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By some misunderstanding that Yoongi will never get, most of his classmates used to think that he hated being the youngest child in his family—or at the very least resented not having a younger sibling to boss around. On the contrary, Yoongi is and—as far as he can recall—has always been quite content with being the youngest. After all, if he weren't the second son, he would've been the one to grow up shouldering the expectation of taking over and carrying on with the family business. He definitely would've had to put up a much stronger fight in order to get the chance to pursue music as a serious endeavour.

And yet here he is all these years later: stood in the restaurant, scrubbing at soy sauce stains with wet rag while his older brother is off ing his wife or whatever.

“ing hell, I hate that stupid bastard,” Yoongi mutters under his breath, peaking up through his fringe to check if his father is anywhere in earshot.

It's just after four o'clock in the afternoon on a Sunday in the middle of January—a time when no-one in their right mind would be caught dead outside their own house. Still there are a couple of die-hard regulars who apparently aren't aware of the fact that restaurants can and do deliver food right to their doorstep. They're all old though, so maybe they come for the company of another human being more than anything else.

“Because I make for such riveting company,” Yoongi scoffs under his breath.

He's just about to give up on getting the stain out when the tinkling of the door bell echoes throughout the room. Instinctively, he looks up, a greeting automatically rolling off his tongue.

“Welcome,” he nods at the man hovering in the doorway.

Between the heat from the radiators and the heat from the kitchen, it's pretty stuffy inside, but the man doesn't remove his scarf or even his coat. He just stares at Yoongi. Yoongi stares back, trying to figure out if he's ever met this guy before. Daegu is a large city, he can't possibly know everyone who lives here, but the recognition in the other man's eyes is undeniable. It's actually freaking Yoongi out.

“Please, take a seat,” Yoongi says to break the awkward silence, gesturing at a nearby table.

At last, the man blinks. “Right, sure.” He nods and gives his head a little shake.

He steps inside and heads over to the offered table, unwinding his scarf from around his throat and looping it around the back of his chair. The other customers throw him vaguely interested glances, but they soon return to their meals. When he finally takes a seat, Yoongi hands him a menu.

“Any specials or recommendations?” the man asks as he flips through it, and yeah he's definitely not from around here with that accent.

Yoongi hums in thought for a moment. “We do a great bulgogi bibimbap.”

In a second, the man is sitting ramrod straight, staring at Yoongi with wide eyes. Yoongi takes a step backwards.

“I, uh, sorry, no, that sounds great,” the man stutters. “I love bulgogi and I love bibimbap.”

“Cool,” Yoongi says for lack of anything better to say. “May I get you anything to drink?”

“A beer, please.”

The order complete, Yoongi heads to the kitchen to relay it to his father. The usual one minute trip is extended when Yoongi's father takes a strange interest in the man who placed the order. Or, more specifically, in where the man hails from.

“A Jeollado man, you say?” Yoongi's father looks up from the stove with a glint in his eyes. “Did he say anything strange to you?” His voice drops low in that terrifying way that always signalled a spanking was in the near future for him and/or his brother. Yoongi scratches the back of his neck, unsure where this sudden hostility is coming from.

“No. I mean, he's kind of jumpy, but there's no need to kick him out or call the police or whatever.”

Min senior sighs through his nose and goes back to cooking without another word. Min junior takes his leave and heads back to his post at the front of the restaurant. He means to disappear behind his phone until he's called upon, but he finds himself glancing at the newcomer. In the five minutes that Yoongi has been gone, he seems to have calmed down. He's looking around at the photos on the walls and the decorative knick-knacks, but not with the touristy eye of someone seeing something for the first time. Maybe he visited before when Yoongi wasn't in.

“Hey, Yoongi! Bring another beer!”

“Coming.”

