Chapter Text
Yoongi knew that his friend, Taehyung, was not the most straight-forward conversationalist.
Every time that Yoongi thought he’d heard the strangest thing to come out of Taehyung’s mouth, the man swanned over to the bar and slapped it up a couple of notches with his giant hands.
His hands were very big. If he ever played the piano, he could have easily played an 11th interval without breaking a sweat. It was an impressive hand-span - not that Yoongi ever noticed or thought about it.
And Yoongi certainly was not noticing those hands currently dangling over the counter of Silver Spoon Records, drumming out a nervous beat.
He was instead giving his full attention to the way that the afternoon sun glinted golden as it hit Taehyung’s blonde hair that was fanned out over his deep brown eyes, as the man himself draped the top half of his body over the record store’s counter like a sunbathing cat.
Yoongi liked cats.
Looking at Taehyung all relaxed and pliant on his counter made him forget about the electricity bill and letter from the building’s landlord waiting in his back office. Looking at Taehyung made everything feel soft and strange.
“Hyung,” Taehyung mumbled shyly into the blue Formica ledge. He rolled his head to make unnerving eye contact. “If you were planning a fancy charity gala to impress someone, would you have it at the Park Hyatt Hotel or the National Museum?”
Totally normal question for a small art gallery owner to ask a struggling record store owner on a Wednesday afternoon.
From his perch at the register, Yoongi swiveled around in his chair to consider with his arms crossed over his chest.
After a year of Taehyung permanently installing himself into Yoongi’s life, Yoongi was used to Taehyung’s brand of rhetorical questions. They seemed to be plucked from the ether to elicit maximum confusion. Even Park Jimin, Taehyung oldest and most experienced friend, occasionally had trouble translating exactly what he meant.
Yoongi never did - maybe because they were both from Daegu.
Yoongi was also patient. He knew that there was always method to the madness - even when Taehyung had asked him whether he would still love him if he was a worm. Which, of course he would. In fact, it would probably be easier to love him as a worm because their dinners out would be less expensive. He could just throw him in the compost scraps bin and be done with it.
Yoongi’s answer had unexpectedly made Taehyung all giggly and misty-eyed.
“A gala?” Yoongi rolled the word around in his mouth. It tasted abnormal on his firmly working-class lips.
“Hmm.” Taehyung nodded glumly and propped his chin on the powder blue counter. His striking eyes were so wide that Yoongi’s could see his own amused expression in their dark depths.
Sometimes (not often) he forgot just how handsome Taehyung was. A face like his seemed out of place in Yoongi’s humble Mapo-gu record store. He gave the impression that he belonged on the cover of Vogue or in one of those old classic black-and-white American movies that Taehyung insisted that they watch together every Tuesday night.
Everything about Taehyung was classic and a little old-fashioned – from his vintage clothes to his taste in music. But one thing made his appearance very modern: his hair was always perfectly, flawlessly blonde. Yoongi had never seen Taehyung’s roots make an appearance.
In his more fanciful moments, Yoongi wondered Taehyung was a natural blonde.
He had a face that belonged at fancy galas.
“A hotel,” Yoongi answered finally. “I would be too nervous to really enjoy myself at the National Museum. What if I had too much champagne and puked all over a registered national treasure? Those moon jars would be awfully tempting and look like a bitch to clean.”
“Good point.” Taehyung wiggled his phone out of his back pocket to text someone, all without leaving the counter. “I… told… you… so.”
“Smugness is unattractive,” Yoongi said automatically.
Yoongi waited patiently for an explanation as to why Taehyung was hypothetically planning an impressive gala in places they could barely afford to visit, when a flock of university students came through the door.
He didn’t bother excusing himself to go and help them. Taehyung had spent enough time in the store (and on the counter) to know that despite his online reputation as “the shy little gremlin who knows his shit”, he really cared about helping people find the music that they wanted in his store. The “blonde-haired hottie who will talk your ear off about jazz music” was used to interrupted conversations by now.
By the time he had tracked down the specific Cho Yong-pil album and packaged it up, Taehyung had already skittered back to his gallery across the street.
Yoongi forgot about the strange question.
…Until the invitation arrived the next week.
It came on a Tuesday evening, which was Yoongi and Taehyung’s movie night.
Their weekly tradition had started last year when Taehyung had suddenly showed up with a large bag of popcorn kernels, a worn DVD copy of White Christmas, and a DVD player one evening in April. Yoongi had opened the door, stunned to see his fellow business owner/lunchtime buddy at his shabby apartment. He didn’t even remember giving the other man his address.
Taehyung had simply breezed right into the living room and started to fiddle with his DVD player, squinting at various wires. “I can’t believe that you’ve never seen White Christmas. It’s Bing Crosby at his prime and Rosemary Clooney has never sounded better. And I know that you’ve never heard of Danny Kaye but I know you’re going to love him. The music is the best and the choreo is to die for.”
“I don’t celebrate Christmas,” Yoongi had answered automatically while shutting the door. “It is also May.”
“It’s perfect any time of the year. Sit down here next to me. You can make popcorn after the ‘Sisters’ reprise which is, arguably, the best number in a musical of all time. Kaye and Crosby’s characters were absolutely fuck buddies and watching the movie shove them into the arms of ladies is hilarious.”
