Chapter Text

Chapter One:

The time was 22:45, in London, waning gibbous high in the night sky. He sat in his dark brown leather arm chair, a cup of Macallan Fine and Rare 1926 in his hand. It was another quiet night, Yoongi was deliberating whether he should go out or stay in like he had been all week.

His hunger got the better of him, the familiar gnawing in his stomach that was only present when he hadn't eaten in days. He had been neglecting himself in these past few weeks. February was always a tough month and it was approaching. It was the last time he saw him.  

Unlike the myths and stories, Min Yoongi did not have an aversion to garlic and silver did not burn him, he wouldn’t die due to sun exposure, he was just sensitive. Yoongi was twenty-three years old when he was turned into a ‘ Hyeol-gwii’, blood demon, or as the westerners call them, vampire , it was 1022 CE, the Goryeo Dynasty. Originally Shin Yoongi , some described his gaze as contemplative, a quiet intensity. Raven dark hair, tied loosely with silk cords. He was a lay scholar studying Buddhist texts and teachings when he encountered a traveller. He can’t even remember his name anymore, all he remembers is that he was elegant, flawless and strangely ageless, seeking refuge during a storm.

Yoongi invited him in. Over a few days the stranger shared his esoteric knowledge with Yoongi, sharing tales about escaping the cycle of birth, death and rebirth. Advising him that removing desire is another form of death, and embracing desire, pain and eternity leads to true awareness. He found the stories interesting. 

It was a warm night when the stranger lured Yoongi into the mountains for his final teaching, only for him to wake under the moon alone, cold, bloody and no longer mortal. 

In the weeks that passed, confused and scared, and still trying to gain some form of normalcy, he returned to the temple. Being denied entry from the temple door by some otherworldly force, he waited until one of the monks he knew saw his sorry state and invited him in. Continuing his studies, realisation started to dawn on him. Buddhists believe in karma and reincarnation, is he now trapped outside the cycle of rebirth? Although in a Buddhist temple, the Confucian pressure to honour ancestors and uphold his duties tortured him, he can no longer die, can no longer be buried properly and no longer continue his bloodline. He was in limbo. 

It had been months since he turned, now quieter than usual, he was still trying to control his restraint, his senses heightened and he was hungry most of the time, he was so hungry. He avoided killing when possible, feeding only on those already dying. He hadn’t learnt how to stop drinking yet, the urge to keep going was too strong. 

Trapping himself in the archives, away from the daylight and avoiding the gaze of the statues around him, Yoongi met Him. Kim Seokjin, a noble’s son, yangban. Seokjin was sent to the temple for ‘meditative discipline’ before he was to be married off. When Yoongi met him, Seokjin was twenty-four years old 

The monks and fellow scholars thought he was charismatic, quick-witted and passionate, Yoongi would describe him as loud and annoying… And beautiful, very beautiful. He had the kind of face that made strangers pause, ethereal in its balance, delicate in its cruelty. His hair looked silky. Long lashes casting shadows over his dark eyes. His lips, almost always smiling, looked so soft. Even his skin had that elusive, porcelain sheen.

Seokjin had an elegance to him, for some reason he insisted on befriending the lonely scholar. He would whisper nonsense to Yoongi when they were meant to be mediating, and relentlessly ask Yoongi to explain scrolls until he finally gave in. After spending many weeks together, their friendship grew in the quiet moments at the monastery. Seokjin insisted that Yoongi call him ‘hyung’ and Yoongi reluctantly agreed to do so. Yoongi would teach his hyung calligraphy techniques and ramble about the monks' teachings and Seokjin would tease him. He had this annoying squeaky laugh that made Yoongi smile so wide. 

Yoongi and Seokjin were two young men living in a temple where restraint, duty, and spiritual discipline define their world. But it reached a point where Yoongi could no longer deny that he started to feel things for Seokjin, but he couldn’t… wouldn’t let himself, resisting desire.  He may no longer be involved in samsara, it wasn’t easy to let go of years of teachings. He had thoughts of moving on, to run away from this feeling. Seokjin, perhaps not as devout, was brimming with quiet affection for Yoongi that everyone seemed to have noticed. 

They were sitting in the courtyard, in front of a shrine, the smell of incense hung in the air. Seokjin whispered into the silence “You’ve been distant lately. I’ve not seen you in a while.” 

