.

“Took a bit, but they’re convinced,” Yoongi murmurs.

Jimin nods but doesn’t look up. His hand is gripping tightly onto his right thigh. He won’t move it any lower now, as if trying to block the pain from above—though that’s not where it’s coming from. Yoongi looks away quickly, checking his phone instead.

“Only three minutes left,” he says.

Jimin nods again, eyes fixed on the floor, mouth slightly parted, breath unsteady. “I just need to…” he mutters after a moment, the words disjointed. “Get this fucking thing off…” His breathing quickens. “It’s been since the flight yesterday… Maybe because I’ve been walking around for two days and…”

Yoongi opens his mouth to say something, but nothings comes up.

“It’s not like… this happens all the time…” Jimin sounds even more frantic. “I walk just fine, okay? I can walk normally, as much as I want. I don’t know why today…”

Yoongi realizes he’s trying to justify something he shouldn’t have to justify at all. He hesitates, then gently places a hand on Jimin’s arm, squeezing lightly.

Neither of them speaks in the few moments that remain. When the uber pulls up just a little further ahead, Yoongi helps Jimin to his feet.

The ride home—barely twenty minutes—passes in near silence, the low hum of the driver’s radio their only companion. Jimin only breaks it to mumble something about not having paid for lunch— Yoongi brushes it off without a thought—and then to ask how much he owes for the ride. Yoongi shakes his head again. “Don’t even worry about it.”

That and nothing more. The rest of the drive is filled with Jimin’s breathing, heavy and uneven beside him, louder in Yoongi’s ears than the music playing through the speakers.

When the car comes to a stop in front of their building, Jimin is the first to get out, moving slowly. Yoongi lingers just a moment to briefly thank the driver. When he turns, Jimin is waiting, his back pressed against the door. Even though he has a key, he doesn’t unlock it, as if he has no right to. Yoongi wishes he wouldn’t think that way.

He steps forward quickly, opens the door as fast as he can, and steps aside to let Jimin enter first. Jimin crosses the threshold, pausing just inside to rest his forehead lightly against the wall next to him.

“I’ll take the shoes off in my room, okay?” he murmurs. “Seokjin hyung and Namjoon hyung know. I told them already…”

Yoongi toes off his own shoes quickly. “Of course.” He doesn’t say that he obviously already noticed that, that there’s no need to explain.

Jimin barely seems aware of anything anymore. He sighs—once, then again—before pushing himself off the wall. “Okay, I’m going to rest. Uh… really, thank you.” His words stumble over themselves as he limps heavily toward his room.

Yoongi follows him slowly. “Can I do anything for you?” 

Jimin shakes his head, doesn’t even turn around. He moves across the living room quickly despite the limp, his face briefly illuminated by the Christmas lights of three glowing as the last of the daylight fades. They must have forgotten to turn them off before leaving. Yoongi barely has time to register it before Jimin disappears down the hall.

Yoongi stops at the entrance to the hallway, giving him space. Jimin reaches his door, pushes it open, and closes it softly behind him. And then Yoongi is met with just silence, settling over the apartment.

He exhales, moving past Jimin’s door to his own. He steps inside, shuts it behind him, and leans against it for a moment, letting his thoughts catch up to him. He pulls out his phone, quickly typing out a message to Seokjin and Namjoon in their group chat—one filled with funny videos, memes, grocery requests, and the occasional, weekly, Yoongi, when are you coming home? from Namjoon.

We’re back home, all good, he types quickly, though he’s definitely not sure about that last part. He sits on the edge of his bed, hesitates for just a second. Then, he picks up his phone again.

The phone rings once, twice. Then a voice, thick with sleep, answers on the other end.

“Yoongi-ah.”

“Yeah.”

“All good?” Hoseok murmurs, yawning. In any other moment, Yoongi would have felt bad for clearly waking him up.

“Uh, Hobi… I need a favor. Could you call Jimin and check on him?”

“What…” A shuffling sound comes through the receiver. “What do you mean?”

“We came back home, him and me. He wasn’t feeling well. Maybe you could talk to him.”

“What happened? Wait, just put him on.” Hoseok sounds much more awake now.

“He’s in his room.” Yoongi lowers his voice. “Might be better if you call him yourself.”

“Oh.” Hoseok doesn’t ask any more questions, and Yoongi is grateful for it. “I’ll do it now. Talk later.” He hangs up without waiting for a response.

Yoongi realizes he still has his jacket on. He takes it off slowly, draping it over his desk chair. He can only hope Jimin actually picks up Hoseok’s call.

He lets a few minutes pass before he ventures out of his room again. He walks down the hallway slowly, relieved to hear a voice coming from Jimin’s room. He quickly moves away, afraid of overhearing something he shouldn’t.

He crosses the living room. The Christmas lights continue their steady rhythm, blinking endlessly. The two little glass birds on the brenches remain unmoving, patient under the soft glow that filters through them, making them seem like they shine from within.

In the kitchen, he sets the kettle on. At first, he thinks about making coffee. Then he changes his mind, reaching for a mug and a tea bag instead. He stares at his mug—the one with the little boats—while the water heats. In the end, he takes out a second mug and a second tea bag, too.

He lights a cigarette while waiting for the tea to steep, smoking with the window cracked open to send the smoke into the darkening sky.

Sorry, Seokjin hyung.

Finally, he picks up both mugs and walks toward Jimin’s room. It’s quiet now. With his hands full, he can’t knock, so he’s forced to use his voice. 

“Jimin?”

He waits, unsure if he even wants an answer. But he does get one. “Yeah.”

“Uh, can I come in?”

A moment of hesitation. Then, finally, he gets another reply. “Yeah, hyung.”

Carefully, he shifts his grip on the mugs, twisting the handle to open the door. He peeks inside and finds Jimin already in bed, tucked under the duvet.

"Hey. How are you feeling?"

Jimin is lying on his back, head tilted slightly to the side, resting on his bent arm. At the foot of the bed, Yoongi catches sight of the chair, Jimin’s prosthesis resting on top of it.

"Uh, I took some painkillers. Just waiting for it to pass."

Yoongi nods. "Okay. I made you some tea. If you want it, I mean. Not sure if… with the meds, though…"

Jimin smiles faintly. "They're just painkillers, hyung,” he murmurs.

"Yeah, well. I know. But caffeine isn’t great right after. Just, uh, as a general rule." Yoongi steps further into the room. "But, um… if you want it. I’ll leave it here?"

Jimin nods. “Thank you,” he says softly.

Yoongi hums in response, setting the mug—the one with little boats on—on the nightstand. Jimin stares at it for a moment before his gaze shifts back to him. Yoongi, standing there, suddenly doesn’t know how to take his leave. "Well, I’ll let you rest…"

"You can sit, if you want."

"Oh." Yoongi hesitates for a moment before slowly sitting at the edge of the bed. He crosses his legs, focused on blowing over the rim of the mug.

"I’ll have the tea in a bit," Jimin whispers. "I don’t mind it lukewarm. I’ll wait for... for the pain to ease up a bit first."

"Sure," Yoongi murmurs.

"Thanks for calling Hobi hyung for me."

Yoongi looks up from his mug. "Of course."

"He was really helpful. As always," Jimin says.

"I don’t doubt it," Yoongi replies, offering a small smile before exhaling softly again over the still-steaming tea.

"I won’t be like this every day. I swear."

Yoongi lifts his gaze again, watching him intently for a moment. "You don’t have to say that," he murmurs.

"It’s just… some days, I don’t feel anything at all. Those are the vacation days." Jimin makes a small face. "Some days, it’s just a little prickling. Barely more than a tickle. It almost makes me laugh…" He smiles to himself, eyes drifting toward some undefined point in the room. "And then there are days like today, where it feels like hundreds of thorns stuck right there."

Yoongi exhales, voice barely above a sigh. "I’m…"

"And it’s not like there’s a real cure for it. Every doctor has a different take. Some say it’ll fade with time. That it affects people differently. Some never feel this pain at all, depends on the nerve tissue. Mine must really hate me."

"Maybe that therapy Hobi mentioned this morning… the mirror thing one…" Yoongi tries.

Jimin lets out a hollow smile into the empty space. "I used to look in the mirror to make sure my dance steps were right, not to stand there like an idiot trying to convince my brain that part of my leg is gone."

Yoongi lowers his gaze, staring down at the tea. Slowly, he swirls the mug in small circles. The colored water moves within its confined space, restless, as if trying to go somewhere—even though there’s nowhere left to go, trapped in there as it is. When he looks up again, Jimin’s eyes are closed.

Yoongi shifts, standing up quietly.

"Oh, I’m not sleeping," Jimin murmurs, his voice barely there. He blinks his reddened eyes open. "Maybe I’m just very sleep-deprived."

"Jet lag’s hitting," Yoongi offers with a small smile.

"Fuck jet lag, too. You brought me tea, and I’m not even drinking it," Jimin whispers, a kind of unbearable sadness in his voice.

"Don’t even worry about it," Yoongi replies. He reaches for the mug with the little boats on the nightstand. "I can pour it into a thermos and bring it to you later."

"Oh." Jimin hums, eyes already half-closed again. “That would be nice. Thanks, hyung. You’re really kind."

Yoongi hesitates for a moment, exhaling softly. "Well, I’ll let you rest for real now."

"Really kind, for everything." Jimin repeats. "I think I’ve said it to everyone since yesterday except to you. Pretty rude of me."

Yoongi feels heat creep up to the tips of his ears. "Umh. You don’t have to, but… well. Thanks. Well, I’ll see you later."

Jimin nods without opening his eyes. Yoongi steps out, closing the door gently behind him, carefully balancing both mugs in his hands, his own still nearly full too. He brings them back to the kitchen, pouring Jimin’s tea into a thermos as promised. His own stained water goes straight down the sink instead. He sets it free to flow wherever it pleases.

Suddenly, he has no desire to drink it anymore.

Chapter Text

There’s something that tells time better than a clock in the early morning, and it’s the song of birds.

Shy in winter, persistent in spring, loud and nearly breathless under the summer sun. London is full of little birds in the sky, the kind that announce the passing of time before the world stirs and carries the silence away. On Sundays, they seem to know it’s a holiday. They even seem to sense that Christmas Eve is just a day away, because they sound livelier than usual, a little louder somehow.

Or maybe that’s just how it feels to Yoongi.

He opens his eyes in the faint light of dawn and reaches blindly for the nightstand. Five thirty.

He groans.

Now that the room begins to take shape, even the birds seem like a faint memory in the distance. So loud in that blurry space between dreams and waking, as if they were right there in his room, then suddenly far away once the brain begins to generate real shapes, once the eyes start to see the world beyond dreams.

He stays in bed for a while. Half an hour, maybe more.

It’s not like him. He usually gets up right away, like some unspoken rule he made with himself. The moment his eyes open, he’s on his feet. Fear drives him—the fear of slipping back into darkness, of drifting into dreams that aren’t quite nightmares, but not exactly kind images either. Just some sort of dark limbo, deep and hollow, the kind that scares him out of bed.

On any other morning, he would already be up, even at five thirty. He’d drag his feet to the bathroom, splash cold water on his face, glance at the mirror with a sigh and a quiet disappointment. Then he’d shuffle to the living room, pulling the plaid blanket off the couch and wrapping it around himself like armor only to pad toward the front door. He’d throw on his shoes then, step outside into the freezing air, and light a cigarette just beyond the entryway, pacing the short walkway from the front door to the awful little, stereotypically British gate. He’d walk back and forth, cigarette between his fingers, hopping a bit from foot to foot to keep warm.

A scene Seokjin always teases him about, calls cinematic. “You look like the lead in some indie film,” he’d hear him say with a grin.

Any other day, Yoongi would’ve played the restless part silently, a nearly burnt cigarette between his fingers, knuckles red from the cold, nose running.

But not this Sunday.

This Sunday, Yoongi doesn’t move. He stays wrapped in the warmth of his bed, replaying the night before in his mind, walking through every detail again. The tea he made for Jimin, and then poured into the thermos. Tea he never actually got to give him himself.