Yoongi had immediately sat down and thus a tradition had been started, very much against Yoongi’s will. He didn’t even like musicals. It was ridiculous conceit that people just sang their feelings in the middle of the street, and everyone was okay with it. He was annoyed when people hummed to themselves on the subway.
“You’re a pushover,” Jimin complained, the one time that he had invited himself to movie night for ‘Chicago’ and had been banished to the kitchen table to finish his dinner because Yoongi didn’t allow food on his sofa – it had enough mysterious stains as it was. He had inherited it, with most of his furniture, from the previous tenant who had clearly been a fan of the shabbiest chic.
Yoongi had been in the kitchen making two batches of tteokbokki – one for him and Jimin, another for Taehyung with less spice.
“I’m not. I argue with people all the time,” Yoongi said, proving his point.
“Not with him.” Jimin pointed towards Taehyung, the only person allowed to eat on Yoongi’s couch, who was trying to catch popcorn in his mouth and missing most of the time.
It was true that there were rules for everyone else and then there were rules for Taehyung. But it was just easier that way. It was an act of self preservation.
While Yoongi was stubborn, Taehyung was something else. A mule. A Newtonian law. He had some sort of superpower that just slid past all of Yoongi’s arguments and defenses. He would happy deny Jimin or Namjoon (Jungkook could also get away with murder but that was because he was the youngest. He needed to learn and chances to make mistakes so that he could grow. But he still wasn’t allowed to eat on the couch) but he could never say no to Taehyung. And everyone knew it.
So, the evening that the invitation arrived, Yoongi was lazily throwing freshly popped popcorn into Taehyung’s open mouth.
“Did you order food?” Yoongi asked Taehyung as he stood up to answer the door. They’d already eaten dinner and were snacking on popcorn as two ridiculous high schoolers clearly played by adults were screeching away about the difficulties of scheduling after-curricular activities.
Taehyung shook his head and paused the movie. He had, of course, gotten his buttery fingers all over the remote, something that Yoongi pointlessly scolded him about every week. Technically, the DVD and its remote belonged to Taehyung, but while they were in his house, they would ideally be butter-free.
The invitation had been couriered, which should have been Yoongi’s first clue that something was amiss.
The delivery boy was in a smart uniform and had knocked in a polite manner – not the insistent pounding that most of the food delivery drivers used when the read the sign that his doorbell was broken.
“That’s weird,” Yoongi said as he took the package into the living room. The driver had bowed at him in a way that was far to classy for his rundown apartment building hallway. “It has both of our names on it.”
Taehyung’s face blanched. His natural skin tone was golden and warm but now seemed positively sickly. Yoongi paused. Maybe he should go across the street and get him some medicine? Maybe he had food poisoning?
“Maybe it’s some sort of joke?” Yoongi grumbled as he went to the kitchen to grab a knife to open the package. Taehyung seemed to be frozen in place on the couch. Maybe he should call Kim Seokjin – a doctor friend of Taehyung’s. Maybe he did house calls? “Someone implying that you should be paying rent? Would certainly help me out. Maybe the landlord would actually fix the doorbell – he likes you.”
Despite the fact that he had come through the door with the little cat-shaped post-it note attached to the doorbell that said exactly that, Taehyung frowned, moving for the first time since Yoongi had returned. “Your doorbell is still broken?”
“Has been for a while. The landlord is refusing to do any repairs because he wants me to leave so that he can hike the rent for the next tenant. What he doesn’t realize is that he’s dealing with the reigning champion of the working class.”
“Hmm.” Taehyung brought out his phone and sent a quick text as Yoongi struggled with the elaborate packaging.
“Anyways, who do we know from the Kim Corporation?” Yoongi read the return address aloud.
Suddenly, Taehyung was all action. He leapt off the couch, the popcorn flying as he bounded and tried to intercept Yoongi from opening the package. But it was too late.
Yoongi was already reading the embossed invitation.
Kim Taehyung and his fiancé, Min Yoongi, are cordially invited to the annual Kim Corporation Charity Gala.
In a beautiful hand, there was a pen-written addition to the invitation, a little note on embossed Kim Corporation stationary that read: “Taehyung, dear, make sure that your fiancé sends us his parents’ address as soon as possible so that we know where to send the invitation. Love, Mom.”
Yoongi finally raised his head and there was Taehyung frozen like a deer in the headlights.
“Taehyung,” he said slowly holding up the invitation. “What the fuck?”
*
“Hmm, an art gallery.”
The sign for the “Vante Art Gallery” was being carefully installed over the worn-looking “Scat-tegories” sign. The poop-themed café had gone out of business a few months ago – Seoul had quickly moved on from the trend which did not bother Yoongi one bit. He was tired of finding toilet-shaped to-go packages smeared with dry chocolate littered on the street.
Their poop-shaped croissants had never sat right with Yoongi – aesthetically or gastronomically.
An art gallery would be a tough sell on the street – it was mostly tourists and university students that made their way down the lane. He was proud to think that many of them made the trek for his record store which was considered one of the best in Seoul – not that he had carefully printed out the article and tacked it to his office wall.
“A liquor store would have been useful,” Yoongi sighed to himself.
But it would be nice to have new blood. Most of the business owners on the street were old – they had been there for decades and uninterested in new things. And so, when the invitation to the gallery had been left on his counter (he had been busy with a customer and must have missed the art gallery owner when he stopped in), he felt duty-bound to attend.