Yoongi hops out of his seat and grabs a couple of beers from the fridge to give the pair of old men in the corner. The entire time, he feels a pair of eyes drill holes in the side of his face. It's odd, because this guy isn't even the weirdest or creepiest person to stumble into the Min family restaurant—not by a long shot—but something about the way he stares at Yoongi sets his nerves on edge. He means to hide behind the register and ignore the guy until he finishes eating, but impulsively tosses that plan aside.

“What the is your problem? I told my dad that we didn't need to kick you out or call the cops on you, but I'm open to changing my mind.”

“Uh, no, it's—I, we used to know each other,” the man says desperately.

Yoongi unclenches his fists at his sides. “Oh. Were you one of my friends from before?”

It's been so long that nobody in Yoongi's family bothers to add 'the accident' anymore. By the time he remembers to specify, the other guy makes it clear that it's not necessary.

“Y–yeah, we met in Seoul. Worked at the same agency.” He visibly pauses. “I was actually in the car with you.”

Yoongi's eyebrows fly to his hairline. The doctors always mentioned a passenger, but by that point he'd already been transferred to Daegu and his parents never elaborated on it. The man must take Yoongi's shock for disbelief because he rolls up the sleeve of his button down and reveals the partially faded scar of a long, jagged gash on his right arm.

“It was the 8^th of March 2014, the night before your birthday. We were hit at an intersection by a drunk driver who broke the red light. I wasn't told any specifics of your condition because I was just 'an unrelated third party'—”

Yoongi can't help but blink in surprise at the sudden bitterness in his voice.

“—but your brother came and told me that you had a fractured skull and swelling of the brain. Once you were stable enough, your parents had you moved to Daegu,” he trails of with a sigh. “I–I have pictures of us, too.” He dives for his coat pocket and retrieves his phone.

Yoongi was already inclined to believe him. After all, what are the chances of some random man from the Jeollado knowing so many personal details of some random man from Daegu without the two having been acquainted? And it's not like Yoongi is famous enough for anyone to bother with stalking him.

“Wow, that's a face I haven't seen in a long time,” Yoongi snickers at the sight of his younger self.

His memory is “patchy and inconsistent” as the attending nurse used to say (or “shot to hell” as his brother liked to call it), but Yoongi can recall the feeling of seeing that face in the mirror and thinking he looked old and run-down. Which is ridiculous now, because even with his scowl and dark circles he looks like a ing baby.

“I can't believe you still have these,” Yoongi says as he scrolls through the album of selfies taken with the other man. “They've got to be at least fifteen years old.”

“We–we were really close.”

“I hate to have to ask, but what's your name?”

“It's Hoseok.”

“Hoseok?” he repeats, rolling the name around in his mouth. Somehow it doesn't quite fit.

“You—” Hoseok cuts himself off, biting his lip.

“What?”

“You used to call me 'Seokseok',” he says shyly.

Yoongi bursts out laughing. It's funny, he can't remember doing it, but looking at the intimate way the two of them are draped over and pressed against each other, he feels like he can. Judging by the recording equipment in the background of a lot of the pictures, Yoongi figures he was a co-worker from his producing job and not his chicken delivery job.

“So, Seokseok—”

Hoseok flushes at the endearment.

“—what brings you to Daegu in the most unseasonable time of the year?” Yoongi hands him back his phone.

Hoseok sighs, looking like he's just cut the strings of a weight tied to his back. “I finally got divorced.”

“Oh.” Yoongi blinks. “Well, congratulations.”

Hoseok's nose scrunches up cutely and he hunches forward, shoulders shaking as he laughs.

“That's what I love about you, Yoongi. You always keep it real.” He's not looking, but Yoongi half-turns to hide the smile pulling at his lips anyway.

“I'd offer commiserations if you were crying, but there's no point if you're not upset,” he says with a shrug.

Hoseok's laughter quickly peters off. “But I am upset,” he says with a pained grimace.

The half-smile slips off Yoongi's face.

“Mostly that I didn't do it sooner,” Hoseok continues, running a hand through his hair.