He’d peeked into Jimin’s room three times in the span of two hours, and each time, he had found him asleep. Worn out from travel, the weight of jet lag, the throb of pain he’d spent the whole day trying to hide. The first two times, Yoongi barely looked in, just opened the door a crack and quietly shut it again. The third time, he let himself linger. He had watched Jimin’s face in the dim light and seen a troubled expression in his sleep, like the pain—those thorns, as Jimin had called them—had followed him even into his dreams.

He’d gotten a couple of hours of lonely silence out of the evening after that. That was all.

Then the others had come back, a little withdrawn, like they hadn’t really enjoyed the outing as much as they’d hoped. Taehyung and Jungkook had rushed inside, barely noticing Yoongi sitting there on the couch in the soft glow of the Christmas lights he’d meant to turn off. He’d wanted to, and he’d had the time. He just didn’t. Who knows, maybe if Jimin woke up, he would have found them comforting.

They had to be good for something, those damn lights.

Namjoon and Seokjin, walking in behind the others, had spotted Yoongi in the dim room almost immediately, like friends who already knew exactly where he would be. Still, all four of them had looked faintly puzzled, as if they’d expected, or maybe hoped, for a different scene entirely.

“Jimin?” Taehyung had asked right away, his voice serious, almost shadowed.


Yoongi had tilted his head slightly in the direction of the guest room. “He’s sleeping,” he’d added, maybe because Taehyung’s expression had grown darker and, for a second, Yoongi had suddenly felt small beneath it.

Jungkook hadn’t hesitated. He had brushed past them all without a word, long strides cutting across the room until he had disappeared down the hallway, clearly headed for Jimin. Taehyung, though, had lingered. A few long seconds of silence, searching for something.

Yoongi had cleared his throat.
“He spoke to Hobi on the phone,” he’d said, trying to ease the heaviness hanging between them. “He, uh… took some painkillers. Then he fell asleep.”

Yoongi had stood then, under the weight of three sets of eyes. He’d picked up the thermos from the coffee table and handed it to Taehyung.
“I made him some tea, but he fell asleep before drinking it. I told him I’d keep it warm for him.”

Taehyung had taken it, his gaze lingering on the container before settling again on Yoongi. Softer this time, or at least Yoongi had thought so. He’d nodded, giving a tight, almost-smile that looked more like a wince, and slipped away down the hall without saying anything more.

Seokjin had switched on the light then, a sudden wash of brightness that made Yoongi squint.


“I do get the whole environmental crisis,” Seokjin had started muttering, “and all that. But in the grand scheme of things, maybe we could just... not sit in the dark?”

He’d laughed, Namjoon too, and Yoongi had allowed himself a small smile.


Taehyung and Jungkook hadn’t come out of Jimin’s room again that evening, except once to say none of them were hungry, and thanks anyway for the thought. At some point, as Yoongi had made his way to the bathroom, he heard something faint from Jimin’s room. A movie, maybe, running on someone’s laptop, something to pass the time together.

Yoongi hadn’t eaten either. He’d taken a shower instead. For the first time that day, a thought had crept in, something he hadn’t considered until that moment—how hard it must be for Jimin to use the bathtub, the one Yoongi had insisted on converting into a half-open shower stall. If the flat were theirs and not just a rented apartment, Yoongi would’ve gutted the thing completely. Replaced it with a proper, walk-in shower. He hated baths. He couldn’t swim. Even the thought of a tub felt too much like being stuck in something shallow and still, like a lake with no motion, no escape. A shower was quicker. Less painful.

But for Jimin, that could have been a nightmare.
Weeks before, Yoongi had asked Seokjin if there was anything they could do to make the bathroom more accessible. Seokjin had said there wasn’t much, that Jimin had insisted it was fine. That he’d gotten used to it and that he could manage.

Still, the thought had stuck.
Even as the water ran down his back, Yoongi couldn’t stop imagining how uncomfortable it must be for him. How much Yoongi had taken for granted. The use of his own full body, to live without a constant ache dulling every step. No chronic pain, not for him. Only that quiet, creeping discomfort that held him down from inside his chest. That, he could understand somehow. The kind that, some mornings, keeps him pinned to the bed, unwilling to move.

The kind that seems to be curling its fingers around him again now.

The hours pass, almost faster than expected. He slips in and out of sleep, waking and drifting again, until the gray light outside, cloudy and hinting rain, presses more firmly against the curtains. He doesn’t know what time it is. Doesn’t want to.
He doesn’t know what’s happening outside the door, but he hears voices, distant. At one point, the chime of the doorbell. He doesn’t even ask himself. Doesn’t stir. Just shifts onto his other side.

He hears a knock, eventually.

Yoongi groans again, his throat dry. He clears it just to make a sound.
The door creaks open. He stays still, back turned.

“Yoongi-ah.”

Namjoon.

Yoongi exhales into the quiet room.

“You’re not having breakfast?”

He’s not sure what time it is anymore, but he suspects it’s long past breakfast.

“Even though it’s more like lunchtime by now,” Namjoon adds.

So, yeah. That kind of late morning, then. Yoongi closes his eyes.
The mattress dips behind him, proof Namjoon has no plans to leave right away.

Yoongi snaps. “Can’t I sleep in anymore?”


He doesn’t move, doesn’t turn. His voice stays low. Just irritated enough.

He hears Namjoon shift behind him. “You’re not sleeping.”

“And what if you woke me up?”

“I didn’t.”

Namjoon. Clinical, direct, assertive, and unapologetically honest.

Yoongi sighs again. Then moves, slowly, rolling over to face the other side. Namjoon mirrors him, shifting too, one leg folded on the bed, the other, long and lanky, dangling over the edge.

“Hey.”

“Yeah.”

Namjoon raises an eyebrow. “You planning on getting up?”

“Do I have to?”

Namjoon snorts, grinning.
Yoongi notices, as he sometimes does, how Namjoon’s picked up a few of Seokjin’s mannerisms over time—the way his irony’s grown more expressive, the arch of an eyebrow, that smirk walking the line between playful and serious. Two different people—and yet, every now and then, Yoongi swears he sees them blend into one another, flickering in and out. Sometimes one shape, sometimes the other, sometimes it’s both at the same time.

“What do you want, Namjoon?” Yoongi murmurs, eyes drifting to a corner of the room, away from him.

Namjoon drums his fingers lightly against his knees.
Another habit, maybe, borrowed from Seokjin, that subtle way of learning to keep his impatience in check.

“Namjoon-ah, what—”

“Get up,” Namjoon says simply. “It’s almost noon.”

Yoongi looks at him again.
“I don’t want to,” he blurts out.

It comes out easily, like it’s been sitting in his chest, waiting. Honest. And it feels good to say.

Namjoon nods slowly.
“Okay,” he says. He doesn’t push. Doesn’t add anything else.

Yoongi exhales sharply. “Okay, so…?”

“Did something happen yesterday?”

Yoongi almost laughs.“What was supposed to happen yesterday?” he murmurs, voice dropping.

Namjoon shrugs. “I don’t know. I’m just asking.”

“Nothing happened yesterday.”

Namjoon nods again. “Okay,” he repeats, softer this time.

Yoongi sighs. Something tight coils in his chest, a little bitterness rising up his throat, tasting faintly of bile. “Why are you asking me that?”

Namjoon shrugs again—vague now, uncertain.
“I just asked, Yoongi. You don’t really sleep in anymore.”


He leaves it there. Half a sentence. But his voice gives the rest away. Once upon a time, Yoongi was the king of late mornings. Back when sleep still felt like a comfort.

“What was supposed to happen yesterday?” Yoongi repeats. This time more insistent—nervous, defensive, irritated by the direction this is taking.

Namjoon looks at him again.
Yoongi stares back.

Now, all he sees is Namjoon. The furrowed brows. The slight clench in his jaw. The look of someone he’s on the verge of saying one of those things of his.

“Can I be honest?”

Yoongi runs a hand over his face.
Here we go.
“When are you ever not?”

Namjoon doesn’t flinch.
“Well…” he starts, voice low. Cautious. “Knowing that… I mean. Sometimes it’s hard for you to—” He stops himself.

“To what?” Yoongi presses. He wants to know, now.

Namjoon shifts in place. “I mean… in situations. I don’t know. New ones.” His voice drops.

Yoongi pushes himself up against the headboard, pulls his knees to his chest. “Ah. Right. It’s called social anxiety. That thing I apparently have. You can say it. It’s not exactly a secret.”
He sounds bitter. Worn out. Almost angry.

Namjoon looks at him, steady now.
“I don’t have a problem calling things what they are.”

“Then do it.” Yoongi lets out a dry chuckle. A sharp, bitter twist of a smile. “That’s all I am, right? Since you get worried even when I walk someone I barely know home.”

Namjoon’s jaw tightens.
He keeps staring at him, one, two, three seconds. Maybe more.
He’s got that look again, Yoongi thinks. That Namjoon look. The one he gets right before saying something he knows he might regret.


Namjoon opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again. Then he says it.

“I’m not your therapist.”

Yoongi bursts out laughing.
“That much I know.”

Namjoon doesn’t flinch.
“I’m your friend,” he says softly. Steady, composed, weighted.

The laugh dies on Yoongi’s lips.

“Best friend,” Namjoon adds, firmer this time. “So no, I don’t have a problem naming things for what they are. I just... I don’t want to.”

Yoongi sighs. “Dammit.”

“I mean it,” Namjoon rushes to add. “I don’t care to talk to you like I’m…” He taps his fingers against his knee, unsure. “Like I’m some doctor, or whatever.”

“Right. Cause you can only talk like a philosopher, don't you.”
Yoongi runs a hand down his face again.
“You’re gonna force me out of bed just so I can get you to shut up.”

He hopes there's at least a little warmth under the sarcasm.

“I’m not forcing you to get up,” Namjoon says gently.

Yoongi groans. “Namjoon-ah, you literally just told me to get up. If your memory’s going to shit this early, we’ve got a problem. Should I start leaving you post-its on the fridge?”

Namjoon chuckles softly. “Well, you and Jin already kinda do.” 

“That’s what happens when your head’s always buried in books, I guess.”

Neither of them says anything for a moment.
Namjoon, more relaxed now, lets his leg swing over the edge of the bed—a rhythm Yoongi would find irritating if it were anyone else.
He shifts down the mattress, lets his head drop back onto the pillow. Stares up at the ceiling and doesn’t look away.

If Namjoon’s always got his eyes glued to pages, Yoongi’s no better. Much worse, even.
At least books talk back. Ceilings, what can they even say to him.

It could end there, with that usual dose of dry irony smoothing things over, at least on the surface.
But Namjoon doesn’t work that way. Maybe Yoongi doesn’t, either.

When Namjoon speaks again, Yoongi doesn’t even blink.

“I’m not forcing you to get up. I’m just asking you to.”

Yoongi doesn’t take his eyes off the ceiling.

“Dammit, Namjoon,” he mutters after a moment. “What the fuck’s the difference.”

“There is a difference,” Namjoon says.
“Forcing would mean insisting. Giving orders. Which I don’t do.”

“Fucking dammit.”

“But asking just means… asking.”

Yoongi turns toward him.
“You didn’t ask me, though." He shoots him a grin. "You told me to get up. That sounded like an order. Debate lost.”

“It wasn’t an order,” Namjoon replies simply.

“It wasn’t a question either.”

“Then it was a wish.”

Yoongi groans, dragging a hand down his face. A hint of embarrassment creeps in, his nose scrunching up without permission.
“I can’t stand you. I swear, I can’t stand you.”

Namjoon laughs quietly. Another pause.
Another moment staring at the ceiling.

“I’m going out with Jungkook and Taehyung in a bit,” Namjoon says eventually. “I’m taking them to the Natural History Museum.”

“On a Sunday,” Yoongi murmurs. “Two days before Christmas. Out of all the things you could possibly do in London.”

“But you said you loved it last time,” Namjoon grins.

Yoongi shoots him a glare.
“Yeah, well. Wouldn’t want them to miss Dippy. I’m emotionally invested in that thing. I think about it literally twice a day.”

Namjoon laughs openly now.