It was on a Friday night in early April, so all the other business owners would be in their beds as soon as the sun set. As the youngest owner on the block, he had to welcome this new shop owner on their behalf. He would have sent a wreath, but it was a little over his monthly budget. He dressed up a cactus with a little bow and hoped that it looked welcoming and budget friendly.
He put on his nicest shirt (his wedding/funeral suit button-up) and his cleanest pants, and trekked over to the gallery by foot. He had expected a sedate affair and was shocked by the amount of cars and people in their little lane.
The sound of a four-string quartet churning out classic takes on jazz standards could barely be heard over the buzz of people who were spilling out of the Vante Gallery. There were people of all ages who were sipping champagne in actual champagne flutes (not plastic!), laughing and seriously discussing the eclectic art that adorned every inch of the wall space. They were also wearing clothing that clearly did not double as their wedding/funeral finest.
There was an army of hwahwans as tall as he was with bright yellow, orange and red flowers covered by congratulatory ribbons crowding the exterior. Yoongi could barely see the entrance through the forest of wreaths.
Yoongi stood frozen in front of his shop, holding a humble cactus.
He sucked in a breath. This was a bad idea. This was a totally different world from his. He didn’t belong here.
He turned to go back home.
“You came!”
Yoongi didn’t bother to turn around (why on earth would someone by waiting for him?) when he felt a hand on his shoulder.
He turned around.
When he had walked over that night, he had not expected Taehyung.
On the other hand, who would ever see Taehyung coming?
The world was just… fuzzy around him. He looked like he had constant soft lighting - like in the classic movies that he loved so much. He was surrounded by a golden aura – probably helped by his blonde hair which made him stand out from the crowd of dark heads. He was wearing tight black pants with a matching blazer that looked suspiciously expensive. There were delicate little silver chains around his neck that emphasized the warm colour of his skin. He was so close that Yoongi could count the little moles that stood out like constellations against his open face.
He was the most beautiful person Yoongi had ever seen.
“Uh, hi?” Yoongi stammered.
“You came!” Taehyung beamed.
“Yep,” was the most intelligent thing that Yoongi could think to say. It was followed by an equally witty: “Do I know you?”
“I’m so glad,” Taehyung breathed. And either he was the best actor that Yoongi had ever met, or else he genuinely meant it. “You own the record store. I wasn’t sure if you got the invitation. No one else from the street came.”
“They’re all old,” Yoongi said, by way of explanation. He very much wanted Taehyung to understand that it wasn’t personal. “They’ll probably stop by next morning.”
“That’s good. I’m Taehyung by the way. I own the gallery.” He bowed and then stuck out his hand, wrist dangling with delicate golden bracelets.
Yoongi bowed as gracefully as he could as he took his hand, and it was… warm. And huge. The man squeezed Yoongi’s free hand, his long fingers gently touching Yoongi’s wrist.
His smile was… dazzling. His smile was a Liszt rhapsody – it made Yoongi dizzy with the way that it spun him around, crossing his wires.
As Yoongi blinked, the man replaced his hand with a glass of champagne and was leading him into the gallery with a large hand at the small of his back. “I’m Min Yoongi.”
“I know! Welcome to my little gallery.”
It wasn’t exactly little. Yoongi’s store was two floors and back office. The poop-café had been a large, airy café but with all the counters torn out, the gallery felt huge despite the crush of people. There were photographs and paintings on every wall. He could see the discreet little red dots under the plaques and had realized that the art gallery was going to do very well. He was shocked that Taehyung was wasting time with him when he could be chatting up his very open-walleted customers.
The party had been curiously well catered. There was an impressive amount of tiny food, and it smelled good. There were a lot of people crowding in the gallery, which was three rooms of photographs and paintings that Yoongi did not understand – or care for.
He had stood awkwardly in the doorway looking at all the people in fancy suits, holding his cactus. He didn’t recognize a single face.
“I… uh… I brought a plant,” Yoongi said sheepishly. He held up the little cactus. It had seemed a nice welcoming gift when he had picked it out from the flower shop around the corner, but surrounded by art pieces that were flying off the walls for millions of won, it seemed a bit pathetic.
Taehyung, however, was delighted. He reached out to take the cactus and examined it. “A cactus. My favourite. Thank you! What’s his name?”
Yoongi blinked. “Well, cactus actually have female and male reproductive structures, so technically we should say they?”
This time Taehyung blinked.
Yoongi wanted to melt into the floor. If someone put up a plaque next to him, they could sell him as a piece modern art for a vast sum.
But then, Taehyung’s expression shifted into something as light and warm as a Nina Simone song on a lazy Sunday. His smile made the lighting in the gallery redundant. “Let’s be friends.”
Yoongi was from Daegu, so he was used to people being direct. But not this direct. “Just like that?”
“Just like that.” Taehyung took a step back and crossed his arms. He surveyed Yoongi from the tip of his scuffed shoes to the top of his fluffy brown hair (that he had brushed and tried to style). “I have something that I think you’ll like.”
Taehyung turned Yoongi around and started to steer him around the crowds of people. Several people stopped to congratulated Taehyung, who would cheerfully accept their words and then nudge Yoongi forward. “On a mission,” he explained, oozing charm. “Very important customer.”
People parted around Yoongi; a gentle wake of people who seemed to be used to Taehyung’s method of crowd control. He was suddenly stopped in front a large portrait canvas. It was a painting of two cats – a tabby was climbing a tree and grinning at a group of disinterested sparrows in the branches. A black cat was craning its neck, looking at the other cat from the ground with a little pout on its face.