Yoongi opens his mouth to ask why.

“Yoongi! Order up!”

“'s sake,” Yoongi mutters to himself. “I'll be back in a minute.”

Back in the kitchen, his father looks like he's about to request a full report on Hoseok's actions and words from the past thirty minutes. Yoongi just averts his eyes and grabs the tray so he doesn't get drawn in.

“Sorry about that,” he says to Hoseok as he lays out his meal and side dishes.

“Oh, thank you.”

Hoseok stirs the fried egg into the rice and lifts a bite to his mouth. As much a Yoongi likes to complain about working in the restaurant, there's a definite sense of pride he feels when a customer's eyes light up as they try the food. Hoseok is particularly expressive as he beams and moans happily.

“Just as good as the stuff in Jeollado, right?” Yoongi smirks.

Hoseok scoffs around his mouth full of food. “Don't get carried away.”

Yoongi waves his hand dismissively. “Finish chewing first.”

Hoseok sticks out his tongue, treating Yoongi to the sight of half-chewed bits of rice, beef, and vegetables. In retaliation, Yoongi steals a piece of kimchi.

“I paid for that,” Hoseok pouts.

“No, you didn't. It's complimentary,” Yoongi says as he easily filches another bite.

Hoseok chuckles.

“So, you got a divorce?”

“Uh, yeah. I loved someone else. I love someone else.”

Yoongi narrows his eyes in suspicion.

Hoseok holds up his hands defensively. “I didn't cheat! I would never cheat...I've been hurt that way before and I'd never do it to anyone else.”

“Good,” Yoongi grunts. “I'm enough of an without having dickheads for friends.”

“You're not an ,” Hoseok says quietly, his lips pressed to his pint of beer.

Yoongi shrugs again.

“So, anyway, yeah, I never cheated. Not physically, but I guess in my heart I did.” He scratches the wood grain of the table with his fingernail. “I cared about my wife, but I couldn't forget about...about him,” he all but whispers the last words.

As close as they were, it looks like Yoongi was never out to him. Then again, it's entirely possible that Yoongi wasn't even out to himself fifteen years ago.

“It's alright, I get it,” he nods. “I'm unmarried myself for a reason.” And it's yet another reason to rejoice in being the younger son. Instead of relaxing Hoseok, Yoongi's confession only seems to make him more anxious.

“I was never, never actually with him, not like that,” Hoseok stutters slightly, his nut brown eyes flickering between the table top and Yoongi's face. “But I loved him.” His lips twitch in a failed attempt at a smile.

“Oh,” Yoongi breathes. He his lips to wet them, but his tongue is just as dry. “Did he know?”

Hoseok manages a wistful smile this time. “I'm not sure. But I suppose that doesn't really matter at this point.”

Yoongi clears his throat. “Why's that?”

“Huh? That's being a bit nosy, eh?” Hoseok laughs nervously before stuffing his mouth with food.

Yoongi shrugs. “And so what if it is? Who can a freshly divorced middle-aged man spill his secrets to if not an old friend and bartender?”

“You're not a bartender and this isn't a bar,” Hoseok snorts.

Yoongi gestures to the beer bottle on the table and spreads his hands grandly. “I served you alcohol, ergo I am your bartender.”

Hoseok snorts again.

“Besides, it's not like we're complete strangers.”

“No, I guess not.” Hoseok's voice is barely more than a whisper. Even in the silence of the nearly empty restaurant, Yoongi almost misses the words.

Conversation basically dies at that point, Hoseok choosing to finish his food in silence. It's subtle enough, but a brush-off is still a brush-off. Yoongi gets up and heads back to his seat behind the register. Within a minute of Yoongi sitting down and uselessly fiddling with his phone, the old men in the corner are calling for the bill. Once they're gone, it's just him and Hoseok out on the floor. It's a large enough space, one that feels massive when Yoongi has to clean the floor; it's suddenly far too cramped.

