"I have found out there is no surer way to find out whether you like people or hate them than to travel with them."
— Mark Twain
"We're going to DC," your best friend says the moment you open your eyes. "Today. Pack your bags."
You sit up, rubbing your eyes. "I don't remember going to bed sick."
Bianca shoots you a confused look as she drags her suitcase out from under her bed.
"This must be a fever dream," you clarify. "Why else would I be forced to take a spontaneous trip?"
"Perhaps because it's the last fall break of your life," Bianca answers, emptying almost an entire drawer of underwear into one carry-on.
You rub your eyes some more. "How long will you be in DC?"
"Correction: how long will we be in DC," she moves to your side of the room, digging around for your luggage. "You're coming, Y/N! You have no choice. It'll be so much fun!"
"Ughhh," you flop back onto your pillow, the softness of your sheets seductively whispering in your ear, asking you to stay. "I have too much to work on, B. Too many books to read, too many papers to write. I don't have time for a vacation."
"You can find a cute café downtown and do all your assignments there," Bianca proposes.
"That's . . . actually an excellent idea," you realize. "Reading and writing in cafés are my only hobbies, after all."
"Good. It's settled. Now get out of bed, and get packed. I've got to call Alex and Aaron to solidify the hotel arrangement. Would you text Yoongi and ask if he landed us those MAX concert tickets? Thanks." She whips out her phone and dashes out of the room.
"Wait. Wait wait wait wait," you shout after her. "Yoongi's coming?"
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By 11:00, the five of you are settled in Cam: you at the wheel, Bianca on her usual throne in the passenger's seat, and the three boys in the back. Through your rear view mirror, you glance at Yoongi sitting in the seat behind you. He doesn't know Alex and Aaron well at all, you worry, and they're not exactly . . . the quiet type. The brothers pass around snacks and chug energy drinks—very unnecessarily, considering that they seem to have been born on natural sugar highs—but they're nice enough to Yoongi, you suppose. They ask him questions about his rapping career and thank him profusely for the tickets to see MAX in DC.
"I was only able to snag three," he announces, "but I talked to Y/N, and we decided the three of you should go."
"Aww, you don't have to do that," Alex protests, quite boisterously. "You should take both of the girls. Aaron and I can do something else that night."
"Yeah," Aaron agrees, "There's this graffiti show I've heard abo–"
"NO!" Bianca yells, interrupting the boys in a dominant display of disagreement. "I mean . . . Yoongi's been kind enough to offer us the tickets. We should take them. He's already worked with MAX on a song, for crying out loud. Let's . . . let's just go, the three of us." Alex and Aaron relent, and Bianca turns her head to you, mouthing: "I really don't want to be a third wheel with you and Yoongi."
Your eyes whip back to the road ahead, but you let out a loose smirk.
________________________
You arrive in DC and check into your hotel, the guys taking one room and you and Bianca the other. You almost offer to share a room with Yoongi—you're still worried about how the mostly idiotic brothers™ will treat him—but ultimately decide against it, realizing that the amount of awkwardness between you would multiply tenfold as a result. After hearing Bianca's full breakdown on her guy dilemma (should she choose Alex or Aaron? They both seem to be in love with her), you go to see about one of your own.
"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 . . ."
"Y/N."
This time, he doesn't hesitate to touch you, hand reaching out to grab your arm right above the elbow, his grasp firmer than you would expect or like. You look down at your shoes, and at his shoes, and at the stained, cracked pavement between them. In this moment, you can't look into his eyes for all the money in the world.
But then he lets go.
"I'm sorry," he rubs his eyes and staggers a few steps back. "If you don't want to talk about it, that's okay. I shouldn't make you talk about anything. God knows I didn't want to."
Oh, Lord, you heart surges within you, your blood swelling in your veins. If only he hadn't said that last little bit.
Now I'm much too curious about what he's been through to resist asking him about it.
"I'll make you a deal," you say, surprising yourself. "If you tell me about . . . whatever it is you didn't want to talk about, then I'll tell you what I don't really want to talk about, either."
"Isn't friendship supposed to be two people talking about what they do want to talk about?" He questions. You wince at that word, friendship. For some reason, it stings.
