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yeojaa · 4 years

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NOT YOUR FAIRYTALE - ft. myg

What do you do when you've called your wedding off but forgot to cancel your cake tastings? Why, you ask your brother's grouchy best friend, of course.

pairing. min yoongi. sort of.

genre + rating. fluff-adjacent. general.

warning / tags. mentions of infidelity, cake tasting, cake tasting isn’t a euphemism, fluff and hurt/comfort, alternate universe, alternate universe - modern setting, friendship, friendship/love, childhood friends.

reading. n/a. a stand-alone three part one-shot.

word count. ~3550

chapter ii.

You know he doesn’t mean it unkindly but you can’t help the way your heart sinks like a stone, the jewel of the ocean lost to the Marianas Trench. It clenches pathetically in the pit of your stomach, squeezing painfully in a way that only he can elicit from you.

Because even a decade later - after countless distractions and even an engagement - you still carry some childish crush for him, hold a torch that somehow hasn’t gone out. It still burns, embers of a rampant wildfire doused by heavy rain, smouldering under a blanket of ash and misery.

“Oh.”

The single syllable squeaks past the cage of your teeth - a willy rabbit disappearing beneath the underbrush - and morphs into a cough on the back of your hand. You can feel the warmth already creeping across your cheeks, bathing apples in the colour of their namesake. You don’t miss the way Yoongi watches you, closely as ever and yet in a way you can’t quite place. It sweeps through the amber of his irises and disappears into the depths of his pupils; you want to chase after it, coax it out from its hiding spot, but don’t.

Instead, you fist your free hand between your knees and manoeuvre another forkful of vanilla cake past the delicate fortress of your lips. Weakened, now, because they feel feeble and you’re half-worried you’re going to say something you shouldn’t. That the words are going to tumble right off a stone wall and not survive the drop.

After all, you and your brother had a penchant for doing so. Namjoon, for spilling secrets about surprise birthday parties and Mother’s Day gifts. You, for waxing poetic about the ways you’ve dreamt of Min Yoongi throughout the years.

“Disappointed?” He drawls finally. It stops you from tearing apart the carefully constricted wooden box that you’ve kept those emotions locked in, little splinters cast below your nail beds – a reminder of hey, stop that.

“Of course not,” you answer, voice a little reedy, too focused on denial to sound quite normal.

He laughs then and the sound has your face burning, flames licking over your nose in the same instance his lips curl, revealing pink gums and bidding eyes to thin into amused crescents. The joy that radiates off him in waves, pours from his pores like bioluminescence at shore, makes you scowl.

It suddenly all feels very reminiscent of your adolescence. Of callow teasing and baited breaths, his name scrawled into the margins of your maths homework.

“Stop that!” You’re waving your fork at him. It’s meant to be menacing but only makes him laugh harder, shoulders rolling beneath the soft cotton layers that keep him wrapped away. When he doesn’t stop, you opt to shovel another bite of cake into your mouth, noticing with deep satisfaction that the slice is almost gone and Yoongi hasn’t even had a bite.

You’re going for the last corner when the tines of his fork collide with yours. So he had noticed.

He meets your stare with barely concealed disapproval, aggressively shoving your own utensil off the plate with a nonchalant flick of his wrist. “Greedy,” he says, mouth full of reproach and then, a moment later, citrus and sugar.

“You already knew that.” And now it’s your turn to turn water to wine, words full of playful reproach that makes him shake his head yet remain decidedly silent.

It wasn’t as if he could dispute that – not when he’d quite literally spoken the words himself.

So he takes his loss in stride, a gracious loser as you stack the now empty plate with another. “Go ahead,” you offer, like some benevolent leader.

“Oh, thanks.” The sardonic twist of his words doesn’t go unnoticed and you both roll your eyes, almost in tandem. Your brother sometimes wondered where you’d gotten your dry wit from, the derisive streak that was at complete odds with every other part of your rainbows and lollipops – his words, not yours – personality. But here and now, it was easy to see.

It sprouts between your teeth in shades of muted greys and muddy greens, sowed by a one Min Yoongi and cared for by your tender green thumb.

“How is it?” You ask, chin palmed by a small hand. The consequences of devouring that last cake are making themselves known, turning your stomach with its weight.

He must notice the way you don’t go for another bite because he’s speaking around a short laugh, the exchange getting lost in how the sound bounces around in your ears and stirs that same childish embarrassment. “Karma.” But he doesn’t seem particularly bothered, proverbial feathers unruffled in a way that is very distinctly him. “It’s good. Really rich.” Utensil gestures in the same motion his chin does - an unspoken invitation.