Dippy—the giant skeletal replica of a Diplodocus that greets every tourist at the museum entrance.
The one Yoongi, Namjoon, and Seokjin took three thousand selfies with, just for the hell of it.
Ever since Seokjin found out the museum was temporarily removing Dippy for some ridiculous grand tour across Europe, it had become an ongoing inside joke in the house.

“Wonder where Dippy is today.” “Dippy has more of a social life than we do.”
“Dippy’s living his best life.”

Who knows if Dippy has ever seen the sea.

“Jimin’s staying in,” Namjoon says then, his voice a little more serious.

Right.
A small, sharp twist lands in Yoongi’s stomach, tight and deep. He thinks back to yesterday and he doesn’t know why it hits him so hard. Maybe because he wasn’t much help.
He didn’t know what to say, all day.
He held on, kept himself together, but the words never came.
And when Jungkook and Taehyung returned, he disappeared.
He was the only one who didn’t ask Jimin how he was that evening. Not like Seokjin and Namjoon, who knocked on his door with the ease of people who are just... normal.
People who ask.
People who get answers.
People who are kind. Yoongi, with his pathetic little thermos of tea that Jimin probably didn’t even want.


Beautiful fucking idea, that one.

“How is he?” Yoongi murmurs, trying to cut through the noise in his head.

“Better, actually. Less pain. Hobi dropped by this morning to see him, but he couldn’t stay long. Work emergency stuff.”

“Oh.”

“He’s definitely better. Just not up for going out.”

“Figures.”

“Well, Jinie’s staying to keep him company today. We’ll be back early anyway.”

Yoongi says nothing. Namjoon gets to his feet, stretching out his legs.
“Just wanted to let you know the plan for the day. For whenever you decide to get up.”

Yoongi nods again into the air, to no one in particular.
A strange knot forms in his throat at the words. The plan for the day. There’s no place for him in the plan for the day.
He can't even picture himself in it.
If he got up now, maybe he’d still have time to tell Seokjin to go with Namjoon to the museum instead.
It should be him staying behind. He should be the one keeping Jimin company, instead of splitting the couple up. Seokjin’s staying home because of him.
Because he’s still in bed.
Because he’s not doing what a good, normal host should do.

“I told the others you weren’t feeling great,” Namjoon says. Yoongi turns his head slightly toward him. Namjoon is already standing by now. “Like, I don’t know. A bit of a cold or something.”

Yoongi doesn’t respond. It all feels so ridiculous he doesn't even know what to say.

Namjoon reaches out, lays a gentle hand on his shoulder.
“Get up whenever you want,” he whispers.

That’s all Namjoon asks of him.


Not to come along.


Not to entertain anyone.


Just that, to get up whenever.

Yoongi—deep down—knows that, and he doesn’t take it for granted.

Namjoon turns to go.
He reaches the doorway, then pauses.

“It’s not an order, by the way. Or a question,” he says, voice a little lighter.
“Let’s call it… a wish.”

Yoongi closes his eyes.

The hours pass, and Yoongi doesn’t get up.


Instead of the ceiling, his eyes catch on a small stain on the wall beside the bed.
He’s never noticed it before. Lying again on his side now, a position far more comforting than lying on his back, he traces the outline of that little mark.
Faded at the edges, more vivid at the center. Like the center’s trying to escape, to bleed out, to invade the wall beyond it. Yoongi thinks it should.
It should take over the entire room, for all he cares.
Swallow him whole, even.
Make him vanish in a puff into some other dimension of the universe.

Seokjin enters, eventually.


Unlike Namjoon, who at least knocks—more for manners, than anything—
Seokjin doesn’t even pretend this time.
He just walks in.

“Yoongi-ah.”

He doesn’t turn.
The stain seems bigger now.

Seokjin sighs.
His steps are slow, measured.
He sits down at the edge of the bed—not like Namjoon had, curled in like he belonged there. No, the way Seokjin sits is different. Like someone who doesn’t plan to skirt around anything.

“It’s two. Jimin and I ate a while ago.”

Yoongi clears his throat, but nothing comes out.

“We left lunch for you.”

Yoongi nods into the pillow and hopes that’s enough.

“You’re not hungry?”

He shakes his head. He’d just nodded, and now he’s shaking his head.

Seokjin sighs.
He places a hand gently on Yoongi’s side, over the blanket. “Namjoon just texted me,” he says. “Told me to tell you that Dippy’s doing great, if you were wondering. Full of life, as always.”

It’s not a particularly funny joke, the one about the skeleton.
Seokjin’s not very good at jokes.
But it still makes Yoongi want to laugh. He wants to, really. But he just can’t.

“Jimin was worried about you,” Seokjin murmurs after a moment.
“I told him you had a cold, and he said I should bring you lunch.”

Yoongi inhales, painfully.
At least now he has a solid excuse not to leave the room at all.

“So I came,” Seokjin says lightly. “Didn’t want to look like I don’t give a damn.”

He chuckles, tapping Yoongi’s side gently. If that’s a joke, it’s one that doesn’t quite land, either.

“We’ve got to fix this cold, though,” Seokjin says with a smile. “Did you take anything for it?”

Yoongi sighs. “I wish that were it,” he croaks out.

The words come out fragile. Seokjin doesn’t say anything for a while.
His hand keeps patting Yoongi’s side, soft and rhythmic. A little awkward, but strangely soothing.

“What is it, hmm?” he murmurs at last.

Namjoon hadn’t asked him that.
Namjoon asks a lot of questions, just never that one.
Seokjin rarely asks anything, but he always manages to ask that one.
Tiny shades of color in the same painting that balance each other somehow. Yoongi shakes his head, because he doesn’t know what to say.

“I know it’s a lot,” Seokjin says.


Plain. Straightforward. Tender. No room for banter now. No witty reply. No philosophical digressions about orders or questions or wishes.
Nothing to hide behind. Yoongi’s eyes start to burn.

“I know it’s a lot,” Seokjin repeats.
“And it’s okay. There’s nothing wrong with it.”

Yoongi lets out a sound—half a bitter laugh, half a broken breath. His left leg, crossed over the right, starts to bounce.

“This is your home, Yoongi-ah,” Seokjin says.
“You don’t have to hide in here.”

Yoongi groans, but not out of annoyance.
Even that sounds like a guttural, anxious ache.

“You can do whatever you want.
Be whoever you need to be,” Seokjin insists.

“Dammit,” Yoongi croaks. “Goddammit.”
He swallows. “It’s just…”

But he doesn’t finish.

“I know,” Seokjin says simply.

They fall into silence again.
Seokjin keeps patting his side in that same awkward but strangely soothing way. At least, the stain on the wall doesn’t seem quite so enormous now.

“I don’t know how to…” Yoongi murmurs eventually.
He inhales, then exhales. Once. Twice.
“I don’t know how to…” His voice catches, hoarse.

“Mmh?”

“What to do. I don’t know…”

Seokjin hums softly. Patient.
“Okay.”

“What to say…” Yoongi pushes on. “What…”
He breathes in. “Like, they talk.”

Behind him, Seokjin snorts fondly.
“They do, yeah.”

“And I’m just… I don’t.”

“You do talk, Yoongi-ah.”

Yoongi groans.
“You know what I mean. You know. I don’t know what to say. I don’t have anything to tell them. I don’t—”

Seokjin’s hand presses a little more firmly into his side. Just enough to ground him.
“Okay.”
He resumes the slow, steady patting.

“They’ll think I’m… weird. And it’s only the second day. It’s just—”

“You’re projecting your fears onto people you barely know yet,” Seokjin murmurs.

“Who knows what they said today. Or what they’re saying to Namjoon right now.”

“Even if they were saying something,” Seokjin sighs, “they wouldn’t be saying it to Namjoon. And honestly, I think they’re too busy standing slack-jawed in the Dinosaur Gallery to be thinking about you, Yoongi-ah. No offense.”

Yoongi lets out a bitter laugh. “Fuck that museum too, then.” He groans again.
“Or any museum in this damn city. Like they didn’t steal all their shit from the rest of the world.”

“Right,” Seokjin says, smiling faintly. “Glad to hear your political edge is back.”

Yoongi inhales. Exhales.
“Or... who knows what Jimin told you today.”

“Absolutely nothing bad.”

Yoongi lets out another sharp, dry laugh.
“I didn’t know what to say to him. He had to carry the conversation himself, and he was in pain. Like, really in pain. And I said nothing.”

“And you did the right thing,” Seokjin murmurs. "I don't think he wanted chatter."

“Then I sat there waiting for you in the dark like a complete idiot," Yoongi continues, ignoring him. "For literally no reason. They must’ve thought I was… I don’t know. Insane.”

Seokjin sighs.
“You’re spiraling now. Don’t do that to yourself.”


He taps his fingers gently on Yoongi’s side again. The stain on the wall seems smaller now.

“If anything,” Seokjin adds, a little firmer, “Jimin told me you were really kind. Said you offered him the ride home and everything.”

“No shit. Of course I fucking did. Like I’d make him pay in that condition.”

“And he appreciated that you called Hobi right away,” Seokjin adds.

“I even woke him up, because I had no fucking idea what to do.”

“And you did the right thing,” Seokjin repeats.

Silence stretches between them again.

“I don’t know how to adjust to them,” Yoongi murmurs, eventually.
His voice sounds childish to his own ears, whiny and grating. “I don’t know how to…” But he doesn’t finish.

Seokjin exhales.
“This is your home,” he says again, as if it were the most obvious truth in the world.
“They’re the ones who need to adjust to you.”

Yoongi inhales.
Exhales.
He shuts his eyes tight.


When he opens them again, the stain is simply gone. 

When he finally sits up, it’s well past four in the afternoon.


Dusk is nearly over, the sky surrendering to winter darkness, leaving behind only a faint rose glow tangled in the blue. The birds have mostly finished their singing for the day.
The sun has long since dropped.
The stain is gone.
And his feet are on the floor.

He sits like that for a moment, just long enough for the blood to return to his legs, to his head. Then he sighs.


He stands.
Pulls on the first sweats he finds in the wardrobe.
Covers his messy hair with the first beanie within reach. He doesn’t even glance at the mirror—just checks that his earrings are still in place.
It’s stupid, maybe. But without them, he feels like he disappears.

One of these days, he thinks, I’m taking that mirror down too.

He grabs a jacket. His cigarettes.
Doesn’t bother with the bathroom.
Doesn’t rinse his face. Doesn’t even need to piss.
Maybe it’s because he hasn’t had a drop of water all day, but he doesn’t do anything about that either. Instead, he walks out into the hush of the house. Jimin’s door is closed.
Maybe he’s resting. He doesn’t find Seokjin anywhere either. There’s only the lit tree, glowing in the dark. And the little birds, frozen on their branches, staring with beadlike eyes that somehow seem alive.

One of these days, he thinks, those go too.

He walks past the living room. Past the tree. Past the folded-out couch. He opens the door to the backyard.
He usually doesn’t like smoking out there—he much prefers the front entrance, where the air feels less trapped and there’s something to look at.
But today, he has no intention of standing out front.
He already pictures having to face Namjoon and the others arriving at any moment. He opens the door, already pulling out the cigarette pack, breathes out slowly and—

“Hey.”

He freezes. His heart skips a beat.

Jimin is sitting on the little bench.
His posture is straight, composed. A large blanket is wrapped around him against the cold, spilling from his chest all the way to the ground.

Yoongi glances quickly. Sees his smile. Notices the crutches leaning beside him. Then he looks away fast, hoping he hasn’t been rude just by noticing.

“Did I steal your spot, hyung?” Jimin murmurs, voice calm.

Yoongi shakes his head.
“No, no,” he says quickly. “I never sit there.”

Except literally every night when I can’t sleep.

“Ah.”
Yoongi sees Jimin smile out of the corner of his eye.
“It’s nice out here, though. You missed it, but earlier there was a beautiful sunset.”

Now it’s nearly dark. They’re lit only by the glow of streetlamps and the warm windows of nearby houses. Yoongi shifts slightly as he lights his cigarette, angling away so the smoke won’t drift toward Jimin.

“Umh…” He tries to say something,
but today his brain and vocal cords seem to be in two different countries, more distant than usual. “Does it bother you if I…”
He doesn’t even finish the sentence, and the cigarette is already lit anyway.

