You Infire Me

Chapter Nine: DC or Bust

"Where are the others?" Yoongi asks when he meets you in the hotel lobby.

"Oh. I . . . didn't tell them about going to eat dinner," you admit. "I just texted you. Only you."

"Oh," he blinks, and you can't tell if his tone is one of pleasant shock or neutral nonchalance.

"I just . . . I want to try this Korean place near here, and I didn't think the high school jock bros would go for it," you share a laugh, "but I really want to try Korean food, and we don't have any in Hunsaker, so I thought, why not tonight? And you can come and tell me what everything is."

Smooth, Y/N. Real smooth.

But, by some miracle, your fumbling proposal is fruitful, and after a 20-minute walk and a 10-minute wait for a table, you're browsing a menu filled with pictures of dishes you've never seen before, each one seeming more enticing than the next.

"You put green onions in your pancakes?" You raise your eyebrows in surprise.

He laughs. "Yes, but . . . not in the way you think. Pajeon is different than American pancakes. And it's delicious. You have to try it."

"I'll trust you," you smile. Even though you butcher the pronunciation when you order the mysterious green onion pancake, you don't fail to notice the proud grin Yoongi sends your way. It seems almost inadvertent, like a natural, unstoppable response to stimuli. It's as if he isn't fully aware that he's smiling, but he is, and it's radiant. Straight teeth forming a perfect line; lips spreading but maintaining their perfect, pinkish luster; gums showing in the most endearing way imaginable. It's dark outside, and the warm glow of the restaurant's lights offer a beacon of safety and comfort—but it all pales in comparison to the smiling face in front of you. If the ambience around you lights the way home, Yoongi lights the way to something more celestial.

And the pajeon, strange though it sounded, proves to be quite heavenly, too.

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You expected the city to be loud, but your walk back to the hotel is quiet. So quiet that you can hear yourself swallow, which reminds you that you have insides, which reminds you that your body is, in fact, disgusting, and therefore, by extension, you are disgusting, too. I can't be in a place that's too loud, you consider, but I can't be in a place that's too quiet, either. And pretty much every place is either too loud or too quiet. No place is for me. I belong nowhere.

Yoongi says something, but you have to ask him to repeat it.

"I said I think we missed our turn." He stops and turns back. "I don't remember passing these shops on our way here."

"Oh," you respond, your brain finally allowing you to return yourself to the real world, to your real surroundings. "Sorry, I got distracted."

"By?"

"My own thoughts."

Why did I just say that?

He hesitates, opening his mouth moments before a response escapes his lips. "Are they . . . negative thoughts?"

You shove your hands in your pockets, the cold air beginning to burn your knuckles. "Yes."

And why, of all things, did I just say that?

"Tell me about them."

"Let me look up the way back to the hotel," you half-shout, whipping out your phone. "It's dark and I don't know exactly where we are . . ."