“Min Yoongi.”

Yoongi grunts to show that he's listening but keeps his eyes on the table that he's clearing of bowls and glasses.

“That's his name.”

Yoongi freezes.

“I thought about telling him, had hyped myself up to do it on his birthday.”

Yoongi looks over his shoulder to see Hoseok hunched forward over the table, his face buried in his hands.

“He loves music, so I made a mixtape for him. It was terrible—I was a choreographer, not a producer—but he would've liked the fact that I tried.”

“Yeah, probably,” Yoongi speaks up, his voice low and thick.

Hoseok rubs his hands over his face before he pulls them away. “I didn't come here because I thought...Honestly, I'm not totally sure why I came here,” he sighs.

“Sorry, I need a smoke,” Yoongi mutters as he makes a beeline for the door, hastily grabbing his coat from a peg on the wall.

Stepping into the frigid evening air is like getting slapped in the face with a hard-cover dictionary, but the itch in his fingers and in his lips and in his lungs and under his skin is stronger. The doctors and the nurses never failed to nag him about how smoking only exacerbated memory loss, but Yoongi always figured that after suffering a brain haemorrhage, having a cigarette every now and then would make as much difference to his memory loss as removing a litre of water from the Pacific Ocean would affect its overall volume. Still, he makes sure his parents don't ever catch him lighting up.

Like a few other habits, Yoongi can't remember why he started smoking, but the nicotine-craving part of his brain doesn't give a . The itching under his skin doesn't stop until he's got hot smoke filling his lungs. He ploughs through the first cigarette, all but making himself sick with how quickly goes. With his nerves slightly more settled, he leans against the wall and carefully puffs at the second. The third burns out before he gets a quarter of the way through it. He leaves it hanging between his lips, idly tapping it against in chin. The door to the restaurant slides open. Yoongi jumps up. He relaxes at the sight of Hoseok.

“You pulling a dine and dash?” Yoongi an eyebrow.

Hoseok shakes his head. “I squared the bill with your dad,” he says with a tight smile.

“Ah, right,” Yoongi hums as he re-lights the cigarette. Hoseok turns away. “How long are you staying in Daegu?”

Hoseok blinks in surprise. “Um, well, I'm off work until Wednesday, but I was just going to get the bus back to Gwangju tonight.”

Yoongi takes a long pull and holds it inside his lungs for a moment. “Don't,” he says behind the shroud of exhaled smoke. When it clears, Hoseok is blinking rapidly. “If nothing else, I'd like to hear about my time in Seoul, fill in some of the blanks.”

“Yeah, right,” Hoseok says faintly even as he nods eagerly.

“And who knows,” Yoongi shrugs and kicks the snow drift right next to his foot, “if you tell me enough, I might even be able to give you the answer to your question.” He peaks up through his fringe and is met with Hoseok's slightly glassy eyes.

“It's a lot of blanks to fill,” he says hesitantly, pausing to run his tongue over his lips. “More than could be filled in two days.”

Yoongi shrugs, hoping the move doesn't come off as awkward as it feels to do. “Then I guess we'd have to keep talking after that.”

“And after I've told you everything I know?”

“I guess we'll see.” Yoongi lifts the to his lips and takes a long, hard pull that finally finishes the cigarette.

“I guess that's all I can ask for,” Hoseok laughs helplessly. “See you tomorrow? Back here?”

“Oh, God, no.” Yoongi flicks the cigarette next to the others laying in the snow. “Give me your number and I'll text you the time and place.”

Long after the sun has dipped below the horizon and Hoseok has left to book a room at a cheap hotel, Yoongi remains standing outside the restaurant. Despite the bitter chill that has seeped through the layers of his thick coat and settled into his bones, Yoongi doesn't move until his phone vibrates with a text notification.

[From Hoseok; Sunday, 13 January 2030]

i got a room ^.^