You don’t need to be told twice; you loved sweets, would choose dessert over dinner nine times out of ten.

“Soooo rich!” The flavour melts across your tongue, drenching every taste bud in cocoa, and you can’t help but hum in delight. “I think this is my favourite.” As if that means anything - as if that really matters.

That unreadable expression has found its way onto his face again, slapped neatly upon his features like a mask. You try not to focus on it, taking another bite as you chew thoughtfully, gaze focused on a freckle in the birch wood grain of the tabletop.

“Last one,” he muses and you wonder if it’s wistfulness you hear in his voice or if you’re somehow still that love-struck teenager you’ve always been, projecting a decade’s worth of emotion on the poor man.

It’s surely the latter.

“Go ahead.” Verbatim, in that same sardonic tone you’d used on him, saccharine sweetness threading every syllable as if the sugar particles might turn it into something more palatable. He's even got that little smirk of his, mouth quirked high over pink gums. You want to roll your eyes - and do, with an exaggerated jut of your chin and a simpering smile.

By the look on his face, he must be proud. He'd instilled all of this in you - the spice softening the everything nice.

The tines of your fork sink easily into the dense, moist cake, gathering a generous helping of pristine white frosting and golden crumb. You've never been the biggest fan of carrot cake - why would you want veggies in your dessert, you'd joke - but you think if every cake tasted like this, you wouldn't have a problem.

"I think I'm a believer." You're faux solemnity, features arranged in a straight line that causes Yoongi's own to split, amusement shining in between the fractures.

"A believer in what?"

"Carrots. Carrot cake. Vegetables." Spoken as if you didn't inhale green smoothies religiously.

You appreciate that he plays along. It's not very Yoongi-like but it's nice, a callback to the days when he'd indulge your naiveté. "Unbelievable. You're a disgrace to this family. Namjoon is officially the better sibling."

Fingers fly to your throat. You're scandalized, gaping at him as if he's suddenly grown a second head or admitted he's a wizard. "You mean he wasn't before? I took that top spot?" You're not quite sure whether you're joking, the question rolling off your tongue with more hope than you'd meant.

"No, Moni's the best. Obviously." Okay, you deserved that. You can't really bring yourself to do anything but laugh, the sound twinkling bells.

"I'm telling Joon you said that."

"He knows where you all stand." The way he says it sparks curiosity, colourful fireworks illuminating your thoughts as you study him. It shouldn't, but it does. You think you can see something hidden there, buried treasure beyond the slope of his mouth and beneath the crags of his teeth. It calls to you like a stark X on your map.

Another bite is thoughtfully chewed, flavours turning over on your tongue. You're trying to find your words as icing melts, coating every inch in sugar. "What's that supposed to mean?"

By the tick of his stare - the subtle tension at the corners - you think you've overstepped. You recognize that expression well enough. You'd become intimately familiar with it through the years. Despite that, it seems you haven't learnt your lesson, repeating yourself when Yoongi's silence - and patience, you're sure - stretches thin. You can practically see it, pulled taut between his teeth and in his brow.

It's clear as day that this conversation is over.

So why you're still so intent on a reaction, you're not sure. Maybe because this is the first time you've spent an extended period of time alone with him in what feels like years and it’s strange - akin to your first high school dance. Awkward, forced, filled with promise but ultimately disappointing.

You wonder whether he can feel it too and if that means he regrets coming here. You hope not.

“Sorry.” It comes with all the lightness you can muster, sunshine filtered through eyelet cotton. You offer a smile - full dimples and wrinkles at the corner of your eyes. “You can keep your secrets, Min Yoongi.”

By the way he stares at you - levels you with just one look - you know he sees the effort. It’s clear as day and he almost laughs, the sound bubbling quietly beneath the surface.

You were never good at doing things with any semblance of inconspicuousness - it simply wasn’t in your blood. You wore your emotions on your sleeves, heart pinned neatly across your chest in neon pink. It was both endearing and frustrating but you wouldn’t change it for the world. It made you who you were.

“One day, I’ll tell you,” Yoongi muses in a bemused tone that isn’t very convincing, lopsided grin of his own softening his features further.

“No, you won’t.” And that’s fine. You don’t mind, not really.

He laughs once but it’s enough. “You’re right.”

The silence that finds a home between you now isn’t awkward. If you weren’t so used to this give and take, you might’ve had whiplash.