Jimin chuckles softly.
“No, don’t worry about it.”

Yoongi inhales.
It’s cold outside. A sharp, biting breeze brushes across his face.
The smoke dissipates easily into the evening air.
He leans back against the wall, breathing slowly.

“How are you?” Jimin asks after a while. “Feeling better?”

Yoongi’s eyes widen slightly, caught off guard.
He glances at Jimin, just a flash of eye contact. Jimin is still smiling. For the briefest second, it feels like mockery, like he’s being quietly laughed at for his lies. Yoongi looks away. Then he rethinks it, reorders his thoughts, tries to pull them into something clearer.

“I just…” he swallows. “It’s okay. I had a cold,” he mutters. “Went away with a bit of rest.”

What a fucking ridiculous sentence.


He sees Jimin nod, a soft smile on his lips that doesn’t even seem aimed at Yoongi.
Not quite a smile, even. More like a vague twist of the mouth.

They stay in silence for a while.
Yoongi sniffles from the cold, not on purpose. Maybe now he can catch a cold for real.

“I get it,” Jimin murmurs finally. Yoongi lets his gaze linger on him this time.


Jimin is staring out ahead, eyes fixed on something across the street. Between two houses, three boys on bicycles are arguing.
They’re talking so fast Yoongi can’t follow, just a rush of twat, bruv, fuckin’ mug he is, innit. Honestly, outside of professional settings, Yoongi understands next to nothing of what Londoners say sometimes. To Jimin, it must all sound like textured noise, a blur of foreign chatter that adds up to absolutely nothing.

Then Jimin turns toward him, the blanket pulled tightly around his arms, folded into his chest like armor against the chill. Yoongi takes one last drag, then turns and stubs out the cigarette in the little ashtray on the windowsill.
Now that it’s finished, he doesn’t really have a reason to stay outside. He turns back, ready to head in, already searching for some polite way to say goodbye that won’t sound cold.
But he doesn’t get the chance.

“Seokjin hyung’s not home,” Jimin says quickly.
“He went to pick up a few things from a store nearby.”

Yoongi’s gaze settles on him again.
Jimin is looking up now, his face flushed slightly from the cold, something unreadable behind his expression.
Yoongi already has one hand on the door handle.

“I’m just waiting out here for him,” Jimin adds.

Yoongi hesitates in the doorway, lips pressed together, willing them to move, willing something out of them.

“Do you want to sit?” Jimin murmurs.
“I’ve got the blanket. It’s not that cold if we share.”
He laughs, rustling the fabric like Yoongi might not have noticed it at all.

It takes Yoongi two seconds too long to register the invitation. Eventually, he lets go of the door handle. He sits on the edge of their wooden bench, and for a strange moment, it feels like he’s never sat there before.

Jimin hands him the edge of the blanket.
“Here,” is all he says. Yoongi pulls it around himself, awkward, self-conscious. Jimin tightens his half a little more around his own body.

They sit like that, side by side, both gazing off in different directions.
Yoongi’s right leg starts to bounce a little.
Jimin shifts, carefully sliding his left leg, previously folded, out from under the blanket. Slow. Measured. He stretches it out and plants his foot on the ground, dragging it back and forth across the pavement in a slow, steady rhythm.

And that’s when Yoongi realizes. He doesn’t look.
He makes sure not to look.
But he realizes. Jimin’s not wearing the prosthesis.
There’s no second foot to accompany the first.

“Umh… are you feeling better today?” Yoongi murmurs at last. He should’ve asked from the beginning.

Jimin smiles.
“Yeah,” he says simply.

Yoongi nods.

“Hobi hyung came by this morning,” Jimin adds. “Told me not to wear it today.”

Once again, Jimin doesn’t name it.
And once again, Yoongi notices that he notices too many things.

“Especially with tomorrow...” Jimin gestures vaguely.

Yoongi nods again.
Right.
The visit to that innovation center, whatever it's called.
With the groundbreaking doctor and her custom-designed, cutting-edge dance prosthesis with an
estimated cost of 120,000 pounds.
Which Yoongi had already converted in his head to about 225 million won. It hits harder, that way.

“Tomorrow they’ll take measurements. For, uh, building the socket part…”
Jimin gestures loosely toward his thigh.
“You know, where the limb actually goes in.”

Hoseok had explained it all to Yoongi, but he’s still not sure he could repeat it properly.
He nods anyway, again, like someone who at least knows just a little more about this than they did a few weeks ago.

“And the socket has to be a perfect fit, obviously," Jimin continues. "That’s why it’s important it’s totally deflated. Umh, my limb, I mean. There’s a chance they won’t do it tomorrow, actually.”

Yoongi swallows.
“It was swollen yesterday?”

“Yeah, quite a bit, honestly. Fatigue. The flight. And the cold doesn’t help either.”

Yoongi breathes in.

“I got away with it,” Jimin says, tipping his head back, laughing softly. “Didn’t tell anyone.”

His tone is faintly mischievous, the way someone shares a secret.

Yoongi lowers his eyes, but he smiles.
“You should’ve,” he murmurs.

Jimin shrugs.
“You know, it’s not about the swelling. I mean, it gets worse sometimes, yeah. But that’s not even what bothers me the most.” He taps his temple lightly with a finger.
“All the chronic pain starts here.” Yoongi watches the motion of his hand. “Really,” Jimin says. “It’s scientific. Just brain signals. Not much you can do about that.”

Jimin sighs deeply. "But I told you about it yesterday, didn't I. You're gonna get sick of hearing this shit."

Yoongi drops his gaze again. "It really does not bother me," he murmurs. "Really."

Jimin exhales. “It's just... people tell me, relax, try again, walk on it, get used to it. Like it’s all just a matter of willpower.” Jimin goes on, voice soft but carrying a bitter edge. “You have to convince yourself!” He makes a guttural noise, lifting his arms in the air like a caricature of someone—maybe some past doctor with a deep voice, maybe just the idea of authority itself.

Yoongi lets out a quiet laugh. It’s more in his shoulders than his mouth, the kind of laugh that rises from deep inside and spreads slowly, like warmth bleeding into a winter night.
He scratches just beneath his beanie, along his forehead.
“Uh,” he exhales. “I think... that’s how you end up with a really individualistic society,” he murmurs.

“Mm.” Jimin shifts back against the bench, lets his head rest against the cold wall behind them. “I already like where this is going, hyung. Tell me more.”

Yoongi lets his lips flatten into something like a smile.
“Uh.” He scratches behind his ear now, almost out of habit, eyes pinned to the ground.
“I mean… it’s easier if they can convince you the problem’s entirely yours. That it all depends on you, and only you,” he says quietly. “So if you want it enough, you’ll feel better. If you don’t, well, you won’t. And they don’t have to do anything. No… uh, no research, no support, no help, nothing.”
He rubs his knee over the blanket, fidgeting. “Just a thought, sorry.”

He doesn’t look at Jimin. Can’t see his face. Can’t tell if he just said something stupid.
But he hears Jimin breathe in, and the soft scraping of his foot resumes, dragging gently across the pavement, back and forth.

“You know,” Jimin says at last. “They all tell me I’m so good at dancing, I’ll dance again. Full stop. Because there’s passion. Doesn’t matter how, or when, or why.”

Yoongi parts his lips slightly, but Jimin isn’t finished. “Passion really isn’t enough.”

Yoongi nods faintly to himself. “Yeah.”

“Passion…” Jimin leans forward now. Plants his foot firmly on the ground. “That’s just the starting point. Beautiful, yeah. But only the beginning. You need time. Space. Money. People who’ll let you try, let you fail… fall, even. And give you time to stand back up.”

A pause. Yoongi swallows. His throat tightens.

Jimin’s voice drops even softer. “But people like to think it’s a choice. That you gave up. Because it’s easier, right?”

His foot starts dragging again, rhythmic and quiet. Yoongi watches, eyes tracing the motion. Then Jimin lets out a small laugh. “Sorry,” he murmurs.

Yoongi shakes his head. “No.”
He swallows. “No…” he says again, the word breaking in the air like something fragile.

“But maybe you understand, hyung,” Jimin says simply. “I don’t know.”

Yoongi lifts his gaze.
Not quite toward Jimin, he doesn’t have the courage for that. He vaguely looks at somewhere in front of him, where the words can settle. And as they do, the faint murmur of nearby homes returns to his ears, and he remembers where they are.
Houses, houses and more houses. A sprawl of brick and concrete at the edge of the city’s enormity, like an afterthought before the skyline begins.


Maybe you understand.

Maybe you…

The front door clicks shut. Yoongi flinches.
Seokjin’s voice echoes faintly through the quiet, announcing himself.

“We’re out here in the dark,” Jimin whispers, almost like it’s a secret.


Yoongi notices it then, that they never turned on the backyard lights. The whole house is cloaked in shadow, except for the tree’s quiet glow.

He stands slowly, careful not to shift the blanket too much.
“I’ll go tell him we’re here. Before he starts thinking we’ve disappeared, or…”

Through the fogged glass, Yoongi can see Seokjin turning on the lights. Then they lock eyes. Seokjing gives him a slight nod.


“Okay, he saw me,” Yoongi murmurs. “I’ll just tell him you’re here too.”

“I don’t want Taehyung and Jungkook to come with me tomorrow.”


The words tumble out of Jimin’s mouth like they’ve been waiting too long to breathe.

Yoongi turns slowly. Blinks at him, surprised.

“I want them to go out. Sightsee. Be tourists. We can meet later, maybe. But I don’t want them behind me all morning.”

“Uh," Yoongi shifts his weight. "I don’t think they’ll agree to that…”

Jimin chuckles. “They’ll have to. Because that’s what I want.”
Same resolute tone as the day before, when he insisted on going home without them. Less pained now, less frightened, but cut from the same cloth. “I don’t want to carry certain weights for the rest of my life.”

The moment hangs, silent. Eventually, Jimin lifts his eyes to him. “Will you come with me?”

Yoongi opens his mouth once. Then again.

“I mean, I know you have work,” Jimin rushes to add. “And anyway, Hobi hyung will be there.”
He shakes his head. “Sorry, that was really dumb.”
His foot lifts off the ground and disappears back under the blanket. He huddles into it tighter.
“It’s colder now,” he murmurs.

Through the blurred windowpanes, Yoongi watches Seokjin moving between the kitchen and the living room.
He must’ve figured out Jimin is outside too.

He inhales. Exhales. Looks straight at Jimin.
“I’ll come. Of course I’ll come.”

Jimin glances up. “Really, hyung. I didn’t even think about your work. It’s not a problem. I’ve got Hobi hyung.”

Yoongi’s mouth softens at the corners. He taps gently against the door handle.


“Hobi gets way too excited when he talks with other doctors,” he finally says, with a small huff. “Someone needs to remind him to speak slowly.”

Jimin lets out a quiet laugh and lowers his head, fingers curling against the blanket. “Thanks,” he whispers, at last.

Yoongi nods.
He stays there a moment longer, fingers curled back around the handle.

“Uh… it really is colder now. Maybe you should—”


Jimin lowers his gaze. “No, go ahead. I’ll come in soon.”

Yoongi understands immediately.
He understands exactly what it is. Like an invisible phrase written across that blanket, hiding everything else beneath it. Jimin doesn’t want him to see.


“Okay,” he murmurs. Tries to soften his voice, coat it in gentleness. “See you in a bit.”

When he steps back inside, the warmth from the heating clings to him all at once, almost too much after the crisp air outside. It crowds around his skin, heavy and unmoving. And for a breathless moment, he misses the hush of the dark, where Jimin is still sitting, under a sky that doesn't demand anything.

Sometimes thoughts begin like that, like a single note.

A B-flat, say. Something small. Almost dismissible. But Yoongi studied music. He knows there’s no such thing as a meaningless note.
Notes return. They echo. They fold into each other, rise and fall, overlap. They become songs, pieces, symphonies. Maybe thoughts move through the mind the same way. Except in his head, there’s no music.
Just the relentless hum of noise.

He said yes to Jimin. And now he’s stressed.

Back in his room, lying on the bed again—this time with a full stomach, if only to avoid more scolding from Namjoon and Seokjin—he stares at nothing.
Not the ceiling. Not some stains on the walls. Nothing in particular.