“What do you think?” Taehyung asked.
Yoongi squinted at the painting, trying to discern its meaning. But he mostly just saw cats. “I like it.”
“I knew you world. It’s a modern take on Beyon Sang-byeok’s Myojakdo,” Taehyung explained.
Yoongi felt like he was flunking a test for a class that he wasn’t even in.
Then, Taehyung frowned and leaned closer to Yoongi to whisper in his ear. “Or so Namjoon told me. I have no idea what he’s talking about. Honestly, I just like cats.”
It was so unexpected and so genuine, that Yoongi giggled.
A grown-ass man giggling in an art gallery.
Yoongi wanted to spontaneously combust at the looks that people were giving him over their champagne flutes.
But he was brought back to life by Taehyung’s enchanted smile. His eyes were wrinkled at the sides and his mouth was wide and square as his shoulders shook with pent-up laughter. He reminded Yoongi the first burst of violins from a Vivaldi concerto.
“You should have it,” Taehyung said finally.
Yoongi looked at the price tag. It was ten times over his monthly “little treat” budget line. And it would look out of place in his dingy apartment building. He sadly shook his head and bit his lip. “A bit rich for my blood.”
Taehyung inhaled as his cheeks reddened. His handsome face contorted into an awkward wince. “Oh, I forgot that one is sold anyways. Come on, I want you to meet some people.”
Yoongi had no time to be embarrassed by the difference in their bank accounts before Taehyung looped arms with him and then introduced him to all his friends who were there to support the opening. There was Namjoon, an adjunct literature professor, who helped Taehyung with his business decisions and could rattle off facts about every piece in the gallery.
“Chose that one because artist is hot,” Taehyung whispered in front of a painting of disgruntled blue horse as Namjoon was waxing rhapsodic about Franz Marc.
Yoongi noted that the artist was male and filed that information away to deal with later.
One of the photographers whose work was being displayed, was also a close friend. Jeon Jungkook merely pointed at his photos and refused to talk about them.
“He threatened to beat me up if I didn’t include at least one of his pictures,” Taehyung pouted. Yoongi could not image that dear, sweet boy doing anything wrong in his entire life.
There was Seokjin, a doctor with a laugh like a marble in a steel drum, and Hoseok who was wearing clothing that Yoongi was sure deserved to be in a museum.
And then there was Jimin – Taehyung’s best friend and soulmate and a terrifying lawyer.
“Who are you?” Jimin asked clocking Taehyung’s arm around Yoongi’s immediately and then his wrinkly button-up second. Yoongi also had the uncanny impression that Jimin instantly knew about his overdue fines at the public library, his medical debt, and the 500 won he had once taken from his mother’s purse when he was five.
Taehyung bumped his shoulder against Yoongi. Yoongi staggered sideways a little. Taehyung, for all his wispy litheness, was solid. “This is Yoongi, and he owns the record store across the street. He’s my new friend.”
Jimin scowled. His face was strangely child-like but like an evil possessed child. “Taehyung, what have I told you about picking up strays?”
Yoongi felt himself bristle. He wasn’t wearing a Chanel broach like this snide brat, but that was no excuse to be rude. Something about that gaudy broach and the man wearing it made him punchy. “Looks like I’ll be an upgrade from his current company.”
Two blotches of red instantly covered Jimin’s rounded cheeks. “I’ll have you know that I am his oldest and best friend. His testicle friend! I bet you don’t even know what colour underwear he’s wearing!”
“Red,” Taehyung whispered into Yoongi’s ear, his breath rasping against his hair.
Yoongi refused to be aroused in the middle of an argument, but Taehyung was making it very, very difficult. He cleared his throat. “Look, Shorty, I don’t care how long you’ve been friends with a person- “
“Shorty!” The lawyer screeched loud enough to draw attention. Several people turned.
“Ooh, you’re both getting along so well,” Taehyung cooed as he stroked Yoongi’s arm. He was usually not a touchy-feely person, but Taehyung just felt so… natural beside him. Clearly this amount of weekday socialization was throwing his boundaries off-kilter.
Taehyung lumped to his side like a whelk for the rest of the night and hadn’t budged since.
He had shown up the next day to have lunch together and was a regular fixture within two weeks.
When days were slow at the gallery, Taehyung would walk next door and play jazz records. He was a surprisingly good salesman and Yoongi was grateful for the help. Keeping Silver Spoon open was his paramount concern. He had considered hiring a part-time worker but if he wanted to stick to his five-year plan, he couldn’t afford it yet. So having Taehyung around had been a real relief.
Secretly and then no-so secretly, Yoongi had started to stock more jazz records – especially of artists that Taehyung recommended. Thanks to his salesmanship and handsome face, Taehyung had helped to build a dedicated following of jazz enthusiasts who flocked to the store every Monday to pick through the new finds that Yoongi brought in or found at estate sales. Yoongi had even created a little display of “Taehyung Recommends” that sold well.
“Told you so,” Taehyung crowed, kicking his feet, as Yoongi went over his sales for the month and the jazz section outsold everything else.
“Smugness is unattractive,” Yoongi lied.
Taehyung was the one and only person that he trusted with his store. He had never left it in the hands of another person since he’d bought it. When he had been sick last August and had dragged himself to the store to open, Taehyung had immediately rushed over from the gallery.
