He’s holding a ring in his mouth.

His tongue teases with it against the inside of his cheeks, nudging the hollow circular outline, a faint metallic taste lingering. He wonders absently if it’s the same ring in his memory, with an encased blue gem as brilliant as the most vibrant sky on a sun drenched day.

There’s smoke all around him, thin wisps of warmth permeating his skin, smelling of pine cones and wet peat from the forest. His head is in a hazy cloud, with the ring turning languidly in his mouth.

He should be worried, shouldn’t he? There’s a tiny itch in his heart, gnawing restlessly, reminding him of emotions that can never be forgotten. But Yoongi pushes it aside, ignoring it for now.

There’s no rush, this is fine.

Yoongi is alone and lost, yet he relaxes into the haze, soaking it up. For there’s a presence around him, calm and enveloping, rounding out the sharp edges of the solitude.

Something taps on his mind suddenly, a sharp rhythmic sound that cuts through the comforting smoke.

Tap, tap, tap.

Yoongi blinks and gulps, swallowing the ring by accident. The realization startles him, so does the heaviness as the object slides down his throat and lodges somewhere deep within, becoming a part of him.

Yoongi snaps his eyes open and awakens from the dream.

The familiar faded white walls of the bedroom appear in front of him. The bed is cold, but the air in the house is refreshing, faint traces of smoke from the hearth mixed with scents of spring outside.

Dawn has already broken. Mellow daylight filter through the small window next to the bed, punctured by vibrating shadows of tree branches. Yoongi stretches and yawns, luxuriating in the rare moment of laziness.

His eyes widen when the sound from his dream starts again. Tap, tap, tap.

It’s coming from outside.

Reluctantly, Yoongi pushes himself up with one hand. He rubs on his eyes, and sits up by the edge of the bed, fishing out the shoes underneath with his feet.

The bedroom door is half open, and Yoongi steps through, into the living area of the farm house. Oak pillars peek through the plastered walls, some fortified by him since moving in four years ago. Warm ember glows in the hearth in the middle of the space, with venison sausages Jungkook made hanging haphazardly above on the cross beams. Smoke rises up slowly into the loft above, giving the bags of grains stored inside a distinctive flavor that Yoongi has grown to like.

He straightens out the chairs next to the open hearth, and nudges the warming pans to the side, as the river rocks inside clack against the copper covers.

Tap, tap, tap. The noise starts again, chasing away the lingering haze from sleep, and paints a smile on his face. He continues down the house, pass the handmade pine dining table, into the workspace in the back of the house.

Yoongi scrunches his nose at the layer of sawdust on top of all his carpentry tools, which was supposed to be cleaned up before Jimin came back. He eyes the piece of sawed lumber with marks for pegs and mortices amidst a pile of messy scraps and shavings, and sighs. A bit too late for cleanup now.

He pads away, heart thrumming excitedly against his failed attempt at suppressing a grin. As he pushes open the back door, the morning rays kiss his skin, and the damp smell of moss and fallen leaves awakens his senses.

The world slows down just a little, and the moment opens up to him willingly. Tree branches rustle all around him, and sparrows chirp in the distance. Jimin stands in the middle of the opening behind the house, swinging an axe over thick chunks of firewood. He looks up, hands slowing down, and smiles at Yoongi sheepishly.

Yoongi feels a gentle swoop in his stomach, as his shoulders relax.

“I was hoping you wouldn’t wake up. There’s not much firewood left in the house, and it felt a little cold.”

“It’s fine. You’re not tired?” Yoongi thinks of the eastern roads in the mountains, and how dark and treacherous they feel at night. He steps closer and bends down to pick up the chopped wood on the ground.

“Well, I was so close, I figured it’s worth it to not sleep on the wagon again.” Jimin chuckles and starts to make a pile of wood in the cradle of his left arm.

“True, but it doesn’t hurt to be more careful.”

“I know, I know. I’m perfectly fine, aren’t I. You know I can handle it.” Jimin inches closer and nudges him in the arm. “Nice to finally be home though. So nice.”

Yoongi catches the weary lilt in his voice, and scans his figure. His torso looks trimmer, tanned arms have a few more scratches and marks than Yoongi could remember. Red rimmed eyes, grimy clothes, smells like he hasn’t washed for a while.

Nowadays, being a merchant is pretty much like being a bandit. “Except bandits earn way more,” as Jimin would say with an eye roll. It’s a dangerous job, especially given their secret identities. It all started when they realized the jewelry and heirlooms they brought from Paris would sell for practically nothing in this tiny German border town. Jimin ventured to the capital for two months, and came back with enough gold to last them for a few years. So a new profession was born.

“Do you want to wash up?”

Jimin cradles pieces of firewood with his left arm, and adds more on top, shaking his head, “After. Sleep first.”

Yoongi glares at his grimy clothes and scrunches up his nose with disdain, earning a chuckle out of Jimin as his elbow digs into Yoongi’s arm.