But he thinks.


Back in the backyard, Jimin had said maybe Yoongi could understand. They talked about how no one understands. How everyone expects them to push harder, try more, fix everything with willpower.
And Jimin had said that. That he could understand.

Why the fuck did he say that?

Yoongi sits up.


Why.

He narrows his eyes in the dim light. The soft yellow from the bedside lamp irritates him now, too weak, too low. But if he turns it up, it’ll be too harsh.


Literally nothing feels right.

Why did he say yes.


What could he possibly offer Jimin tomorrow?
And why would Jimin think he understands anything?

Understand what, exactly.

He gets up suddenly, without thinking.
Swings open his bedroom door. The hallway’s empty.
He can hear voices from Jimin’s room—probably the three friends, back together, watching some random thing again. If it’s going good, Jungkook and Taehyung are probably still going on about all the wonders they saw at the museum with Namjoon.
Jungkook’s probably repeating for the twentieth time how brilliant Namjoon is, same as he did all through dinner.


As if he’s your best friend, Yoongi thinks bitterly.

If it’s going bad, they might still be arguing. Still stuck on the same discussion from dinner.
Maybe Jimin is trying, yet again, to explain why he doesn’t want them tagging along to his appointment with the famous biomechanical engineer and her hundred-and-twenty-thousand-pound miracle prosthetic limb.

Earlier, after their little encounter, Jimin had slipped quietly back to his room, not long after Yoongi.
Stamping quietly on his crutches, not saying a word, not letting anyone see. Yoongi and Seokjin had stayed in the kitchen, putting groceries away in deliberate silence. No words necessary.
Yoongi had whispered something about checking if Jimin needed help.
Seokjin had said, leave it. The only sound had been the tap tap tap of crutches against tile, echoing faintly down the hallway.

Jimin had only come out again for dinner, his prosthesis back on and a polite smile again on his lips, offering a stream of thanks, hyung here and there. Then, towards the end of dinner, and after an exhaustive recap of the museum tour from the others, Jimin had asked Jungkook and Taehyung what their plans were for the next day.

And they had answered, “what do you mean, what are we supposed to do? You’ve got the appointment.”

And Jimin had replied, “exactly. I have the appointment. You two go have fun.”

From there, a whole string of back-and-forths had begun, sharp, circling, all watched in respectful silence by Namjoon, Seokjin, and Yoongi. To drive the point home, Jimin had then added, calmly, that Hobi hyung would be with him anyway.


“And Yoongi hyung,” he’d emphasized. “He’s coming too.”

Taehyung had stared at Yoongi for a long moment. Jungkook too.
And Namjoon and Seokjin, who didn’t yet know about that little detail either. They had all looked at him, as if calculating what the hell he had to do with any of this.
What use he could possibly be.


Nothing. Absolutely nothing.
Nothing but a head claimed by a fucking echo of thoughts, thoughts and more thoughts.

And now, a single one of those thoughts is taking over everything else.


Why did Jimin say that he might understand.

He opens the door and walks across the living room in bursts, half-stumbling.
In his mind, he curses that fucking tree and its stupid lights casting a pathetic glow over the opened-up sofabed. What greets him is a scene from some cheap romantic movie—Namjoon with one of his books, Seokjin with his Nintendo Switch and his newest Xenoblade Chronicles obsession. They are under the duvet, pressed close side by side, Namjoon’s book forgotten on his chest and head resting on Seokjin's shoulder, both of them fixated on the screen.
For a second, they don’t even notice Yoongi.

He plants himself in front of them, right next to the damn tree.
They both look up, expressions shifting. First curiosity. Then concern.

“Everything okay?” Seokjin asks.


Namjoon peels away from Seokjin's shoulder, sitting up straighter. Yoongi glances at the ridiculous glass birds hanging from the branches. One nearly brushes his shoulder.
He has the sudden, burning desire to rip them both down and toss them in the trash.

Seokjin and Namjoon exchange a glance, brief but weighted. Then Seokjin also sits up properly.

“Is something wrong?” 

Yoongi takes a sharp breath.
“What did you say about me?” he mutters, low and slurred.

Another glance between them.
Then back to him, brows furrowed now.

Namjoon is quicker than Seokjin this time. “What?”

“What did you say about me,” Yoongi repeats, louder.

“To who?”

Yoongi groans. “Who do you think. Why the fuck do I always have to spell things out.”

“Maybe,” Seokjin murmurs, “because you don’t always realize what it is that you’re saying.”

Namjoon places a hand gently on Seokjin’s chest, stopping him there.

Yoongi falls silent.
The fire in him goes out instantly, extinguished as suddenly as it had flared.
He’s not even used to this kind of anger anymore. It's a feeling grown foreign on his tongue.

Namjoon stays steady. Maybe because he saw this coming-the low tension of the whole day that had to break somewhere, somehow.

“To who,” he repeats, voice calm.

“To Taehyung and Jungkook.” Yoongi doesn’t want to say it, but the silence forces him. “To Jimin.”

The words, once spoken aloud, already convince him far less than they had two seconds ago.

Namjoon nods. One of those slow, inward gestures that looks more like thought than agreement. He looks at him. Yoongi holds his gaze. Seokjin exhales, letting his head fall back onto the cushion.

“We didn’t say anything, Yoongs,” Namjoon says at last, voice low. “We’d never do that. You know that.”

Yoongi doesn’t argue. He doesn’t need to anymore.
Just like that, the five-minute storm of unease is over. He stands there for a moment beside the glowing tree, suddenly feeling awkward, out of place.

Namjoon watches him. “Why?”

Yoongi just looks at him.

“Why are you asking,” Namjoon tries again.

“And sit down, please,” Seokjin adds.

They speak almost at the same time.
Yoongi obeys. Namjoon furrows his brow.

“Umh...” Yoongi smooths out a wrinkle in the blanket beside him. He falls quiet. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Seokjin pick his console back up. It doesn’t bother him. It’s a gesture he understands, he knows that he’s making space. He knows what that means.

“Jimin earlier…” Yoongi murmurs. “Uh, Jimin said something weird.”

“What did he say?” Namjoon asks calmly.

“I don’t know… we were talking.”

Namjoon nods. “And?”

“Umh. He said that I might understand.”
The words tumble out fast, like he wants to get them away from himself as quickly as possible. He feels embarrassed.

No one speaks for a moment.
Then Seokjin chuckles, soft and amused. Yoongi’s eyes shoot toward him.

“Yoongi-ah,” Seokjin smirks, gaze still on the game, hands moving out of habit. “To understand whatever it is you’re supposed to understand, you’d have to tell us what it is you might understand.” His tone is light, but attentive. His focus may be on the screen, but Yoongi knows he’s listening.

Yoongi drops his gaze. The sofa bed is so close to that damn tree that one of the branches brushes against his side. He notices one of those birds is just inches from his face now.

“Stuff,” Yoongi mumbles at last. No one pushes him further. “I don’t know. It just made me think that… I don’t know. Whatever.” He stands up. “Sorry.”

He turns his back, takes two slow steps across the room.

Namjoon calls after him. Reluctantly, Yoongi turns around.

“We did say something about you.”

Seokjin glances sideways at Namjoon, then back to the screen. He lets the moment belong to him.

Yoongi stares. Namjoon leans forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees.

“We said you’re a good person.”

Any other time—literally any other time—Yoongi would’ve rolled his eyes and called Namjoon a sap. Any other time, he would’ve muttered, fucking dammit, we’re not in a movie. What the hell are you saying. In any other version of himself, Yoongi would’ve said it. But not this one.

In this one, he just stands there and looks at them, just for a moment.
He then holds Namjoon’s gaze a second longer than he means to.


He doesn’t say a word.
He takes it in. And leaves before it can undo him.

Yoongi hasn’t slept much.

His head rests against the car window while some as old Korean classics play bright and steady from the stereo, one of those playlists Hoseok must’ve chosen on purpose. The kind of songs their parents would’ve recorded onto cassette tapes back when they were kids. Kim Kwang Seok’s voice fills the car now, grainy and warm.

“Yoongi-ah.” Hoseok glances at him through the rearview mirror. “Wasn’t he from Daegu?”

Yoongi lets his face press harder into the glass. “Yeah.”

Hoseok throws a quick look at Jimin in the passenger seat.
“You should hear Yoongi’s guitar version of this. Says he can’t sing, but that’s a lie.”

Yoongi sighs. It happened once. Literally once, he picked up a guitar in front of Hoseok.
Once in two years. And Hoseok hasn’t let it go since.

“I’d love to hear it, then,” Jimin says softly, seated just in front of him.


Yoongi can see the side of his face turned slightly toward the window.
Almost in his direction. He closes his eyes.

In two whole years, he’s touched the piano exactly zero times. And the guitar, an old one Namjoon had picked up in some dusty shop on Denmark Street, maybe twice. At best.

“Yoongi-ah,” Hoseok persists, unshakably cheerful this morning.
“What happened to that guitar, by the way?”

“Hm?”

“The one Namjoon bought, the—” Hoseok waves vaguely with one hand, the other steady on the wheel. “That classical—”

“It was acoustic,” Yoongi mutters.

“I haven’t seen it at your place in forever.”

Yoongi turns toward the window. The Thames flickers in the far distance as they push farther northwest, farther away from that grey water.

Truth is is, they’ve already talked through everything that concerns Jimin’s appointment.
Hoseok has, at least. Since the moment he showed up that morning, punctual to the dot at eight, having crossed half the city from north to south just to pick them up. Yoongi and Jimin had barely seen each other before they left.
Just a second—Yoongi shuffling toward the bathroom, Jimin already dressed neatly. Yoongi had mumbled that he’d be quick, and Jimin had simply thanked him.
Namjoon and Seokjin had already left for work by then. Yoongi was alone to witness another round of arguing between Jimin, Taehyung, and Jungkook. In the end, it was Hoseok who arrived and saved him, stepping in with a cascade of warm reassurances and cheerful suggestions for Taehyung and Jungkook on how to spend the morning and where to go for lunch.

Hoseok had talked about the appointment for a solid twenty minutes in the car, walking through technical details Yoongi was sure he’d already repeated to Jimin a thousand times. And sure enough, Jimin had eventually said, I know hyung. And then added that he’d have to hear it all again soon anyway. He’d said it gently, politely, as always, but there’d been a subtle edge of nervousness in his voice. Yoongi had caught it. Hoseok had laughed, admitted he was right, and switched on his Korean oldies playlist to fill the space.

Yoongi hadn’t said much until that point. He hadn’t had anything to contribute with.


What am I even here for, today.

“Yoongi-ah,” Hoseok’s voice breaks in again, steady and bright.
“You asleep back there? I was asking what happened to the guitar.”

Yoongi draws a slow breath.
It’s Christmas Eve, and the sky has turned a solid sheet of grey.

“I donated it,” he murmurs. “To a music school. For kids.”

Hoseok hums quietly. He doesn’t reply.
Jimin shifts slightly in his seat, turning more toward the window.
Yoongi can just catch the edge of his face reflected in the glass, half-lost in the grey of the sky and the far-off grey of the river.

Silence settles for a while.
Then Jimin moves again, this time turning toward Hoseok.

“Uh, hyung… would you mind if we changed the music?”

Hoseok glances over, lips parting. “Oh?” 

“No offense,” Jimin exhales, a soft, polite laugh tucked under the words.
“It’s nice, really, but hearing Korean songs, right now...”

“Oh.” Hoseok clicks his tongue in dramatic, exaggerated shock.

“Hobi doesn’t even like them, these old songs,” Yoongi mutters. “He just wanted to impress you.”

“Hey.”

“I do like them,” Jimin says, laughing softly. “It’s just that, being away from home… it doesn’t really feel good.”

Hoseok smiles in quiet understanding. “Grab my phone,” he says gently, nodding toward it.
“Play whatever you want. You should get a UK SIM card, by the way.”

“Yeah, I talked about it with Namjoon hyung and Seokjin hyung already.”


Jimin lingers with Hoseok’s phone in his hand, thumb tapping the screen absently.
For a second, he seems a million miles from the music.