“You’re sick. What do you need? Do you need soup? Do you need medicine? Jujube tea? Healing potions?”
“Just make sure that no one steals too much while I go to the convenience store.” Yoongi had set Taehyung in front of the cash registered and trudged over to pick up something to help him live through the next few hours.
When he’d returned, he had come back to a bizarre sight.
Taehyung was sitting, hair sticking in every direction and out of breath, with a mountain of bills on the counter. It was more cash that Yoongi had ever seen in his life.
“What is this?”
“Uh.” Yoongi could see the whites of Taehyung’s eyes. Yoongi was sure that he didn’t look any better as he considered the mountain of won. It was more money than he had every seen in his life.
“Did they buy everything in the shop?” Yoongi came around the counter to stand beside Taehyung and contemplate the payment of all of his overdue bills.
Taehyung eyes flitted around the store. “Just one thing. They wanted to pay but I didn’t know how to work the cash register and they didn’t want change. So, I just told them to leave it here?”
“In a pile on the counter?” Yoongi carefully moved past him, trying not to spread his germs, and sprang open the cash register. “This is 3 million won, Taehyung. Someone could have robbed you. Didn’t you have a part-time job growing up? I thought that working a crappy job was a rite of passage.”
“Must have missed that one.” Taehyung stood up, his movements jerky and uncoordinated. “Have to go. Bye!”
Taehyung was occasionally… strange.
He never drove anywhere. Yoongi had never seen a car or car keys anywhere near those long, elegant fingers. Yet, he seemed to get everywhere he needed to go very quicky without ever taking the subway or the bus. His Uber account must be through the roof.
His gallery was also quite busy. There were fancy cars parked in front of it. Very fancy. Their little corner of Seoul mostly was tourists and university students but the people coming in and out of the art gallery were wearing clothes and holding purses that were worth more than Yoongi’s entire monthly budget. The art world really was different.
He had also never been to Taehyung’s home. They had been friends now for about a year. Taehyung was constantly at his apartment, but he had never seen Taehyung’s place. He wasn’t even sure if he had a home. Maybe he lived in the art gallery.
But he didn’t think Taehyung was struggling. Yoongi had seen what he thought was a black card once when Taehyung went to pay for their meal and Yoongi snuck up behind them.
The younger man’s golden skin had blanched as Yoongi laughed. “Is that one of those novelty black cards?”
Taehyung laughed shakily. “Yep. I thought it was funny.”
“Doesn’t seem your style,” Yoongi said with a grin. Then he scowled. “Also, how dare you try to pay for our meal. I’m the hyung.”
Taehyung rolled his eyes. “It was seven people and Jungkook ate two entire chickens. Let me take this one.”
Yoongi pouted. “It’s a matter of pride! It’s my treat. You’re all my doesaengs.”
Taehyung sighed and then unleashed his ultimate weapon – his Tata face.
It bore an uncanny resemblance to a LineFriends heart-shaped character with giant eyes and pouting lips. Taehyung, who usually didn’t have to resort to the big guns to get his way, only pulled it out when he was outmatched. And Yoongi was absolutely helpless against it.
He was hypnotized by the plush jut of Taehyung’s lower lips and was too distracted to notice he was being outmaneuvered.
As the waitress smiled, Taehyung grinned in victory and slammed down the black card. The waitress’s eyes widened, and she bowed deeply.
“You can never say no to me,” Taehyung smiled. “And you never should.”
For all his eccentricities, Yoongi was pleased to have Taehyung in his life.
But it seemed that Taehyung wanted to keep parts of his life separate. Yoongi was fine with that. He sometimes talked about another group of friends that he never introduced to Yoongi. They went on vacations together and Yoongi just figured that Taehyung didn’t want them to mix – like the treble and the bass cleft. Maybe he knew that Yoongi would be awkward around the younger and more successful group of guys. It sounded like they were friends from university and Yoongi hadn’t attended.
He had gone straight from working at his parents’ farm to working at the record store. Finally, after borrowing an astronomical sum from the bank that kept him up at night, he’d purchased the record shop from the old owner. He hadn’t taken a vacation since.
He wasn’t ashamed of his life. Everything he had, he had earned through his hard work. But Taehyung was clearly from a different world and maybe he didn’t want Yoongi fully in it.
This niggling little thought wormed its way through Yoongi as he sat in his favourite second-hand armchair with one hand picking at the small hole in the upholstery and the other hand holding an invitation to a Kim Corporation gala. He couldn’t help but think (over and over again), that Taehyung kept him at an arms length (emotionally – definitely not physically. The man was a leech) and Yoongi was okay with that distance.
There was certainly a distance between them now. Taehyung was as far away as he could be in Yoongi’s tiny living room, pacing.
He had already bundled Yoongi in blankets he had expressed purchased from Lotte World (for the shock) and expressed ordered the delivery of a very expensive whiskey to the apartment (for shock) with his very real black card and had poured Yoongi a huge glass. Maybe it was some sort of attempt to make him drunk and forget the entire night.
But there was the invitation in his hands as very real evidence.
“Should we elevate your legs?” Taehyung wondered aloud. He was scrolling furiously on his phone.
“I’m not in shock,” Yoongi grumbled, very much in shock. He took a sip of the whiskey. It really was very nice. If this was the cost of betrayal, it was worth it.