Yoongi sighed, he hadn’t had an opportunity to feed in a few days. “I’m tired.”
Seokjin rolled his eyes and mumbled, if it wasn’t for Yoongi’s keen senses he wouldn't have heard “You’re always tired when I’m near.” 

Yoongi doesn't respond. He hears Seokjin shuffle closer, his voice gentle. “You do not have to say anything. I just want you to know… what I carry.” Seokjin brushes his fingers over the moss on the shrine. “I’ve tried to let it pass, like a breeze or some other teaching your Enlightened said. I have been telling myself it was just deep admiration. A strong friendship… but it's not, Yoongi.”

Yoongi closed his eyes. “Hyung-” he started before Seokjin interrupted him. “When I sit beside you during morning mantra, I forget the words. I forget the world. You are quieter than the wind and sharper than the cold and yet, I still hear you more than the bells.” Seokjin finally faces Yoongi, solemn, his handsome smile nowhere. 

“I do not expect you to return it. I know what you are, what you choose to be and I respect your discipline. But you deserve to know what you mean to me.” Seokjin paused, sighed deeply, “You don’t have to feel the same, I just wanted to say it, so it doesn't die with me.” 

Seokjin was always one to express how he felt, from how bland the food was, to how interesting he found some teachings. He wasn’t asking for intimacy, he confessed in a private, sacred moment, clearly not out of impulse but out of fear that he would lose his chance if Yoongi was to leave. It was clear to Yoongi that Seokjin treated his feelings with the same weight the monks give to their devotion. 

When a thousand year old Yoongi thinks too long about it, he regrets not jumping straight into his hyung’s arms and confessing his feelings too. But twenty-six year old, fledgling Yoongi had a wounded restraint. In that moment he was tired, physically, emotionally, spiritually, Seokjin hyung’s confession cut through him like a blade. 

There was a silence that hung thick between them. The courtyard had never been so quiet. Yoongi looked at Seokjin, truly looked at him, for the first time in weeks. “You shouldn’t say things like that.” He was brittle. 

“Why?”

Yoongi stood up, a bitter smile across his face, almost cruel. “Becuase I want to believe them.” He stepped back, pacing slowly. He was trembling, not from fear but hunger and restraint. “I’ve spent years trying to follow the Dharma. Every attachment, every flicker of feelings. ” Yoongi gestures to his chest. “You think you’re confessing something beautiful, but to me it's a test.”

His voice was raw, finding it hard to control his emotions. “Do you know what they say? That desire is the root of suffering. That attachment blinds us to the wheel of rebirth. That even love…” He looks at Seokjin, “is a chain.” He pauses, his breathing shallow to calm himself down. “I’ve tried to live without wanting, I’ve tried to be empty.” 

Yoongi closes his eyes, “Everytime you look at me like that, I feel the weight of all I’ve denied myself.” Seokjin looks at him, no anger or disgust present on his face, just grief, longing and love. 

“If I let myself want you, even for a moment, Hyung. I don’t think I’d ever stop.” His emotions were becoming uncontrollable. He needed to feed. His restraint has been fraying for days, and Jin’s confession was both a balm and a blow. Yoongi left Seokjin alone that night. He felt torn. 

He wanted. He wanted so much. He wanted to be in his space, share his thoughts with him, hold him, kiss him… be surrounded by him. 

He left the temple grounds, heading towards the stream. He fed on a deer that night. 

Yoongi had avoided Seokjin, until he couldn’t. They were to tend the temple gardens. It was early morning, mist lingered between the stone pillars. His hands tucked into his sleeves, he was calmer now. Ahead, Seokjin was kneeling near the pond, feeding the fish, a scroll in his pocket. He hadn’t noticed Yoongi yet. The morning sun was in Seokjin’s hair. He stopped, for a time, just to look at him. 

“You’re awake early.” Yoongi spoke into the silence. 

Seokjin looked up at him. There was a pause. “I couldn’t sleep.” He smiled, soft and small. 

“Too much on your mind?”

Seokjin shrugged, looked down at the pond. “Maybe. I’m really into mediating right now.”

The moment stretches, Yoongi walked over to the other side of the pond, water now between them. The ripple of the water, the birdsong and the soft sound of windchimes. 