Instead, it’s made from years of friendship and shaped to fit between your cracks and crevices, filling the spaces between you with comfort. It’s a nice reminder that despite everything, you can always come back to this. That he’ll always be in your corner.

You try to express your gratitude in the way you speak, earnest as ever. “Thank you for coming, Yoongi.”

Whatever he’s about to say is stolen by a new presence.

Petite - smaller than either of you, with full cheeks and a sweetly upturned nose - the woman offers a smile that fills you with warmth. It reminds you of your mother’s, all crow’s feet and deep dimples. There are stains on her apron, the sleeves of her pristine white coat pushed to her elbows.

“Did you enjoy the cakes?” Her voice is rough but kind, rolling over syllables with an accent you can’t quite place.

“They were incredible!” You’re quick to answer, gesturing to the free seat opposite you. “Did you make them? I wish I could do what you do! I’ve never had a carrot cake so moist - or light! And the chocolate— wow!”

You can practically hear Yoongi rolling his eyes beside you, because you’re rambling in your nervousness.

The woman laughs, sliding onto the stool with a little hop. “Yes, that was me. I’m glad you enjoyed. My name is Celeste.” Her handshake is firm, confident. Despite the no nonsense tone she takes, her smile never falters. It brings back memories of your favourite professors - full of guidance and wisdom and occasionally, tough love. “Let’s talk a bit about you two.”

“Oh, us?” The question stutters past your lips. You hadn’t expected that.

“We like to understand the happy couple so we can better personalize our service.” Another chuckle and her chin jerks toward where Siyeon mans the front desk. “Did she not include that in her spiel?”

“Oh, no. She was great! I just—!”

Yoongi can sense you’re about to run the train right off the tracks and into a canyon. It’s written into every inch of your face, the way your hand clenches at your side.

“What did you want to know?” Control is taken seamlessly, both by words and touch. His fingers curl experimentally around your balled fist, thumb ghosting easily across the back of yours. He squeezes once and shakes gently - just enough to jostle the tension from your limbs but not enough to call attention to the movement.

“Anything you think is important. How did you meet?"

You’re certain this is a standard question she asks regularly. It doesn’t help the erratic beating of your heart.

“She’s my best friend’s little sister.” This earns a laugh from Celeste, the sound bouncing off the table and into your ears.

“Wow!” Arms cross over her diminutive frame and she studies the two of you with a glint in her eyes. “And how's that?” It feels like being interrogated by your halmoni - embarrassing and a little familial. You wish you could find your voice. You were great with grandparents.

“I never meant to fall for her.”

The words mean nothing - it’s all for show - and yet you very clearly note the moment you quit breathing. How your lungs stop working, shuddering to a stop. It’s in direct contrast to the way your heart triples in pace, nearly sending you into cardiac arrest.

“But you spend enough time with someone - and in my case, their annoying little sister - and it just happens. You can’t really help it.” His laugh sounds strange to your ears. “At least I couldn’t.”

Across the table, Celeste’s face is inscrutable, her gaze trained on Yoongi’s. You feel almost invisible - or would, if you weren’t so keenly aware of the fact that he’s still holding your hand. It's the only thing anchoring you to the here and now, a shackle looped neatly around bone to keep you from floating off into the great unknown.

"That's very sweet." She says it plainly, like she's commenting on the weather or the colour of the sky. There's no indication she sees through the carefully crafted facade the two of you have built. You wonder if your - no, his - acting skills are just that good or if she's doing it for your benefit. Surely she can see the tension in your posture, how you're ready to burst apart at the seams at a moment's notice.

"I think so, too." You don't think you've ever heard him the way he is now, honey sweet and miles away from boy you grew up with. His voice is decidedly soft, none of the usual grit coating the edges. There's no storm just beyond the horizon; he's only calm blue as far as the eye can see. "But she'd probably say differently."

It seems your silence has carried on too long for his liking. He nudges you above the table, a heart-wrenching smile drawing you back. Somehow, despite his efforts to calm you - because that's what he's doing, with this grin he very rarely lets see the light of day and repetitive brush of his thumb - your nerves are lit up like a Christmas tree. You think they must be flashing beneath your skin - a string of lights gone haywire.

"Right?" A subtle widening of his eyes is enough. You need to get it together, girl.

You echo him, laughter chasing syllables from behind your molars and into the open. "Right."

Celeste's gaze bounces between the two of you, barely concealed amusement folded into the corner of her stare, the way her mouth purses into a wall she hides her laughter behind. "You two are so sweet."

Well, you certainly hadn't expected that.