Taehyung rushed to the kitchen and started pawing through the cabinets. The clink of condiment bottles worried Yoongi.
“What are you looking for?”
“Sugar?”
“What for?”
“A spoon full of sugar is good for shock,” Taehyung said.
“No, that’s Mary Poppins bullshit for giving medicine to children. Can’t believe a childcare professional would recommend that. It would rot their teeth,” Yoongi said. He stood up, blanket sliding off his shoulders, and slowly guided Taehyung back to the living room by pulling on his shirt. He led him to the couch that was still lightly sprinkled in popcorn and gently pushed him to sit down on the flat cushions. Taehyung went without resistance. It seemed that he was more stunned than Yoongi.
Yoongi felt weirdly calm despite their sudden and unexpected engagement, but Taehyung was wringing his hands and tapping his feet on the ground. Watching him so nervous was like listening to a Radiohead song – eerie and dissonant. He had never seen the younger man so nervous.
“Okay, so let’s talk this through. Who is the Kim Corporation to you and why does your mother seem to think that we’re engaged?”
The words seemed to slap Taehyung across the face. He leaned deep into the threadbare cushions and bit his lip. “Okay, hyung. I’ll try to explain but you have to promise not to be too angry.”
Yoongi paused. “Have you killed someone?”
A little hint of a smile crossed Taehyung’s lips. He shook his head and his light hair swished around his ears.
“Have you endangered anyone or caused harm deliberately?”
“No,” Taehyung said with a real frown. “I would never do that.”
“No,” Yoongi agreed. “You wouldn’t. So, I think that despite what you have to say, even if I’m angry for a little while, it won’t last forever. What you have to say won’t change anything. You’re still Taehyung with terrible taste in movies.”
“It will!” Taehyung wailed. He attempted to meld into the couch. It would never work – it was like trying to graft a rose with a skunk cabbage. “It always does, and I don’t want anything to change between us.”
“Taehyung,” Yoongi said drawing on the patience that he used when dealing with his brother’s young children and very stubborn stray cats. “We are apparently engaged. I can’t help but think that our relationship had already moved to a different level. Wait, have you eaten someone?”
“Right, that.” Taehyung drew his legs up to his knees. He looked miserable.
“Wait. Are you a cannibal? Is this a confession? I recant my previous statement. I will be angry if you’ve eaten people.”
Taehyung buried his head in his knees. “You want to eat me.”
Yoongi paused. He looked at the glass of whiskey. It was still very full. His mind was immediately flooded with extremely horny thoughts that were not helpful at this exact moment.
“Taehyung, what do you mean?”
“I’m the rich,” Taehyung whispered in a small voice.
Yoongi blinked, the horniness in the room decreasing to negative degrees. “What?”
Yoongi could hear Taehyung sniffling into his knees. His golden hair covered his face, but Yoongi could tell from the shaking of his shoulders that he was crying. He sat down beside him, the couch springs groaning under the weight, and reached over to put a warm hand on Taehyung’s back. He was trembling.
“The Kim Corporation…”
The Kim Corporation who owned those big shiny tall buildings in Gangham with their name flashily emblazoned on them. And the hospitals. And that wing of the National Gallery.
Taehyung mumbled into his pants.
“A little louder.”
“Those are my parents,” Taehyung said and then buried his face in his hands.
Right. The Kim Corporation was owned by Taehyung’s parents. The same Taehyung who carefully counted coins at the gimbap stall they went to. The Taehyung who insisted on thrifting all his clothing because they were cheaper and better for the environment. The Taehyung who didn’t own a car but somehow owned an art gallery.
And the Kim Corporation that owned a percentage of Seoul, was run by Taehyung’s parents.
Yoongi was silent. Then he leaned over and swatted Taehyun’s leg. “You let me pay for Jungkook’s lamb skewers every time! Every! Time! That boy is a black hole! I’ve been bankrupted by his appetite and all of this time, you could have paid with your spare change! You asshole!”
Taehyung lifted his head, cheeks still wet with tears and smiled, that beatific and innocent smile that made Yoongi’s frustration melt. “You insisted, hyung!”
“Yes! But that was before I knew that your parents owned city blocks! Next time, you can offer a little louder.”
“You’d let me pay?” Taehyung said, a strange look on his face.
“Of course not!” Yoongi scoffed. “You’re my dongsaeng. That would be wrong. But you can offer. Maybe pretend to insist.”
Taehyung grinned, he brought his legs down and smiled. He leaned his head on Yoongi’s shoulder, Yoongi felt the weight of it like an anchor. He could smell his shampoo – a sweet rosemary smell. He tried to focus on the things that he could feel to stop him from panicking.
“It doesn’t change anything? You don’t hate me? In the past… it made people a little… nervous.”
“Nervous to be leeched off by the fifth richest family in Korea?”
“Fourth richest,” Taehyung gently corrected.
“Fourth richest.” Yoongi’s brain swam. This was a lot of information to process at once, but it was still Taehyung. “You are still Taehyung with terrible taste in movies and middling taste in music. We’re fine. Now. About the marriage?”
And then Taehyung was back to being a nervous wreck. “Right. That.” He flung himself face-first into upholstery.
Yoongi sighed at Taehyung’s back. Honestly, the revelation that Taehyung was a chaebol heir made a lot of sense: his lifestyle, his job, his vast collection of DVDs. Yoongi didn’t really hold it against him. He could imagine that being richer than most countries could sour your relationship with people – the power imbalance was just baked in.