Yoongi cleared his throat. “That scroll, in your pocket. I’ve- I’ve read it before.” 

Seokjin looked up at Yoongi, smirking, “I like the ending”

“There is no ending. It’s a commentary on a meditation cycle.” 

“Exactly.”

A flicker of something shared, a smile. “You should focus on your studies.” 

Seokjin rolled his eyes.”I’m trying, but my mind keeps on wandering.” Seokjin doesn’t look up. 

---

Seokjin’s words echoed in his mind, during mediation, while feeding, while completing his daily studies and research, and while trying to hone his new enhanced abilities. His imagination ran wild, fantasising about his beloved hyung.

He imagined himself in his quarters, his room is bathed in lantern light, the mat beneath him is warm and Seokjin is there. He’s beside him, close. One hand pressed to Yoongi’s chest. He leans forward, just enough to feel Seokjin’s breath on his lips. He expects Seokjin to pull back, but he doesn't. He hears a whiny “Yoongi.” 

Their mouths meet like a prayer, soft, slow and reverent. Jin deepens the kiss, his mouth moved against Yoongi’s with hungry precision, lips parting, demanding more. Yoongi let him in, wet and hot. Their tongues moved with an unpracticed rhythm that made Yoongi half hard. Seokjin’s hands found Yoongi’s face, his jaw, and his neck. Seokjin guided him to the floor, his mouth trailing and kissing his throat now. Yoongi sighs, low and broken. 

Seokjin pulls aside his robes and runs his fingers against Yoongi's bare chest, teasing. His touch was powerful. Yoongi pulls him closer, untying the knots on Seokjin robes. Pressing their bodies together. He buries his face in Seokjin’s neck, not to bite but to breathe him in, feel him. He ran his hands down to Seokjin’s waist, he could feel him growing harder, he let out a breathy “Hyung.” as Seokjin attacks his neck. His hands on Seokjin’s waist, guiding him to grind down on him. the friction causing Seokjin to hiss. hands trailing down to cup Yoongi - 

He was snapped out of his fantasy by the crashing sound of the gong. He blinked and let out a defeated sigh.

 “Fuck.” 

After more days of meditating on his situation with his hyung, he invited Seokjin to meet him in the archive library. He made sure he had fed, restraint under control. He could feel Seokjin before he could see him. His steps were hesitant. Seokjin whispered, “Yoongichi, you’re avoiding me again.” Yoongi squinted at the unusual nickname.

Silence followed, clearly not what Seokjin expected as he cleared his throat to fill the void. “You asked to speak to me? Speak plainly.”

Yoongi nodded, he didn't look at Seokjin. Cleared his throat, “I think of you. Constantly. Even when I’m supposed to be studying. Even when I pray.” He swallows, “I try to be at peace, but it's always you that disturbs my peace.”

Seokjin’s expression softens. He opened his mouth to speak, Yoongi held up his hands to silence him. “I wanted to bury it. Every warmth, every hunger I’ve had for you. You unsettle me, Seokjin hyung.” 

Seokjin hummed in response, letting Yoongi talk. “When you look at me, I feel seen.” 

Yoongi started pacing, he felt panic at admitting this all out loud. “I was preparing to take vows to abandon attachment. To release all clinging. Desire is the root of suffering after all.” His voice started to raise in his nervousness. “But I see you, and I feel,” He took a breath and his voice faltered. “Something that doesn’t feel like suffering.” 

Silence again, Yoongi started to hate this. There was a mist between them, his breath hitched faintly. His shoulders drawn tight, bracing for whatever Seokjin would throw at him. He expected him to be upset that it took Yoongi weeks to recognise his feelings.

Seokjin said nothing. Instead, he took a quiet step forward. Then another. Yoongi didn’t look up, not until his hyung was standing directly before him, close enough that their robes brushed together. There was a moment. Yoongi’s eyes shifted, before he could speak again Seokjin leaned in. His hand cupped Yoongi’s cheek, warm and grounded

And then he kissed him. Softly. Deliberately. It wasn’t rushed, nor hungry like in Yoongi’s fantasies. Yoongi couldn’t move at first, afraid that the moment would break. After a beat he let himself lean in, lips pressing back with trembling restraint.

