5. EVERYTHING SLOWS (COMES TO A STOP)
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Taehyung had come up to him after the concert.
It was very much a surprise, the fact that Taehyung himself was waiting for Yoongi backstage, or even that it was Taehyung, and not just a fever dream that Yoongi had thought up of, a hazy product of once too many glances around his previous concerts, always wishing Taehyung would show up, always looking for his ex-lover in every single face.
Yoongi had stood in front of the draped curtains for a little too long after they had closed, had obscured Taehyung from his vision.
He feels his body go numb, feeling drain out of his joints until the stage manager had to usher him down the stairs; even then, Yoongi's legs were stiff and shaky, his steps mechanical like a person suddenly forgetting how to walk.
His mind is settled over by a state of dazed shock, and his thoughts dart like slippery fishes, red-hot and coming in flashes so quick they stumble over one another, thoughts that go was that really Taehyung, was that just my imagination and others that scream turn back, turn back around and find him, make sure he's real, don't let him leave without saying goodbye-
But Yoongi can't, because when he gets off the stage, his mind slowly unfreezing from catatonic shock, slowly starts to melt and recede back to reality in time for him to feel panic shooting up his veins, his professor had intercepted his path, a beaming smile on his proud face.
"Yoongi! Congratulations, my protégé. I knew you'd make it."
The words are genuine, and Yoongi appreciates them from the bottom of his heart, but he can't seem to focus much on what his professor is saying, can't really seem to process anything. He nods absent-mindedly as his professor starts talking about pursuing a Master's at Juilliard and how it would help him gain even more experience, not even listening at this point.
Instead his gaze flickers quickly, tries to discern amongst the small crowd in the backstage area if Taehyung might be here.
And when he can't seem to find any, a flame of blinding panic seems to seize Yoongi's lungs, seems to urge his anxiety on, and time is running out, he thinks, even now Taehyung could be walking out of this building and disappear into Tokyo and they'll never see each other again –
"Sorry to interrupt," a low voice breaks in.
It's smooth, a bit velvety around the low edges, and it sounds so much like the voice in his memories that all air rushes out of Yoongi's lungs on instant.
Real.
He's real, Yoongi thinks, dazed, as he turns towards the sound.
Taehyung stands before them with a bouquet in hand. His gaze drifts slowly, and then settle on Yoongi, eyelashes blinking a little too slow.
And something inside of Yoongi seems to pour lose all of a sudden, something impossibly soft and tender like feathers pressing down on his lungs, sends him reeling for breath; seems to unfold and unfurl and it's a little like being in the eye of a hurricane.
(Everything slows on impact, comes to a stop.)
"Taehyung-ah," his mouth lets slip, his mind not in control; and it sounds nearly breathless, as if Yoongi's uttering a murmured prayer.
Taehyung's face freezes for a second at the way his name rolls off Yoongi's tongue, so much like how it sounded before, uttered amidst rumpled bedsheets, rainy nights and bright spring days. Something imperceptible seems to flicker in the younger's eyes.
"Oh, this must be your friend!" Yoongi's professor beams, oblivious to the tension swallowing the room in full. He clasps Yoongi's shoulder, squeezes tight, then lets go. "I'll leave you to it, then. Think about my offer, Yoongi, we'd love to have you back."
In a daze, Yoongi scrambles to utter a thank you for coming Professor, and only remembers to bow at the last second. His professor waves him up with a dismissive gesture and ambles down the hallway, footsteps that soon vanish around the corridor.
And then it's quiet for a bit, the other people milling around backstage leaving to clean up the hall, and when Yoongi rises back up to face Taehyung, he finds that the two are now alone.
Yoongi opens his mouth, closes it again. He feels awkward, a bit stupid, doesn't know what to do with his hands. After years of dreaming up this exact scenario, it stuns him still, leaves him dazed and not really knowing what to say, missing lines in a scripted scene.
Across him, Taehyung also looks too aware, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, the air now thickening between them until it becomes unbearable, comes down Yoongi's throat a bit too suffocating.
What do you say to someone who has lived only as a memory for five years now? Where exactly do you even start to bridge the gap, cross the impasse wide as an ocean?
Yoongi chooses to start with the simple, the easy.
He inhales softly, and says, with sincerity, "it's good to see you, Taehyung-ah." His throat clots when he speaks but the words sound comfortable, familiar. "You look good."
Taehyung takes a second to reply, and Yoongi can see his shoulders loosen a little, tension dissipating. His voice comes out quieter this time around. "It's good to see you too, Yoongi-ah."