“What should I play?” he finally asks.

“Whatever you want,” Hoseok says with a smile. “Something Bri-tish.” He says it in English, with a thick, forced accent. Yoongi rolls his eyes, fondly, though no one’s looking.

“Uh…” Jimin hesitates, laughing softly. “I don’t know. You two pick.”

“Yoongi-ah,” Hoseok calls for what must be the tenth time that morning. “What was that song by that English band you like?”

“Uh?”

“That one you like.”

Yoongi sighs. “Which one, Hoba.”


The nickname slips out before he can stop it. Hoseok cackles with delight. Jimin glances back, smiling.

“That one, you know! The one that goes duh duh duh duh, tutu-tututuu, duuuh—” Hoseok drums excitedly on the steering wheel.

Yoongi rolls his eyes again. “Crystal clear. Thank you.”

“That one by that English band,” Hoseok insists. “The one that keeps going the boys are back in town, what’s it called…”

“Ah. Thin Lizzy. And they’re not English. They’re Irish,” Yoongi corrects.
“From Dublin. If they heard you…”

“Yeah, yeah, alright, them.” Hoseok turns to Jimin. “Put it on, put it on.”

Jimin is still half-turned toward Yoongi. “I don’t know what it’s called. You do it.”
He hands the phone to him. Yoongi takes it.

“Well, it’s old rock, okay,” he declares.

No one argues.
He hits play, and the car fills with the sharp crunch of a guitar riff.

Jimin is still turned toward him.
His head begins to nod to the rhythm.
He smiles again, warmly, then turns back to the road ahead.

Guess who just got back today?

The voice of the singer cuts in.

Them wild-eyed boys that’d been away...

If he ever goes back to Korea, Yoongi thinks, it’ll be with this song in his ears.

They park among the trees.

Yoongi looks around, and it’s exactly like he remembered from the pictures he looked up.
The building itself is clearly new, though, a sleek semicircle of glass and pale metal rising from the earth like some kind of landed spaceship. It clashes almost comically with the trees that surround it. For a second, Yoongi thinks the old brick hospital building would’ve intimidated him less.

He shifts toward the center of the back seat now that the car’s stopped. From the corner of his eye, he can see Jimin staring straight ahead.


Hoseok checks the time on his phone. “We’re early,” he laughs. “By an hour. Our appointment’s at ten-thirty.”

Jimin nods. “Good,” he murmurs.

“Best not to walk around too much,” Hoseok adds. “You should move as little as possible before the measurements.”

Jimin nods again. “I know.”

Yoongi clears his throat. “Uh, maybe a coffee?”

Hoseok clicks his tongue, delighted. “Please. There’s a café on-site. Let’s go.”

They step out of the car slowly. The day is grey but slightly less cold than the one before.

“Barely anyone around, huh. Christmas Eve,” Hoseok mutters. “Normally this place is packed.”

“You come here often?” Jimin asks.

“Not too often. But they coordinate with my hospital sometimes. We send over some of my little patients to the pediatric orthopedic wing. So, yes. Now and then.”

Jimin nods again. “It’s big,” he murmurs, eyes fixed on the curved line of the building as they draw nearer.

“Well,” Hoseok chuckles. “You’re simply in front of one of the largest orthopedic centers in the world.”

Jimin walks more slowly today, steps careful and deliberate. His weight visibly tilted to one side, protecting the other, keeping it light, as if saving it for what’s to come.

“So this area is called Brockley Hill?” he asks, as though naming the place might make it softer.

“That’s right,” Hoseok replies. “Brockley Hill. We’re northwest of London.”

Jimin hums. “It's nice,” he murmurs. "Pretty."

“It’s quite the trip from home,” Yoongi mutters.

Hoseok hums in sympathy. “Yeah. It’d be better if you came by car. If I could always bring you, I would.”

Jimin shrugs lightly. “Don’t, hyung. You guys have your own jobs. It’s just an hour between tube and bus.”

“Can’t they set the appointments to late afternoon?” Yoongi asks quietly.

He lags a little behind, adjusting his pace to them. Jimin slows until they’re side by side again. 

“Eh, no,” Hoseok shakes his head. “Physio works best in the morning, or early afternoon at the latest. That’s when your body’s got more energy.”

“It won’t be a problem,” Jimin murmurs. “The first time, I’ll come with Taehyung and Jungkook. I’ll know the way, and they’ll stop fussing.”

“You better,” Hoseok laughs. “They only backed off today because we’re here with you.”

Jimin huffs softly, half amused, half resigned.

“And anyway,” Hoseok picks up again, “we’ll be the ones picking you up after physio. Every time. Either me, or Namjoon, or Seokjin hyung—”

“There’s really no need…”

“—or Yoongi,” Hoseok adds quickly. “We’ve already talked about it.”

No one told Yoongi anything. Not that he minds. Not that he wouldn’t do it. It’s just that, again, no one told him a damn thing.

“Of course,” he murmurs anyway, just to avoid sounding rude.

“We’ll try to schedule the sessions in the early afternoon, at least,” Hoseok says. “That way you won’t have to wait around too long for us to come.”

“There’s really no need,” Jimin repeats. “Seriously, hyung,” he says, looking at Hoseok. “Hyung, really—” he starts again, this time his eyes turning toward Yoongi. “I don’t need—”

“Yes, you do,” Hoseok says. His voice is still patient, but now there's a quiet finality to it, professional and firm. “You’ll be exhausted after.”

Jimin doesn’t argue again.
He walks beside Yoongi now, head slightly bowed. He pauses just a moment in front of the entrance. Hoseok passes through the automatic doors before he can notice it.

Yoongi stays at Jimin’s side.
He tilts his head gently toward the inside.
Jimin nods. Yoongi watches him take a slow, deliberate breath before stepping through.

Hoseok is ordering three cappuccinos.
“Grab a table,” he calls over his shoulder. “Before all the free ones vanish.”

Yoongi takes the lead, at least in this.
Spots a small table at the back of the café room.


Jimin follows, eyes scanning the space. Everything is sterile, clinical, impossibly white.


Dammit, even hospitals cafes are ugly.

“We can sit here,” Yoongi utters quietly.

“Pardon,” says a voice behind Jimin, still standing beside the table.
“Pardon,” the woman repeats, irritated, before Yoongi can react.


Jimin startles when he realizes he’s in the way.
Yoongi reaches for him gently, fingers tugging at his sleeve.

“Sit,” he says softly.

Jimin lowers himself into the chair.
His eyes scan the room again, pupils darting fast.
The hum of foreign voices all around probably doesn’t help.
Yoongi takes the seat beside him.

Hoseok returns with their drinks.
“Don’t even think about it,” he says, catching Jimin mid-motion as he tries to pull out his wallet. “Not even as a joke.”

They sip their first mouthfuls in silence.

“I…” Jimin begins. “My English, uh. I can’t understand much of anything.”

Hoseok places a hand on his shoulder.
“That’s exactly why we’re here today,” he smiles. “And don’t worry. They’ve got patients from all over the world.”

Yoongi wishes he could offer the same kind of comfort.
But instead, he just sits there in silence, eyes flicking to Jimin now and then.
When they finish their drinks, the only useful thing he can do is collect the cups and go toss them in the bin.

“You ready?” Hoseok asks.

“Yes, hyung,” Jimin murmurs. “I’m ready.”

The Prosthetic Rehabilitation Unit is on the fifth floor.


Both Yoongi and Jimin keep their eyes down in the elevator.
Only Hoseok looks around. A quick glance at them, then at himself in the mirrored wall.

“Shit, I need a haircut.”

Yoongi snorts softly.
Jimin smiles a little but stays silent.

Hoseok steps out first, placing a reassuring hand on Jimin’s back.
“Let’s go,” he says. “I’ve got you. Don't worry.”

At the reception desk, he introduces himself—Dr. Jung—and introduces Jimin as well.
The two receptionists smile warmly.
Jimin hangs back, inching a little closer to Yoongi. Then Hoseok gives a small signal, and the three of them move down the corridor.
A receptionist knocks on a door. A doctor steps out. She’s small, kind-eyed. Smiles.

“Dr. Halvorsen,” Hoseok says, bowing slightly. An offering from home.
She returns the gesture, still smiling, then looks at Jimin.

“Park Jimin,” Hoseok says again, gently.

She meets his gaze. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you in person,” she says.

Yoongi figures they must’ve kept in touch before, somehow.
He didn’t know that either.


The woman speaks slowly, deliberately. She extends a hand.


Jimin shakes it carefully. “Uh, nice to…” he starts in English, barely audible.

She waves it off, smiling. “No need for formalities.”

Then she extends her hand to Yoongi, too. He takes it and mumbles a quiet introduction.

“Good,” Dr. Halvorsen nods. “Let’s step into my office so we can talk properly.”


She calls over one of the receptionists, asks her to bring in the rest of the team as she guides them inside. Her office is large and bright, with several chairs arranged behind a massive desk.
Prosthetic models line the walls,
and a small Christmas tree rests on the bookshelf. Just one glance at the room tells Yoongi how renowned she must be.

They take their seats. Jimin sits in the middle, flanked by Hoseok and Yoongi.

“Well, I’m Dr. Halvorsen, Lead Consultant Prosthetist and Biomechanical Engineer at the Royal National Orthopaedic Hospital.”

Hoseok translates with enthusiasm. “And award-winning specialist,” he adds for Jimin’s benefit.

Dr. Halvorsen turns her attention to Jimin again. “I have a deep interest in ballet,” she says slowly, her eyes never leaving Jimin’s, even as Hoseok translates beside him.
“For the last ten years, I’ve focused specifically on dynamic limb systems for elite performers.” She pauses. Gives Hoseok time to translate.

Jimin leans slightly toward Hoseok, listening, then lifts his eyes to meet hers.
He nods.

There’s a knock at the door.
“There they are,” Dr. Halvorsen says gently.

Five people enter all at once, like a small gust of movement and white coats.
They each introduce themselves in turn, one by one, quick but not rushed. A Rehabilitation Physiatrist, Dr. Akintola.
Specialized in prosthetic for athletes and performers, he makes a point to emphasize. Then a Senior Clinical Prosthetist, Dr. Mancini, in charge of digital socket design.
Next comes Dr. Merryman, Gait Analyst and Motion Capture Technician, as she says.
Then there’s Dr. Patel, an Amputee Physiotherapist with a specialization in performing arts rehabilitation. 

“And just a humble scanning technician,” says the last one cheerfully, a broad-shouldered man named Russell.

“Oh come on, Russell,” Dr. Halvorsen says, grinning. “You’re the most important person in this room.”
The man laughs, easy and warm. 

Yoongi has no damn clue what all that even is. Hoseok translates for Jimin, but even hearing it in Korean doesn’t help. The words land like abstract shapes. Just technical, heavy, strange, intimidating. He sees the way Jimin shifts his gaze from one person to the other. 

Dr. Halvorsen turns to Jimin again, her tone softer now.
“Today might feel a little intense,” she says. “At any point, if you need to stop, you only have to say so, and we’ll pause everything. Please make sure he knows that, Dr. Jung.”

Hoseok translates slowly, clearly.
Jimin nods again. “Okay,” he murmurs.

“Good.” She glances toward the team. “I’ll need to ask a few questions first. We’ll meet in the scanning room afterward.”

Two team members stay behind as the others file quietly out.

“I’ve watched so many of your videos,” she says then, returning her attention to Jimin. “You’re phenomenal.”
She doesn’t elaborate. No flattery, no lingering. Just the fact of it.


Jimin lowers his eyes, flustered. “Thank you,” he murmurs in English.

“How long have you been using your current prosthesis, the definitive one?”

Jimin turns slightly toward Hoseok as he translates.
“Six months regularly," he says then. "I occasionally used a different one for a few months before that.”

Dr. Halvorsen nods, noting it down. “What movements cause you the most discomfort?”

“Getting up and down,” Jimin murmurs. “Kneeling is awkward. It pulls at the skin around the socket.” He pauses. “Uh… turning. Quick changes.”
He adds that sometimes the movements cause sharp, piercing pain, even if it passes quickly.

Yoongi thinks of how many things he’s taken for granted his whole life.