When they parted, Seokjin stayed close, his forehead nearly touching Yoongi’s. Yoongi, now satisfied this is real, pulled Seokjin towards him, this time deeper, more certain. Seokjin’s hand tightened slightly on Yoongi’s cheek, tilting his head to deepen the kiss, coaxing Yoongi to surrender the last of his hesitation. The softness gave way to a quiet urgency, a slow exploration that spoke of unspoken feelings finally freed.

Yoongi’s breath hitched, his hands trembling as they moved to Seokjin’s waist, feeling the steady thrum beneath the fabric. His own lips parted willingly, searching, matching the warmth and depth, as the world around them seemed to fall away until only the two of them remained, bound in this quiet, fierce intimacy.

---

Yoongi found it hard to feed during January, the cold weather meant that most people would be in their homes sitting in front of their fireplaces, rugged up with their loved ones. It was a friday though, if he waited long enough there would be a few drunk nightclubbers stumbling on the streets. 

He leaned up against the building, cigarette in hand, scrolling on his phone every now and then. Scanning the streets, eyes flickering through the icy haze that drifted in the streetlights. The city was a quiet, frosty cage, but his patience was sharp.

Minutes crawled by until he spotted her, a lone figure swaying slightly, phone to her ear, laughter spilling from her lips like a song too slurred to carry meaning. She was wrapped in a thin coat, a rosy flush burning through the cold, warmth leaking from her in tempting waves. Her long dark hair blowing in the wind, even drunk she looked elegant and full of life. 

Yoongi stepped forward, his movements fluid, silent. The scent of alcohol and warmth curled around him, a siren call that quickened his slow pulse. He caught her gaze, eyes glassy but curious, and with a voice smooth and low, he offered, “You look like you could use a hand.”

She smiled, reckless and trusting, and before she could protest, his hand was at her wrist, gentle, almost tender. They had idle chit chat before he led her towards an alley away from the main street, he wasn't cruel, he was just hungry. The cold bit into his skin, but his touch was warm, electric. Leaning in, his lips hovered over her neck, feeling the steady, frantic beat beneath the skin. “Sorry about this, Lady.”

When his teeth pierced just enough to draw the crimson tide, it was like tasting fire and silk. The world fell away, the biting cold, the distant city noise, left only the rhythm of her pulse and the intoxicating rush of life spilling into him. His grip tightened, careful not to hurt, savoring the sweetness that fueled centuries of endless nights.

She gasped softly, eyes fluttering shut, and Yoongi pulled her away, grounding himself even as the hunger eased. The moment was both fragile and fierce. Her head lobbed to the side, intoxicated and now with minor blood loss, he snapped his finger in her face, awkwardly trying to make conversation after the euphoric feeling faded, he was a vampire not a monster. “Hey, lady, did you have fun tonight?” She didn’t respond, checking she was still alive and breathing he sighed, he should have fed on someone more sober. “Let's get you home, okay?” 

After packing her in a taxi, managing to get her address from her license, he started his walk back to his apartment. The streets were quieter now. The kind of stillness that February carried like a shroud. Yoongi walked with his hands in his pockets, shoulders hunched against the cold, the taste of blood still faint on his tongue. It had been enough to take the edge off. Not enough to fill the emptiness.

He lit another cigarette, the flare of the lighter briefly lighting his face. He inhaled deep, letting the smoke burn through the lingering haze. For a while, he said nothing. Just walked. Let the silence stretch between his footsteps and the distant hum of traffic.

Then, a sarcastic voice piped up, “Idiot man, why did you pick a young intoxicated girl, are you a creep?”

Yoongi sighed deeply and puffed his cigarette again. “I didn’t enjoy it, you know. She’s not even my type.” A faint huff of amusement left him. 

“She laughed too much,” Soft, slightly jealous, right behind his ear. “She seemed too kind.” Yoongi rolled his eyes at the comment. 

“Lonely. That makes it easier.” Yoongi protested. 

He turned a corner, gaze drifting upward to the black outline of bare trees against the washed-out sky. Yoongi paused under the flickering light of a broken streetlamp, watching the way his breath fogged in the air. 

“You liked that about her.” The voice, unmistakably Seokjin, calm and lilting. 