Yoongi trails after Jimin, padding back to the house, but pauses in front of the newly planted tree next to the back door. It’s linden, rare for this region of Black Forest but often spotted in Paris, dotting alongside stately boulevards.

Hoseok had always loved the lush canopy of the mature linden branches, opting for a stroll along the stately boulevards whenever he was stressed. So when the news finally arrived this year, of how Hoseok’s life ended in his own hands, during the final days of Reign of Terror, Yoongi wanted to find a seedling for the backyard, needed to.

It has grown a little taller again, with the aid of the spring rain, almost a head taller than Yoongi. He has built a support of thin beams on both sides of the slender trunk, wanting to protect it from wind. The leaves are filing in now, a pretty dark green that soothes his gaze. Taehyung mentioned fertilizing, but Yoongi is still suspicious of any mysterious farming knowledge from a first descendent royal prince.

“Have you found out more about Hoseok’s family?” He asks.

“No.” Jimin responds from behind him, “We are too far off from their hometown, would need to travel west more to track them down.”

Maybe one day, Yoongi muses inwardly. Death is the great divide. Suddenly, there’s nothing he could do for Hoseok, the one that was the closest thing he had to a brother. There were no details of the suicide, but they all knew how bloody the days became in Paris, as civil war raged amongst the revolutionists and thousands died in the hands of their trusted comrades. Yoongi’s only hope for redemption is to find Hoseok’s family and to offer whatever support he’s able to provide.

I’m sorry I wasn’t there until the end, and I miss you. I always will. 

Yoongi blinks hard and recites the words on his mind, as he’s done a thousand times before. He feels a hand touching his shoulder gently, pulling him out of the reverie.

They don’t say much more, and Yoongi follows Jimin back into the house.

They climb into bed, Jimin first, collapsing into the blanket with a satisfying sigh, and Yoongi follows after, pulling the blanket over him, trying not to think about the mud splatters all over Jimin. He observes all the scars and cuts on Jimin’s darkened arm and makes a note to apply some salve later.

“Are the others doing ok?” Jimin murmurs.

“Yeah. Tae moved his little class to a bigger room at the church, since he’s got more than twenty kids now. He seems happy though. And Jungkook, well- You know how he is, always busy. Hunting, helping out with random tasks in town, tending to the horses… Nobody outside of town would ever believe he shares the seigneury with his uncle.”

A content sigh, “Sounds good, I’m glad to hear. And I made enough on this trip to last for quite a few months.”

Jimin’s always evasive about what happens on his trips, but Yoongi feels gratitude bubbling up. Each scar carries a story, but Yoongi knows how hard they all work at maintaining this peaceful little existence. He nudges his head into Jimin’s arm. “You know, before you woke me up, I was having a dream.”

“What was it?” Jimin’s words slur a little, laced with drowsiness.

Yoongi hesitates, “I can’t remember, only that I feel incredibly heavy inside, like I did something I wasn’t supposed to do.”

Jimin hums and turns around, “So it was not a good dream.”

Silence, Yoongi’s brows are knitted. He feels Jimin leaning into him, “It’s ok, whatever happens in your dream next time, try to remember that you’re home.”

Home… He sweeps the grimy bangs off Jimin’s forehead, and mulls over the word.

Jimin continues, voice hoarse and muted, “I’m here with you, we all are, come what may...we will deal with it together…”

Emotions swell against his chest at the words, despite his best effort to curb them.

Does someone like him deserve solace after everything he’s done, after all the people he has abandoned when he fled selfishly for his own safety? Have they really escaped the nightmare that was threatened to devour them whole, or it will always be with him one way or another...

Yoongi closes his eyes and shuts out the languid morning rays filtering through the window. Shutting it all out, saved for the radiant heat of the figure next to him, grounding his heart, anchoring it to the moment.

The past will always haunt him, in dreams, in memory, through mementos and thoughts unspoken. And they’ve said far too much too each other, have pushed one another to the brink, then pulled back from the edge of the precipice with words that still linger to this day.

Words, so feeble, so inadequate. Yoongi has always preferred to show his thoughts through action. And he knows Jimin understands it all.

Yoongi’s gaze softens at the thought. They may never forgive each other for all the transgressions, all the wrongs they’ve committed, for all the reasons that now seem like a distant afterthought. But they depend on each other more than they could ever admit.

Love comes in many forms - love of your home, love of a life that’s no longer seeped in deception and regrets, and love for the one person that walks with you on this solitary journey, alone but together.

Yoongi screws his eyes shut, and feels their breathes ebb and flow, like two waves that clash and blend into each other. They drift into slumber together, no more dreams, just peace and serenity, as their minds wipe clean for the moment and untether.

Yoongi believes he has failed at saving the world, but sometimes, he tries to remind himself that he had saved one person, who extended a hand for redemption to him in return. And in these small moments reserved only for the two of them, maybe, just maybe, that alone is enough.