“Do you experience discomfort or pain after long walks?”

“Uh, I get this burning feeling where the socket presses on the limb after long walks,” Jimin replies quietly. “And I still get blisters. Redness, sometimes. My other hip and lower back hurt too because I shift all the weight there now and then.”

He speaks slowly, pausing frequently, leaving space for Hoseok to register his words and translate them.

“And how is your skin health at the socket interface these days?”

Jimin glances at Hoseok during the translation, then looks back at the doctor. “It was a bit swollen two days ago,” he murmurs. “Feels normal now, I think.”

“Good to hear,” she says softly, with a small smile.

“It’s usually better than before, though,” Jimin adds softly. “I, uh… I moisturize twice a day. And I use better liners and pads, it helps with the friction now.”

Hoseok finishes translating. Dr. Halvorsen nods. “Do you experience severe phantom limb pain?”

Jimin nods in return. “Yeah. Often.” Then, with quiet honesty he adds, “Badly. Sometimes.”

Yoongi already knows that. Knows it too well by now.

Dr. Halvorsen jots something down in her notepad. She pauses, thoughtful, before continuing. “What would you say are your long-term goals with the new prosthesis?” she asks, her voice gentle as she turns fully toward Jimin.

Jimin looks to Hoseok first, then back to her. He’s silent for a moment after hearing the words translated.

“I want to stand en pointe again,” he murmurs eventually. “Just to feel it. Even if it’s only for a second.”

Hoseok clears his throat softly before translating.

“Of course,” Dr. Halvorsen replies, just as softly. “We’ll work so it lasts far longer than a second.”

“And I want to dance again,” Jimin adds, barely waiting for the translation. “That’s it. I don’t care if I never do full-length ballet again.”

Yoongi watches his profile—the lifted chin, the composed spine, the face angled toward something beyond the room, beyond the moment. His gaze has depth, like clear water.

“I just need to feel like myself again,” Jimin murmurs then.

Yoongi lowers his eyes, fingers curling slightly where they rest on his tense knees.

Dr. Halvorsen smiles. “I hear you,” she says, simply. She gives space for her words to reach him before moving on.

“Alright. We can move to the second part now,” she says. “We’ll start with a brief physical examination in the other room, before the scan.” She gestures toward the door, letting them go ahead first.

They stand. Dr. Halvorsen, the physiatrist, and the prosthetist follow, eventually leading them down the hallway. The room they enter is large, filled with unfamiliar equipment and a wide window that opens onto a patch of trees. But the sky is overcast, and the natural light isn’t enough. The overhead fluorescents hum coldly, casting everything in a depressing, sterile sheen.

“We’ll have you lie down on that table,” Dr. Halvorsen says, pointing gently.

Jimin listens as Hoseok translates, then nods.

“You can change over there.” She gestures to a curtained-off corner. “You’ll find a sealed pair of medical shorts on the stool. Please remove the prosthesis,” she adds, her voice kind. “Let us know if you need any help.”

Hoseok translates carefully, adding that he can help Jimin change, if he's okay with it.
Jimin nods. He glances briefly at Yoongi, then disappears behind the curtain with Hoseok. Yoongi stays frozen in place while the three doctors begin preparing the examination table.

Jimin reappears shortly after, leaning against Hoseok. The table is only a few steps away.
Yoongi lowers his gaze.

“Here,” says Dr. Halvorsen gently, patting the surface.


Hoseok helps Jimin lie down, then stays standing right beside him. That’s when Yoongi realizes it, that maybe he shouldn’t be here. He’s not necessary in this moment. Not like Hoseok is. Maybe he’s not meant to be included in this part. Maybe he should’ve understood that earlier. He steps forward, bends slightly toward Jimin. 

“Uh… should I wait outside?” he whispers.


Thank fuck they don’t understand Korean.

Jimin turns sharply toward him. “No,” he whispers back. He shakes his head, clearly rattled. His eyes are wide. “Why?”

Yoongi blinks, caught off guard. He thinks about how Jimin hadn’t even wanted him to see him getting up the day before.

“I mean… do you want me to stay?” he asks, just to make sure.

“Hyung.” Jimin exhales. He reaches out, grabbing Yoongi’s sleeve, pulling him closer.
He doesn’t say anything else. Whatever it was yesterday, it must have shifted, now that they’re here.

Hoseok watches them with his arms crossed, offering soft, encouraging smiles from time to time.

Dr. Halvorsen asks gently if she can remove the liner sock.
Yoongi drops his gaze for just a few seconds. In that handful of seconds, he catches a glimpse of the amputation, just below the knee, covered by a skin-toned, light cotton sock. He looks away immediately.

Jimin keeps a firm grip on Yoongi’s sleeve as he nods. Yoongi doesn’t look again.
Out of respect, maybe. Out of courtesy.
Because it doesn’t feel like it’s his place. Hoseok watches, but Hoseok is a doctor.
He watches with a doctor’s eyes. Yoongi would be watching as an outsider, and that’s not the same thing. He doesn’t know if it’s kinder to look or more respectful to turn away.


He doesn’t know anything, really.


So he looks at everything else. The trees outside the window, the blinking monitor nearby, the quiet profile of Hoseok.
Jimin's hand, clutching his sleeve. Tight.

The doctors speak as they work, explaining each step to Jimin. Hoseok observes and translates. Yoongi catches bits and pieces—something about inspecting skin integrity, limb shape, scar tissue, and all that. His eyes drift occasionally to the doctors’ gloved hands as they move, but only to that, and only for a second. Mostly, he stares at the floor.

Jimin glances upward. Gives the sleeve a barely-there tug.
Yoongi looks down at him. Jimin’s expression is tight, distressed, his eyes wide with something unspoken.
Yoongi nods, tries to smile. Jimin nods back.
Whatever they’re saying to each other, Yoongi isn’t sure.
But he hopes it helps. Jimin lets go of the sleeve then, folds his hands over his chest.
Still looking up. Still finding Yoongi’s eyes when he can.

The doctors ask him to bend his knee as gently as he can manage.
Hoseok translates softly, always adding a quiet encouragement only the three of them can understand.

You’re doing great. Everything’s going fine. You’re in good hands, yeah?

Jimin nods each time.

They say they’re checking his range of motion now. Dr. Halvorsen asks him many things as they do.
If he notices instability when walking on uneven ground (Jimin murmurs that sometimes it feels like his knee wants to give out). If he feels confident shifting his weight fully onto the prosthetic side (Jimin admits he still doesn’t). When does he feel like the phantom pain is at its worst (Jimin says when it’s cold. When he’s tired. When he’s stressed. When it rains. Maybe other times, too). 


Yoongi still doesn’t look. He isn’t sure what exactly the doctors are doing.
From time to time, Jimin glances up at him again.
Yoongi wishes he could say something like Hoseok does, gentle reassurances that it’s going well.
But he can’t bring himself to say anything like that.
He just nods, here and there. And Jimin responds with a soft nod of his own, matching the rhythm.

Dr. Halvorsen keeps explaining every single step as they go. When they start taking circumference measurements from the knee down to distal end, when they measure limb length, when they track some volume data. Then, members of the staff from earlier return.
The technician takes reference photos of Jimin’s limb, then begins setting up what they call a structured light 3D scanner.


Hoseok asks which model it is. One of the team answers that it’s a Vorum Spectra.

Yoongi glances at Jimin.
Shrugs. Makes a face that says, whatever. “Their nerd medical stuff…” he brings himself to whispers.


Even through the tension, Jimin smiles a little, as if to say, for real. A faint, light shrug.

“We’re going to place a padded wedge under your limb now, to get a better scan,” one of the staff says.
Jimin looks down. Hoseok translates. Jimin nods back.


Yoongi looks down for just a second too. The scanner glides around the limb, catching every angle.
No one speaks. Hoseok watches the movement closely, focused. The only sound in the room is the low, steady buzz of the machine.


Jimin looks up again, and holds still.
His eyes find Yoongi’s again. Yoongi holds the gaze.

Then, a sudden fluttering sound fills the air.


The chimes of birds.

Yoongi wonders if he imagined it.
He glances up ahead, but doesn’t turn toward the window.
Doesn’t try to catch a flicker of wings or a shift in the light.
He looks down again almost immediately. Jimin’s eyes move around the room briefly, then return to Yoongi.

“Free concert,” Jimin murmurs.


No one reacts, because no one understands.
Only Hoseok, who turns toward him for a second. The doctors speak quietly among themselves.

Yoongi hums. “If they’re that close, it means they’ve nested on one of the branches nearby.”

Jimin smiles faintly. “Lucky them,” he whispers. “I’m so jealous.”

Yoongi doesn’t lift his gaze.

The morning stretches on.


After the scan, the doctors begin wrapping wet plaster bandages over Jimin’s limb, letting them set in place.

“We’re going to take a mold, along with the 3D scan,” Dr. Halvorsen explains.
Beside her, the prosthetist gently shapes the plaster, marking pressure-tolerant areas, and those that are more sensitive.

It takes a while for the wet bandages to harden and set into a custom-fitted cast. Jimin glances toward Yoongi and Hoseok while they wait.

“My leg’s gone numb,” he says.
Then adds, “the good one, by the way.”

Hoseok chuckles. Yoongi smiles quietly.

Jimin sighs. He looks at them both.
“Aren’t you tired? You’ve been standing like this for like an hour now.”

“Don’t worry about us,” Hoseok replies, gently patting Jimin’s hair.

Jimin looks down at himself. “This place is so fancy,” he murmurs. “So many measurements, both a 3D scan and a mold.”

Yoongi wants to tell him that, for what it cost him, it’s the least they could do.

“And we’re not even done yet,” Hoseok laughs. He lets the moment settle. “Well, it’s advanced tech,” he adds then. “She’ll explain everything once you’re done.”

“Good luck translating that,” Jimin whispers.

Hoseok snorts, then steps forward to do just that, speaking quietly with the doctor and the rest of the team.
“Three more minutes, then they’ll take it off,” he reports back to Jimin.


Jimin nods, then tilts his head up toward Yoongi again. Yoongi is already looking down at him.

“My neck’s starting to hurt from looking up at you,” Jimin murmurs.


Yoongi huffs softly.

“Hyung,” Jimin says again.


“Mh?”

“Well, since we’re in England, this seems like the perfect setting to ask. Have you ever seen Billy Elliot? The movie?”


What a crazy thing to ask, Yoongi thinks. Right here, in the middle of a wildly expensive appointment that might change your entire life.

He shakes his head. “No.”

“Hyung…” Jimin protests. “How could you not? I must’ve watched it hundreds... no, maybe thousands of times.”


Yoongi lets out a quiet laugh and shakes his head again. “Sorry,” he says softly. “Never seen it.”

“Ah, hyung.” Jimin closes his eyes. “It’s about this kid who wants to dance, but his dad... well, he thinks ballet’s only for... you know. For gay men. It’s set in the ’80s or something.”

Yoongi wants to say maybe they could watch it together. But he doesn’t.

Jimin doesn’t seem to mind the silence. “There’s this beautiful song at the start,” he continues. “You’d probably like it. You like that kind of old stuff, I guess. I was going to play it in the car earlier.”

“We can play it after,” Yoongi murmurs. That’s all he has time to say.


Jimin opens his eyes again just as they announce it’s time to remove the cast. Once it’s off, they label the mold and carefully set it aside.


“Go fill it with liquid plaster now,” Dr. Halvorsen tells two assistants. Then she turns back to Jimin. “I know it feels endless,” she says with a touch of sympathy, “but we’ll need you to put your prosthesis back on for one final walking assessment.”

Hoseok translates. Jimin says he’s used to it, at least with his first prosthesis. “Though never quite like this,” he adds. He shifts slowly upright. Two nurses clean and dry the skin with antiseptic before slipping the liner sock back on.

“We’ll ask you to keep the shorts on,” Dr. Halvorsen says.

This time, Yoongi does follow Jimin and Hoseok. He reaches out a hand to help Jimin, too, on the other side from Hoseok, and feels reassured when Jimin doesn't seem to mind. Once Jimin is seated on the small stool behind the curtains, Yoongi leans toward him.