Yoongi swallowed. “What do you want me to say?” A gust of wind caught the edge of his coat. He didn’t turn around. 

“That she reminded you of me,” Seokjin said, it was not a question. Quieter, cutting, “She didn’t.” 

Yoongi stopped talking, his cigarette burning low between his fingers, exasperated. “No,” he said after a moment. “She didn’t. So shut up.” Yoongi looked up towards the distant outline of his building. The silence that followed wasn’t empty, it was bristled. The air thick around him, like before a storm. 

With the shake of his head, Yoongi annoyed with the conversation, “Forget it. What do you even know?” walking the rest of the way home in silence.

He stood in the doorway of his high ceiling apartment. The musky smell of cedar incense hung in the air. Yoongi threw his keys in the emerald green bowl that sat atop the bench. 

He kicked off his shoes and hung up his coat. With a heavy sigh, rubbing his hands over his face. God he hated February. It was not 0135. He supposed he better attempt to sleep before going to work in the morning. 

Walking over to the lounge room and putting his cigarette packet on the coffee table, he looked over to his arm chair. The room grew colder, despite the fireplace roaring with life. Lowering himself on his three seater couch, dark brown, the fabric soft under his hand. Yoongi glanced at his arm chair. “You’re quieter than usual tonight,” he said, voice even. “What’s wrong, run out of things to nag me about?”

From the chair came a reply, dry and immediate. “If I nagged you any more, you’d start pretending you couldn’t hear me.”

Yoongi, telling where this was going, grabbed his smoke packer and lit a cigarette, the ember flaring briefly. “You think I don’t already?”

“You’d miss me if I stopped.”

Yoongi blew smoke toward the ceiling. “Doubtful.”

Yoongi’s eyes flicked toward the armchair again, watching the way the shadows clung to it. “I’m not in the mood for a lecture.”

A tsk sounded through the air, “You’ve never been in the mood for a lecture.” 

“I’ve also never asked for one.” Yoongi Huffed. The fire popped, embers shifting. The room felt smaller somehow, the air denser. Yoongi stared at the armchair for a long moment. Seokjin didn’t answer right away, “You’re the one who started talking to me.”

Yoongi rolled his eyes. Seokjin continued, “You were looking at her like you used to look at me.”

“That’s not true.” Yoongi was already done with this conversation.

“It is,” Seokjin said, without hesitation. “Except with me, you didn’t have to trick yourself into thinking it was just hunger.”

Yoongi rolled his eyes, flicking ash into the tray. “You’re being dramatic.”

“I’m being honest. She reminded you of me. Only… softer. Easier to take without thinking about what you’ve already lost.”

Yoongi finally looked toward the chair, his eyes catching in the flicker of shadow. “You’re imagining things.”

“I’m not the one imagining,” Seokjin replied, leaning forward just enough for the light to catch where his face might have been. “I’m the part of you that remembers exactly what you are.”

The fire cracked hard, scattering sparks up the chimney. Yoongi looked away first.

---

The pale light of morning seeped through the thin curtains, washing the lounge in muted grey. The fire had long since burned down to cold ash, but the smell of smoke still clung to the air. Yoongi sat hunched at the kitchen table, nursing a half-empty mug of coffee that had gone lukewarm.

The armchair across the room was empty. It had been empty for hours.

He didn’t look at it.

Instead, he stood, setting the mug in the sink with a dull clunk, and crossed the apartment toward his bedroom. The floorboards complained under his steps, the sound almost too loud in the quiet morning. He dressed in deliberate layers, pressed white shirt, corduroy brown trousers. In the mirror, his reflection looked pale under the yellowed bulb, the skin under his eyes bruised with tiredness. He adjusted his collar, ignoring the faint echo of last night’s words in the back of his head.

Downtown he made the journey, the shop waited, Min’s History & Antiquities , its brass-lettered sign dulled by the damp London air. The front windows were a patchwork of display cases: porcelain tea sets, carved jade pendants, weathered manuscripts, the faint smell of old paper and polished wood greeting him as he stepped inside.

The little bell above the door jingled at his arrival, though no customers would come for another hour. He liked it best like this, quiet, still, the weight of centuries he’d lived hanging in the air from the items around him.