But you have enough competency to set aside the burn for a moment—long enough to say: "Yeah, I guess you're right. But . . . Yoongi, I've known you for months now, and if I'm being honest . . . it's probably time we told each other things. Things we don't necessarily want to tell each other—but things we probably should."
He sighs. "Well said." He scratches the back of his neck again, and his black leather jacket does nothing to keep your mind from wondering about the flexing muscles beneath his sleeve. "I guess I did bring this on," he laughs dryly.
"Well, how about I go first, then?" You offer, already fidgeting and pulling at your fingers before the first sentence about your mental state leaves your mouth.
"There's a bench right outside that coffee shop that looks good," Yoongi points down the way a bit. "Coffee shop benches are kind of our thing, too."
"Yeah. I guess they are," you smile.
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"And it's pretty much always been a thing with me," you tell him between sips of your to-go cup of steaming peppermint tea. You're not sure what it is—the flavor of the drink, the feel of it as it warms you from the inside out, or Yoongi's company—but as you divulge your life history to the man beside you, you feel an odd sense of comfort. "I can't even describe what begins to happen inside my head. I guess that, sometimes, it happens the same way you start a fire: the weakest parts burn up first, and then it spreads to the more substantial building blocks. It's just pesky little thoughts at first, but then it grows. Other times, it's like a bomb goes off, and everything explodes all at once. And I never know what to do to prevent any of it. My brain doesn't seem to have firefighters or a bomb squad on staff," you chuckle through barely parted lips.
He returns your gentle laughter with his own, brushing some of his dark, straight hair from his eyes. "You know, you started that by saying that you didn't know how to describe your thoughts. Then you did. Through a metaphor, but still."
"Well, I am an English major," you smirk at him. "Using metaphors is the one thing I can do well."
The deep vibration of his laugh travels through the wood of the bench and up your spine, making the cold night seem much more bearable. "Nonsense," he shakes his head. "You can do plenty of things well."
"Like what?" You can't resist asking.
"Like . . ." he clears his throat, nervousness visible on his pale face. "Like wearing clothes."
"Wearing clothes?"
"I don't know, Y/N, you're putting me on the spot. I just like your clothes. And the way you wear them."
"Interesting," you narrow your eyes, but can't help but smile.
"Don't judge me too harshly for that, please," he practically begs.
"No promises," you throw your hands up. "I'll definitely be telling your grandchildren about this. And the time you called me out in front of our entire guitar class."
"That was veiled savagery. Only you had the context necessary to understand it."
You both laugh some more, fighting the cold night wind with warm drinks and witty remarks.
"Now it's your turn," you prompt him anxiously. You simply can't wait to hear Min Yoongi's elusive, mysterious backstory.
"Alright, alright," he concedes. "I guess it was part of our deal. Well, when I was–"
But Yoongi's thought is left incomplete as a pair of teenage girls across the street point at him and yell:
"OH MY GOD! That's Suga from BTS!"
Suddenly, a commotion commences at the previously tranquil coffee shop, and its neighboring restaurants and shops soon join in.
"Wait . . . you're who from what?" You turn to look at Yoongi, whose eyes have filled with fear.
Then he grabs both of your hands in his, warm fingers entwining with your freezing ones. "Y/N, do you trust me?"
Usually, you like to think things through. Thoroughly, at least, if not a bit too much. Thinking is one of your favorite past times. It can also be one of your greatest points of weakness, the catalyst to the downfall of any current stability. You can hardly remember a time—a test question, a video game procedure, a shopping selection, any decision—when you didn't require minutes, if not hours, of careful consideration before making a choice. But now, on this bench, in this completely unfamiliar part of Washington, DC, with Min Yoongi's hands gently but anxiously gripping yours, you realize that there's a first time for everything.
You do trust him. No questions asked. No pros-and-cons list required. You trust him, and you're drawn to him, and you always have been.
"Yes," you say with as much firmness as you can muster. "I trust you, Yoongi."
"Great," he smiles, his voice breathless and rushed. "Get up and run."
When you stand up off of the bench, you feel weightless, as if an amazing burden has been lifted off your shoulders. You've just told someone your whole story—sparing none of the dark details—and now you're running through the streets of DC, hand-in-hand, with that someone.
You've had dreams about flying.
You figure that, in real life, this is as close as it comes.