Did it hurt that Taehyung had kept this from him?
A little bit, if Yoongi was honest with himself.
Yoongi considered himself to be fairly open minded – he listened to Taehyung’s jazz music even though it was syncopated nonsense. He watched Taehyung’s musicals even though all of the people involved should be locked up for disturbing the peace. He even ordered less-spicy food to make sure that Taehyung could eat it.
He was flexible! He was understanding! He was accommodating!
He didn’t really think that Taehyung indirectly owning a city would change anything. Except that maybe Yoongi would vacuum before he came over.
“You can keep your family to yourself. There are many reason why people don’t talk to their parents, especially if they aren’t supportive-“
“Oh, my parents are great!” Taehyung beamed. “They donate everything from the charity gala to LGBTQ+ organizations. They just don’t tell the old people and let their money help. Omma and Oppa are so clever.”
Right. They were the fourth richest family in Korea and progressive and supportive.
“Okay. So, the engagement?”
Taehyung’s face fell. A dark blush spread across his cheek. “Yes, well, that.”
“I can wait. I have all night. And we have the rest of our lives together, apparently.”
Taehyung squared his jaw and nodded. Yoongi sat back for the explanation. Taehyung was not slow – he was as sharp as axe and twice as ruthless when playing games. But when he had to explain something, he took his time. But Yoongi was in no hurry. “So… my sister and my brother, they are older than me.”
“You have a sister and a brother?” Yoongi repeated. Taehyung had always struck him as having only child energy.
Taehyung shrugged. “They are a lot older than me. I was a late addition to the family. They usually just call to arrange for mom and dad’s birthday presents. They are busy with business.
“They are both married, and they like to… tease me.”
Yoongi knew all about that. His older brother was insufferable. He constantly texted the family chat with pictures of his children doing mundane tasks and then would photoshop records doing the same things to his parents’ delight: Lee Mi Ja’s Golden Best graduating from kindergarten (Seriously, who failed kindergarten? It was not an accomplishment), Yoo Jae-Ha’s Because I Love You cooking Parents’ Day breakfast, and very rare Kim Sister records playing in a sandbox.
His brother only used his graphic design skills for evil.
“They are happy. People my age are usually married by now or at least married to their jobs. My parents support the gallery, but they don’t think it’s as serious as the family business. They are worried about me… being by myself.”
Taehyung shifted in his seat. “They were hinting that they might want to set up some… meetings and I don’t have time for that between the gallery and hanging out with you and volunteering at the animal shelter. I really don’t have time for sogaeting. And I don’t think that love can just be … arranged. Do you, hyung?”
Yoongi looked into Taehyung’s wide sparking eyes. He knew that Taehyung was a romantic – he sighed when the heroes and heroines in his movies finally kissed, he mouthed along to love songs under his breath, and he swooned at couples walking in the park hand in hand as Yoongi grumbled about them taking up more than half of the sidewalk.
Yoongi was a practical. He didn’t believe in fate – he believed in choices. His parents had chosen each other again and again. Relationships were built on companionship and mutual respect. And long-lasting horniness.
You couldn’t force that.
“No. I don’t think you can arrange love. But maybe… Maybe they had someone in mind that would suit you well?”
Taehyung scowled, a broody Beethoven. He scuttled away from Yoongi like a grumpy crab and crossed his arms in a serious pout. “No. They don’t understand me. They love me but they don’t know what I really need. They think that I need someone to boss me around and take care of me. They think I need a babysitter.”
Yoongi could understand that. Taehyung had a certain childlike wonder with the world – he was delighted by small things and charmed by new experiences. But he also ran a business and took his garbage out on time – when Yoongi texted him to remind him.
“It would be parade of big-shouldered and high-and-mighty CEOs or Korean Daddy Warbucks who want to marry into the Kim family. I just don’t have time in my schedule to turn down every Global 500 president in Korean. So, I might have… accidentally… inadvertently… said that I was already engaged. To you.”
Taehyung looked up at Yoongi through his eyelashes – like a puppy that had just chewed through his owner’s favourite socks. The socks being Yoongi’s sanity.
“To me.”
“Yes! And since I talk about you all the time, it seemed believable,” Taehyung babbled. “And they were so excited about it and happy for me that they agreed to let me help plan some of the gala, which they never do because they say that I’m too flighty to handle the responsibility but since I would be planning a wedding, this would be good practice-“
“There’s one problem,” Yoongi broke in. He could feel a headache looming behind his eyes. “We are not engaged.”
“Well,” Taehyung paused. “Not exactly.”
“Not exactly,” Yoongi repeated. His temples throbbed. Taehyung talked to his family about him? The fourth richest in family in Korea knew about him? Were they shadowing him? Did they do some sort of reference check? Did Taehyung have a bodyguard? Did they know how little money he had to his name and how precarious his situation really was? Shouldn’t someone have knocked on his door and offered him a large sum of money to break things off with Taehyung?
Obviously, he would take the money, pay off the medical debt, and then just keep hanging out with Taehyung anyways. He never understood the kdrama heroines. It was just good financial sense to take the cheque.
“Well, I thought that we could just pretend to be engaged. Just until after the gala? And then we could break it off and say that it didn’t work out? There would be no pressure?”
There were a lot of questions not questions.
“Taehyung,” Yoongi said with his fingers on his temples. “That’s an insane plan.”