He moved behind the counter, unlocking the glass cabinet to check yesterday’s acquisitions: a Goryeo celadon vase, a pair of Qing dynasty hairpins, and a lacquered wooden box with an unfamiliar crest. His fingers lingered on the box, tracing the worn edges.

“Bringing home more ghosts,” Seokjin’s voice murmured from somewhere just behind his shoulder.

Yoongi didn’t turn around. He slid the wooden box carefully onto the counter, its lacquered surface cool beneath his fingertips. 

 “Is it valuable?” Seokjin asked, low and casual

Yoongi’s fingers paused mid-motion, tightening around the edge of the box. “It’s just an antique.”

“Just an antique,” Seokjin echoed, amusement curling in the tone. “Like you?”

Yoongi’s jaw clenched. “Don’t start.”

“Maybe someone will finally bite for that price you set.” Seokjin walked off out of Yoongi’s view.

His fingers tightened briefly around the edge of the box. “I’m not in the business of giving things away.”

Seokjin chuckled softly. “No, you prefer to hold on to things a little too tightly.”

Yoongi shot him a sharp look but said nothing.

He moved to the shelves lining the shop walls, running a cloth over the polished wood. Porcelain figurines watched silently from their places; faded scrolls hung carefully in glass frames. The shop was a collection of histories, and maybe that was why he kept coming back to it.

“Did you get any leads about that Qing piece?” Seokjin asked, leaning in just enough to sound like a genuine question.

Yoongi nodded, grabbing a small notebook from the counter. “Yes. A collector from the east end called last night. Wants to see it by the week’s end.”

“See? Not everything’s lost. Maybe some things are still worth holding onto.”

Yoongi allowed a brief smile, the edge in Seokjin’s voice almost comforting.

A soft knock at the door broke the moment. Yoongi smoothed his shirt and moved toward the entrance, already shifting back into the practiced calm of shop owner. He knew most of his customers well, affluent collectors with discerning tastes, ahjummas from the neighborhood curious about the new pieces, and the odd tourist drawn in by the promise of history and mystery hidden in the glass cases.

His specialty was Asian antiques, and he took pride in the knowledge he carried, the stories behind each artifact, the eras and cultures they came from. He’d lived enough of those histories himself to speak on them with quiet authority.

The bell above the door jingled softly as it opened, and Yoongi glanced up to meet the eyes of a middle-aged woman, her gaze already scanning the display of delicate porcelain and carved jade.

“Good morning,” Yoongi said smoothly, stepping behind the counter. “Looking for anything special today?” 

---

The afternoon light had faded to a cool gray through the shop’s dusty windows. The bell above the door jingled intermittently as a few more customers wandered in and out, their murmurs mixing with the soft tick of the old clock on the wall.

Yoongi was wiping down a glass case when his phone buzzed quietly on the counter. He glanced at the screen,  a message from Hoseok.

‘You working late again? We’re grabbing dinner. Don’t make me drag you out.’

Yoongi smiled faintly, fingers hovering over the keyboard before he typed back.

‘Maybe..’

Another buzz. 

‘Don’t forget you promised to look over that manuscript for Namjoon. I need your eyes on the translation before the weekend.’

Seokjin’s voice came softly from the quiet corner of the room, teasing. 

“The elusive Shin… ah, Min Yoongi actually going to impromptu dinner plans? I’m in shock.” Seokjin was leaning on the counter, hand covering his mouth. 

The restaurant was a small, cozy spot tucked away on a quiet side street in London’s Soho district,  a place where the hum of conversation blended with clinking cutlery and the soft jazz music filtering from unseen speakers. Warm golden light spilled from hanging lamps, casting a mellow glow over the rustic wooden tables and exposed brick walls.

Yoongi slid into the booth opposite Hoseok and Namjoon, the faint scent of grilled spices and fresh herbs mixing with the subtle musk of aged wood and worn leather seats. Hoseok was already mid-laugh, his hands animated as he recounted a story, while Namjoon listened, a wry smile playing on his lips.

Yoongi loosened his collar, the tension from the day threading down his shoulders as he folded his hands on the table. He could sense Hoseok's energy, bright and infectious, his eyes sparkling as he gestured toward Yoongi, “You seriously need to come out more. You’re turning into a ghost.”

“No one likes a ghost, Yoongi.” Namjoon interjectured, sloshing his drink. 