"Really?" It leaps forward before you have a chance to stop it, dragging roses over your cheeks. The next words tumble out in quick succession, coming of their own volition. You wish they hadn't. "I never thought I'd see the day someone called him that."

The subtle flex of his fingers reminds you that you're still interlocked, intimately joined by twined fingers and white knuckles.

"Well, he's sweet on you and that's all that matters!"

"Exactly." Yoongi is haughty and it looks good on him, framing his features and throwing them into a light you've only ever seen in the studio or on the basketball court. "Don't forget that." You think he might stick out his tongue - know he won't, but can almost imagine the expression. It would fit the playfulness that you so rarely see, puzzle pieces filling in the spaces usually reserved for stoicism and austerity.

"Already forgot," you return, a little brighter than you mean to, with sunlight in your smile and stars in your eyes. You can't help it. Any minute, you might wake up from this strange wonderful daydream so you bask in it, a cat in a windowsill, long-limbed and at peace.

"Like I said—sweet." There's a fondness in Celeste's eyes and you can't help but hold her stare as she continues on, undeterred by the world you seem so lost in. "Are you looking for a traditional wedding cake? What's your style?"

"We prefer understated." You don't miss the way he speaks for the both of you or that he does so with such confidence. The fact settles comfortably in the lining of your coat, tucking itself into the pocket over your heart. You know you'll hold onto this for longer than you should. "Nothing extravagant but something that clearly took a lot of care and work."

"He means no seven-tiered cake with sugar flowers and live doves," you supply helpfully, with glee you can't contain. It forces itself to the forefront of your smile, displayed in blinding white enamel and gloss-slicked lips.

"I'd take six-tiered with dead doves."

His deadpan rebuttal meets laughter - both yours and Celeste's. He might just win Mister Congeniality with this performance of his.

"What're your wedding colours? Do you have any photos?" That stops you sort.

You blink once, twice, trying to remember the palette you'd decided on before your fairytale had come crumbling down, a castle made of sand at high tide. It sparks pain from the tip of your nose to the soles of your feet and you reflexively flex your fingers, knuckles stark alabaster at the bitterness that sours your tongue.

"We didn't even think of that." Again, your knight in shining armour, refocusing the conversation when you most need it. Yoongi chuckles but you see the tension in his eyes, how it lurks beneath the surface. "Could we send some over later?"

"Of course!" If Celeste notices the change in atmosphere, she keeps it to herself. "Why don't you just send Siyeon anything you might have for reference and we can go from there. I know being put on the spot can be hard sometimes." There's an undercurrent of understanding, kindness cradling each word. You wonder if you've blown your cover wide open - if there's a bright red FRAUD stamp across your forehead. "Wedding planning is stressful, so take your time. If we need anything pressing, we'll reach out."

You're echoing Yoongi's thanks, not quite processing that your meeting has come to an end. If you really thought about it, you might feel bad - guilty for wasting their time. Instead, you let yourself be guided from your seat by a warm hand at your back.

"You two take care now." She ushers you to the door with wide, wise eyes and a little smile. "It was lovely meeting you."

Both you and your pretend partner bow, bidding thanks and farewell as the woman disappears back the way she came, imposing double doors swinging shut behind her. Her departure feels like a weight has lifted off your shoulders, carried into the late afternoon sky that stretches above your heads. You release the breath you hadn't realized you'd been holding and meet Yoongi's expectant gaze.

"What?"

"Nothing." You can tell he isn't going to give an inch. He's back to being the Min Yoongi you know.

"Fine. Thank you."

"You already said that."

The scowl you level him with is impressive. He must be proud by the way his mouth twitches, corners of his lips quirking just enough to belie his pleasure. "And I meant it!"

It's the reaction he's expecting - easily baited with just the smallest ounce of antagonism. Rather than respond, he snickers, nose scrunching characteristically.

"Stop laughing at me!" You half-whine, sneaker-clad foot stomping on the ground before you can help it.

"You make it too easy," he drawls, shaking his head as the two of you continue down the sidewalk. "Everything I do riles you up. Learn to control your emotions." As if it's that easy. As if you were the sort of person to bottle any of it up. He knows you aren't; he's only working you up again.

"At least I have them, Yoongi!" It's a low blow, a shot meant to surprise and silence him. You don't really mean it.

And yet it's you that's left staggered - because you've never seen that mixture of emotion on his face before. A combination of hurt and frustration painting shadows across his cheeks.

What had you done?

notes. this was meant to be two parts but now it will be three. oops.

tag list. @hoodmeup

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