Taehyung looked like a kicked puppy. Yoongi inwardly winced. He knew that Taehyung was different, he was a lateral thinker. His brain wasn’t linear, and he often got a lot of slack for it. He wasn’t smart in obvious ways. But in his own way, he was brilliant. He was quick at math and puzzles and devious at games.
But he wasn’t always paying attention when he slipped on his words, and he often came out with the strangest statements.
Yoongi had noticed that when his friends laughed about his “insane” ways, Taehyung laughed but he was quieter afterwards. More reserved. Yoongi thought that it hurt more than he let on.
“I mean, that it sounds like something from a drama,” Yoongi corrected.
“It is!” Taehyung smiled. “I got the inspiration from A Business Proposal. That one made me laugh. As if his grandfather wouldn’t have her tailed and fingerprinted.”
“Wait.” Yoongi held up a hand. A thought occurred. “Has your family had me fingerprinted? Is there a dossier somewhere with my name on it? And pictures?”
“Jungkook took the pictures when you were at Silver Spoon,” Taehyung said, staring at the ceiling with a dreamy smile. “They turned out really well. My sister was so jealous. I have them all on my phone.”
This was too much. Yoongi needed more whisky. He took a long sip and slumped into the couch.
“Okay, so your parents think that we are engaged. Won’t they be a bit suspicious that we have never been introduced?”
Taehyung shrugged. “They won’t. Some… stuff happened in the past and they know that I don’t like to get them involved in my relationships. I mean, you’ll probably have to meet them at some point. It would be nice for you to meet them. I’ve always wanted to introduce you. They’ll like you. My mom was really impressed with your recommendations.”
A month into their acquaintance, Taehyung had asked for record recommendations for his mother as a Parents’ Day present. Yoongi had written down a series of questions to suss out Taehyung’s mother’s musical tastes – and they had been as eclectic as her son. He’d spent a week assembling the perfect set of ten records – including a car trip to Daejon to pick up a Light & Salt in good condition.
“Are you asking me to lie to your parents? If they find out, they’ll put me in jail for perjury,” Yoongi joked. At least he thought he was joking.
“They can’t do that,” Taehyung said and then bit his tongue. He took a deep breath. “I won’t let them.”
Which was not a total denial.
Yoongi was feeling dizzy which was why the frontal assault was immediately effective. Taehyung slid off the couch and crawled on his knees toward Yoongi and then rested his head between his knees. Yoongi gulped all of the heat building in the pit of his stomach.
This was unfair.
The Tata face was unfair.
But it was unfair in other ways that Taehyung didn’t understand. He didn’t – he couldn’t – know how much Yoongi wanted him. He couldn’t begin to understand how many late nights that Yoongi had spent dreaming of exactly how he was going to convince Taehyung to date him once he’d crossed off everything on his plan.
Pay off the store.
Pay off the medical debt.
Get a better apartment.
Buy a new shirt.
Become perfect boyfriend for Taehyung.
But that list was a joke now. There was no way, no matter how many things that he crossed off, that he would ever be worthy. There was a gulf between them that could never be bridged. Taehyung was from a different world – one that was far from Yoongi’s barely-scraping-by existence.
But Taehyung didn’t know about all of this. He would never know about this. Yoongi could be happy just being his friend, his good friend.
But it was hard to accept all of these things when Taehyung was gently resting his head on Yoongi’s knee and staring up at him from this angle.
“My hyung, my dearest hyung-“
No, no, no. You don’t have a hyung fetish, Yoongi sternly lectured himself. He thought of his landlord’s beefy face, Seokjin’s “hilarious” medical anecdotes from the hospital and other deeply unsexy things.
He had an objection. “What about Namjoon? Can’t you get engaged to him or one of the other hyungs?”
Taehyung made a face. “Namjoon is my oldest hyung but he’s also stingy about hand holding. That makes you the best candidate.”
Yoongi grumbled about handholding, but he didn’t actually swat him away like Namjoon. Sometimes, a little human contact was nice.
Obviously, he would rather live in the sewers than admit that.
“What about Jimin?”
“Jimin is my soulmate and same-age friend.”
“He could be your fake fiancé.”
“There’s no way that would be convincing. It would be like marrying my brother. Plus, my parents already know him.”
“Jungkook?”
“My parents know him and also know about his slavish devotion to Namjoon’s thighs.”
Right. It made sense that all of Taehyung’s old friends were also from his circle. He did mention that they’d gone to school or university together. It seemed weird that he’d been slumming it with Yoongi and his record store for so long.
Taehyung leaned his head on Yoongi’s knee, his blonde hair spilling across Yoongi’s black jeans. He looked up between the golden strands with his long eyelashes.
“Hyung. Please?”
Fuck.
Unconsciously, Yoongi reached over to stroke Taehyung’s cheek. He was drawn to touch him – his skin wanted to touch his skin. In his darkest, horniest daydreams, he had thought about Taehyung in this exact position. But his daydreams hadn’t included pretending to be his fake fiancé in front Taehyung's parents and the Seoul elite.
Yoongi stopped his hand just in time. He instead smoothed down his jeans and tapped Taehyung on the nose.
Taehyung’s brow wrinkled slightly. Yoongi could have sworn that he saw disappointment in his eyes.
“Okay,” Yoongi breathed out. “Okay, Taehyung. I guess... I guess I’m going to a gala.”