“As if Namjoon could talk, isn’t he constantly writing stories about his lovers ghosting him?” A voice beside him chimed in. He ignored it. 

Namjoon, swirling the wine in his glass. “How’s that ‘friend’ of yours doing?” His eyes twinkled with a knowing look.

Yoongi’s gaze flickered to the side, just for a moment, before settling back on Namjoon. He sighed, shrugging “Same as always. Talking too much. Making fun of me, getting in my head. Whatever.” 

Hoseok, not paying close attention to the conversation, raised his glass with a teasing grin. “To making fun of friends!”

They all laughed lightly, the ease between them a stark contrast to the heavier shadows Yoongi felt lingering beside him. The waiter arrived, setting down plates of fragrant stir-fried vegetables, tender slices of beef, and steaming bowls of jasmine rice. The savory aromas filled the space, momentarily pulling Yoongi back from the edge of his thoughts.

Namjoon leaned in towards the table, voice lowering slightly. “You’ve been quiet lately, though. What’s really going on?”

Yoongi paused, picking at his rice, choosing his words carefully. “Just tired. Running the shop is more complicated than it looks.”

Hoseok exchanged a glance with Namjoon. “More than just work, huh?”

The unspoken question hanging between them. Yoongi’s shoulders tightened imperceptibly. “I’m managing ,” he said finally, voice low. “That’s all anyone can do.” Tightening his jaw, he took a deep breath and forced a smile. “I’m fine, really.” 

Hoseok reached across the table, giving Yoongi’s hand a brief, reassuring squeeze. “You can talk to us, you know that. We have been your friends for like six years, Yoongi. That's a long time!” 

He heard a loud, squeaky obnoxious laugh beside him. “A long time! Yoongi, he said that six years was a long time!” He was laughing so hard tears were welling in his eyes. 

Yoongi looked up, meeting his friend's eyes, and for the first time that evening, the walls seemed to crack just a little, “Thanks guys,” he said quietly.

The chatter at the table had shifted as Hoseok and Namjoon fell into their own conversation, voices low but animated. Yoongi watched them, the faint hum of their words a steady undercurrent beneath the clink of cutlery.

“You remember that trip to the Lake District?” Hoseok asked, eyes bright. “We were so sure we’d find that old monk’s relic in the caves.”

Namjoon smiled, a flash of something unreadable passing through his gaze. “You dragged me halfway across England chasing legends. You aren’t Indiana Jones, hyung.”

Yoongi’s thoughts lingered on Namjoon, something about the way he moved, quiet but deliberate, like a shadow slipping between moments. It wasn’t just his calm intelligence; there was an edge beneath, an otherness that Yoongi could forever sense.

They’d been friends for six years now, a steady presence amid the chaos of Yoongi’s life. Hoseok was the bright flame, always warm, always urgent, a spark that pulled Yoongi from his darker corners. Namjoon, by contrast, was more reserved, his words measured, his smile sometimes too knowing.

“Still,” Hoseok went on, “I know you thought we would find it!” He threw his arms into the air. “Indiana Jones was an archeologist, I’m not too far off!”

Namjoon’s voice, almost a murmur. “You’re a travel journalist, Hoseokie Hyung.”

Yoongi shifted in his seat, the weight of their past stretching between them. The memories weren’t always easy, shared struggles, whispered secrets in late-night talks, moments where they’d saved each other in ways no one else could see. He caught Hoseok’s eye and offered a faint smile. Despite everything, this , the laughter, the small moments was what kept him grounded.

Hoseok leaned back in his chair, a playful glint in his eyes as he glanced over at Yoongi. “So, what about you? Anyone catching your eye these days? Or is your life just a never-ending loop of antiques and dusty scripture?”

Yoongi smirked, fingers tapping lightly on the table. “You make it sound like that’s all I do. I do have other hobbies, you know!” Throughout his long life Yoongi had found small passions, he had an extensive diary collection where he waxed poetry, he had gotten into playing basketball recreationally, and the occasional video game. 

Namjoon nodded thoughtfully. “And don’t forget your encyclopedic knowledge of history and Buddhism. You always surprise people with how much you know.”

“Yeah,” Hoseok added, grinning. “And the way you get all fired up explaining the symbolism in a single painting? Honestly, I don’t get your interest but I support you, Yoongi hyung!”