There is a sad, low tug in Yoongi's heart at the way Taehyung had pronounced his name, comes out a little hesitant like the syllables are fragile, like he doesn't know what to feel.
"Thank you. You- you look good, Taehyung-ah." Yoongi's own voice sounds muffled. He means it, though – the years have been more than kind on Taehyung, shapes him up and fills him out so he's no longer an unsure boy who fidgets too much with his fingers or his too-thin figure that often is the cause of his self-consciousness.
Taehyung, in fact, looks like he's grown quite comfortably into his body, his now newly-dyed brown hair a russet gleam under the hallway's fluorescent light, his leather jacket curving his shoulders in just the right angle, his dainty nose and rosebud lips and the planes of his defined features settling a little more comfortably now.
A small, tiny want blossoms amidst Yoongi's ribcage, but he tells himself not the time, not the time.
"You, too. Tokyo's good for you, it seems," Taehyung remarks, his eyes roaming Yoongi's face as if seeing something Yoongi doesn't. It makes Yoongi feel a bit exposed, heart surging up. "Ah, here," Taehyung shifts the bouquet in his arms, carefully curls it outward to offer Yoongi, "these are for you. Congratulations, Yoongi-ah."
Calla lilies.
Sprigs of calla lilies, pressed and dried, interspersed with the loveliest stems of fig and wildflowers. The spring scent drifts up and around Yoongi as he takes them, careful to avoid brushing Taehyung's fingers as he does so, and in the corner of Yoongi's mind old memories tumble loose, of the time they last saw each other before life took a hold of them both.
"I- you didn't have to." Yoongi looks back up at Taehyung.
The younger averts his gaze to the floor, his right hand reaching up to fiddle with the nape of his neck. An old habit. "It's okay, I wanted to. I know how much...how much this means to you."
Taehyung does, he really does.
If there's anyone that could possibly understand just how much and for how long Yoongi had aspired to play the piano way beyond Seoul's confines, it's Taehyung.
Taehyung had patiently listened to Yoongi's tired rants about frustrating piano pieces and how sometimes the notes seem to blur into squiggly lines and it sucks, it sucks Tae-ah should I just quit, to which Taehyung always draws him close and gently reminds him that dreams are not meant to be easy, Yoongi-ah, you got this, baby.
Taehyung would drop by Yoongi's class with a comfort food of kimchi fried rice and Yoongi's favourite iced coffee and pepper kisses all over Yoongi's face and Yoongi laughs because they tickle, and he kisses Taehyung back just as much.
Taehyung would sit in concerts at the very front row, eyes warm and smile wide, and he'd always wink at Yoongi whenever he comes onstage, telling him to just look at me if you feel nervous, Yoongi-ah, play the piano like you're playing it only for me.
All these tumbles loose, presses against Yoongi's windpipe, and he feels a sad sting in his chest. "Thank you. They're lovely." His words sound a bit weighed down with heavy ache. "And thank you for coming, too. It means just as much to me."
Taehyung nods, his throat bobbing up and down.
Something quiet passes between them, sort of an understanding, like nostalgia has blanketed the two in reminiscence. It blooms like the flowers Yoongi holds, and he feels like he's on the cusp of something, the moment hanging in the air thick, delicate; a violin's string stretched taut. Yoongi thinks he can taste it, almost, heavy on his tongue.
Don't let this end, Yoongi thinks suddenly, not like this.
By now Taehyung looks ready to go, as if he'd finished saying all that he had come for. His feet are slowly shifting to the right, stepping back half an inch, and a sudden need pours from Yoongi's chest, spills over to his lips as he blurts out, "so."
Taehyung stops moving.
Yoongi swallows, shifts the bouquet around so his hands have something to do. He feels a bit like he's on autopilot, his mind racing to find a topic. Any topic.
"Um, have you eaten?"
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ah, thank you so much for reading! i hope you all had a lovely week; and if not, take tomorrow off as a day for yourself. it's okay to spend time alone, recharge, prepare for the next week! make sure to keep your mental state as healthy as your physical too - love y'all!
a little fun fact: the wind chime in the gif above is actually called a 'furin' and means 'wind ball' in Japanese. it's usually hung to protect houses and occupants from evil spirits, but a lot of Japanese people apparently treat it as a little reminder that even in the hottest of summers, there's still a bit of wind in the air, and it cools them down.
in the same way, Taehyung in this chapter sort of represents that - a reprieve for Yoongi, a little break in his daily life, the 'wind' in his air. cliché, but i do like this concept, so. :") again, thank you, and please do leave a vote or comment! x