“Do you want me to step out?” he whispers. He feels pretty nervous again.

Jimin looks at him and shakes his head. "No, hyung," he says. "Stay, please."

Yoongi stays, beside Hoseok.

Jimin adjusts the prosthetic sock, then slides the prosthesis on. He sighs quietly at the sensation. Then, he begins putting his shoes on, carefully, with practiced precision.
He doesn't say anything, he doesn't look up at them. They don't force any word onto him, either. 

Jimin gets to his feet with a little grimace. “Hyung, please tell me this is the last part,” he mutters to Hoseok.


Hoseok pats his shoulder. “One last push,” he says gently.

This time, Yoongi and Hoseok sit as they watch Jimin being asked to walk back and forth across the room. First at a normal pace. Then a bit faster. Then slower. And then stop. Turn to the left. Turn to the right. Return.


Hoseok translates everything, step by step. Jimin does what he’s asked, but he’s clearly tired. Yoongi can see it.
The doctor and her team watch intently, scribbling notes into their notepads.

Then a knock. Two men step in, each carrying high-resolution cameras. The team gives quiet instructions. One camera is mounted laterally on a tripod, thigh-height, facing the walkway from the side. The other is set up behind for a rear-view angle.

Jimin stares at them, wide-eyed.


Hoseok gets up. “They’re going to film your gait now,” he says gently, stepping in. “Don’t worry, it won’t take long.”

Dr. Halvorsen adds that it’s important to analyze how his body moves with the current prosthesis. Symmetry, knee stability, imbalance, how the prosthetic foot lifts off during the push phase... Jimin glances at the floor as Hoseok translates.
Then he nods quietly, resigned.

Hoseok sits back down.
Yoongi watches as Jimin walks back and forth once, twice, three, four times, those two cameras still trained on him.
The team keeps scribbling notes, their eyes following his every step.
Someone kneels down for a closer look at his prosthetic foot.


Yoongi glances at them briefly, but his gaze returns quickly to Jimin.

“He’s tired,” he murmurs to Hoseok.

Hoseok lets out a sigh and nods.

When it’s finally over, Jimin eases himself down beside Yoongi, letting his head rest against the wall, lips slightly parted.

“Want me to get you some water?” Yoongi asks.


Jimin shakes his head. “No, hyung,” he hiccups. “Stay here.”

Hoseok glances at them. “I’ll go,” he murmurs. “I’m dying of thirst.” He doesn’t wait for either of them to respond.
Turns to the doctors, excuses himself softly, then steps out of the room.

Dr. Halvorsen approaches with a warm smile. “We’re all done for today…” she begins, then trails off, glancing uncertainly at Yoongi.

Yoongi realizes she’s probably not sure if he understands English. He’s only spoken Korean the whole time, after all.

“I speak English,” he says then, quietly.

“Oh,” she smiles, slightly flustered. “Sorry, I… well.”


She tells Jimin he can take his time getting changed, and that she’ll be waiting in her office. This time, it’s Yoongi who translates.
Then the doctor and her team leave the room.

Jimin exhales sharply.
“She thought you…?”


“Yeah,” Yoongi chuckles under his breath, shoulders shaking lightly.

Jimin exhales again, this time slower. Then he breaks into a laugh.

Yoongi checks the time on his phone.

Half past one. They’re seated again in Dr. Halvorsen’s office.
Jimin sits in the center, his own pants back on, with Yoongi and Hoseok on either side again.
The day feels gentler somehow, a shy sun peeking through the clouds and casting a soft light across the room.
Even the little Christmas tree on the side table looks a bit more cheerful now.

“I’ll let you go for lunch soon,” the doctor says with a smile. “But first, let’s make today feel a little more real. I think it’s time you saw what you’ll be getting.”

Jimin watches her closely as Hoseok translates.
On the wide desk before them sits a large case, something that vaguely reminds Yoongi of some violin case, or whatever.

The doctor opens it slowly.
“And here it is,” she says softly. “A sample of what will be yours.”

All three of them lean in to look at the prosthetic limb.
It looks exactly as expensive as it is, worlds apart from the prosthesis Jimin’s wearing now.


Sleek.

White and glossy, almost luminous.

Elegant.

“Clear carbon-fiber shank,” she explains, lifting it from the case. “And a flexible forefoot extension. Look here.”
She leans toward Jimin. “Can you keep up, Dr. Jung?”

Hoseok wavers. “It’s getting a bit tricky now,” he admits.

The doctor laughs. “We’ll take it slow. Well, construction will begin the moment your socket mold is finalized and cleared for volume stability.” She pauses, giving Hoseok time to translate. “That’s the part we scanned today.” She waits before continuing.
“It’s built around a custom-articulated ankle mechanism.”
Another pause. Jimin exhales softly. “It allows for controlled plantarflexion, which is crucial for balancing en pointe without hyperextending your knee.”

Hoseok stumbles a bit through the translation.


Jimin leans in slightly. “It’s okay hyung,” he murmurs to him. “I don’t even need to understand all this technical stuff.”

His eyes remain fixed on the piece of advanced technology in front of him.

Hoseok finishes as best as he can, anyway.

“I’ll try to keep it simple. The toe section here,” the doctor continues, pointing to the narrow footpiece, “is built with a special, flexible honeycomb structure inside. The mechanism literally mimics a pointe shoe. It compresses...” She brings her hands together, palms facing inward but slightly cupped, as though holding a soft ball. Then, slowly, she presses them together until they flatten, her fingers splaying slightly to suggest give and tension. “And then it rebounds when you shift your weight up forward trough your core.” She reverses the motion, hands springing apart with a soft upward lift, fingertips flexing outward. 

Jimin watches her hands move, eyes wide.

She adds a few more explanations after that. Hoseok does his best to translate faithfully. 

Yoongi leans closer, voice low near Jimin’s ear.
“She also said,” he murmurs, “that toe mechanism is built to carry your full body weight when it is activated and you rise up.”

Jimin tilts his head in Yoongi’s direction.

“Or…. something like that, she said,” Yoongi adds softly.

“Thank you,” Hoseok whispers. “I got lost trying to do justice to the first part.”


Jimin leans in to look at it more closely, eyes wide and steady on the prosthesis.
“Will it hurt?” he murmurs.


“Not if we get the alignment right,” the doctor answers patiently. “It’ll feel strange. You’ll wobble. It’ll scare you, sure…”

Yoongi translates now. Hoseok steps in for the technical terms.

“And I’ll be honest, just like I’ve been from the start. I want to remind you that it’s going to take several months to even move around for short periods of time.”


Yoongi translates that too, his voice softening. He glances over, but Jimin doesn’t flinch.

“It won’t be ready for at least a month. And until then, I want you here three times a week to continue your regular physio. Treadmill walking, core engagement exercises, single leg balance work, full body strengthening, upper body and core stabilization…”

Yoongi struggles to get it all across. Hoseok jumps in every few words.

“And I’d like you to continue your neuromuscular retraining therapy here as well.”


Hoseok translates. Jimin groans.

“I know,” the doctor says gently. “But it matters. Not just your body. Your mind needs to relearn, too.”

They all fall quiet for a moment, looking at the prosthesis again. Even the doctor.

“She won an award for this,” Hoseok murmurs to Jimin. “You know that.”


“I know, hyung,” Jimin replies, chuckling softly.

Yoongi thinks Hoseok really does love repeating that part.

Jimin smiles, but all his attention is on that future piece of himself.

Dr. Halvorsen gives him time to observe. "Once we process today’s scan," she adds eventually, "I’ll generate a 3D visual of the mechanism mapped directly over your limb shape. We’ll go over it together in the next few weeks."

Hoseok forgets to translate for a second. "You’ll be able to see exactly how it’s designed to move with you," he tells Jimin excitedly. 

"Uh, you're not translating, Hobi," Yoongi whispers. 

"Ah," Hoseok chuckles. "Right." He fixes it.

Jimin doesn't really react, his eyes still glued to the prosthesis.

"Once you receive it,” Dr. Halvorsen continues, “with my referral and under my supervision, you’ll enter that specialized program for dancers. You already know this, but that’s where most of the real dance work will happen.”

Yoongi translates that part. Much easier. They settle the days for his upcoming sessions.
Three times a week, starting next week. The doctor stands. So do they.

“Well,” she says gently, “I hope you have a good holiday season. And enjoy London.”

Jimin stares at her, dazed, when she shakes his hand.
He mumbles a clumsy goodbye and a string of thank-yous in English.

Yoongi watches him, thinking of all the things Jimin probably wishes he could say if only the language, or something deeper, didn’t hold him back.

The walk back to the car is slow.

Jimin says nothing.
Yoongi and Hoseok walk quietly on either side of him.

“Shall we get something to eat?” Hoseok finally says. “I’m honestly starving.”

Yoongi nods. Jimin hums, his gaze still somewhere far off in front of him.

In the car, they don’t turn on the music. No one talks at first.

Then Hoseok asks Yoongi to look up a good pub nearby.
“Time to start your real Bri-tish experience,” he says to Jimin, putting on an exaggerated accent again.

And again, Yoongi rolls his eyes fondly. As he searches, Jimin leans back toward him.


Yoongi looks up.

Jimin’s eyes are full of tears.

“Hey,” Yoongi says softly.

Jimin shakes his head.
More tears come.

Yoongi leans forward, resting a careful hand on his arm. Jimin tilts in as far as his seatbelt allows, forehead against Yoongi’s shoulder. Yoongi shifts closer.

Hoseok turns a little towards them, slowing down.

“Pull over, Hoba,” Yoongi murmurs.
Hoseok nods. No one comments on the nickname. It doesn’t surprise anyone anymore.

Yoongi rubs his shoulder gently while Jimin sniffles silently. When the car stops, Jimin pulls back, but the tears haven’t stopped.
He settles deeper into his seat. In fact, the crying seems heavier now.

“I don’t…” he sobs.


Yoongi hands him the water bottle from earlier. “Here. Drink.”

“Small sips,” says Hoseok. “Jimin-ah, it’s okay. Really. It is.”

Jimin runs a hand over his face. Takes a deep breath.

“It’s been a heavy morning,” Hoseok murmurs.

Jimin nods, eyes fixed straight ahead.


“And kind of overwhelming, wasn't it?”


Jimin nods more firmly. “Yeah, yeah. I...”
He doesn’t finish.

Hoseok squeezes his shoulder. Yoongi keeps his gaze lowered.
No one says anything for a while.

“Let’s get something to eat,” Jimin murmurs eventually. “I’m better now, thank you.”


Hoseok eyes him. “You sure?”


“Yeah, hyung. Really.”


“Then let’s go get a pint of beer and a big, big burger, huh?”


Jimin lets out a shaky laugh. “Yeah.”

Hoseok pulls back onto the road. “Yoongi-ah, can you look for the best rated pub nearby now? I wasn’t kidding before,” Hoseok says.

Yoongi rolls his eyes again. "I'm on it."

“The best, you hear me. We have to celebrate.”

“Yeah, yeah. Dammit, calm down.”


Jimin breathes out a soft huff.

Yoongi skims through the search results. His thumb keeps scrolling, but he’s not reading much.
From the front seat, he hears Jimin’s shaky breathing, still fragile. He leans in just slightly, catching a glimpse from the corner of his eye. He sees Jimin hunched forward, fingers laced together on his thighs. A thought passes through him.
He taps Jimin’s arm gently. Jimin turns toward him, eyes still red.

“What was that song you mentioned before?” Yoongi blurts. His throat’s a little dry. “The one from that movie.”


“Oh,” Jimin’s eyes widen slightly, surprised. “Uh, Cosmic Dancer, I think it’s called.”


Yoongi nods. “Hoba, I’m connecting to your speakers.”

“Yah. Do whatever. The pub, though.”

“Fucking dammit, I’ll look it up. One sec.”


He finds the song. Presses play. Jimin watches him for a moment, then turns back around.

Yoongi resumes the pub search, but half-heartedly. One ear tuned to the song’s lyrics and the singer's mellow voice.


I danced myself right out the womb.

Is it strange to dance so soon?

He feels Jimin’s hand settle lightly on his knee.
A gentle squeeze. Then it’s gone.