Yoongi chuckled softly, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Well, someone has to keep the conversation from getting boring.”

Yoongi’s gaze flickered to Namjoon, who gave a knowing smile and looked at the space beside Yoongi. He exhaled slowly, running a hand through his hair. “I’m not great at relationships. It’s complicated. You know after him .”

Seokjin’s voice, sharp and sardonic. “Complicated? You’re saying we’re complicated? How would your lovely Hoseok know? You never talk about me, Yoongichi.”

Yoongi shook off the accusations, mumbling under his breath. “Don’t call me that.”

Hoseok clapped him on the shoulder. “What did you say, Hyung?”

Namjoon interrupted, “Well, whenever you’re ready, we’re here. No pressure.”

The warmth of the moment settled around them, a rare comfort amid the weight Yoongi carried beneath the surface.

The warmth of the moment dissipated, a chill ran through Yoongi’s bones. The quiet weight he carried. Dating, just the thought of it stirred something deeper, the lingering broken promises and vows he had made. He smiled at his friends, guilt simmered, a restless ache beneath his skin that no amount of laughter or distraction could drown out.

Yoongi tried to shake off the thoughts, pushing his plate aside. “Enough about me. How about you two? Any love lives worth bragging about?”

After a stretch of quiet, mostly meaningless conversation about the trivialities of their daily lives, they ate their fill, plates emptying beneath them. Yet no matter how satisfying and flavorful the meal was, it couldn’t quell the restless hunger that simmered deep inside Yoongi, a craving far beyond mere food. 

The evening wound down, the laughter fading into comfortable silence as they pushed back their chairs. Hoseok, shouting something about getting an uber home and blowing kisses to both men as he entered the car. Namjoon offered Yoongi a cigarette “Let me walk you home, hyung,” he said softly.

Yoongi hesitated but nodded, taking the cigarette, grateful for the company in the cool night air.

As they stepped out into the damp London streets, their footsteps echoed quietly against the cobblestones. The city’s muted glow stretched around them, a world alive and yet distant, just like the part of Yoongi he kept hidden beneath polite smiles and quiet conversations.

Namjoon glanced over, his presence steady and calm beside him. Without words, it was a reminder that even in the restless hunger, he wasn’t entirely alone. The night air was cool but not biting as they walked side by side, the soft click of their footsteps against the damp cobblestones mingling with distant city sounds. London’s glow shimmered through the mist, casting long shadows that stretched and twisted like memories.

Namjoon glanced at Yoongi, his expression thoughtful but gentle. “Hyung, how are you feeling?”

Yoongi’s jaw tightened, the flicker of a shadow crossing his eyes. “You mean, am I hungry?”

Namjoon nodded slowly. “Yes. But more than that, the loneliness it brings, the part of you that walks between worlds.”

Yoongi’s breath caught, his gaze dropping to the pavement. “Why are you being so cryptic, you can talk like the modern man you know?”

“You’re changing the subject because this makes you uncomfortable.” Namjoon’s voice was calm, steady. “Uou don’t have to carry it alone, you know?” Namjoon let the silence settle before looking over Yoongi’s shoulder “It’s February, how long has it been now?”

A silence stretched between them, filled only by the distant hum of the city and their steady steps.

“You’re more than a vampire, hyung,” Namjoon said finally. “But you have to let yourself be more. Not just the hunger, but the man beneath it.”

Yoongi looked up, meeting Namjoon’s eyes. For the first time that evening, something fragile and unspoken passed between them a silent understanding that some burdens were easier to bear when shared.

Yoongi inhaled slowly, the smoke filling his lungs but doing little to steady the unrest inside. “Sometimes,” he admitted quietly, “it feels like he is the only thing that keeps me grounded. Without him… I’m not sure how I’d be.”

Seokjin’s voice flickered through the edges “you’re pathetic, Yoongi.”

Namjoon’s gaze didn’t waver. “You’re more than your restraint and your spirits , Hyung. That’s why you have friends who see you, not just the parts you show, but the parts you try to hide. You don’t have to carry this alone.”

The words hung in the air, fragile but potent. Yoongi felt the tight coil inside him loosen just a fraction, as if the simple act of sharing this weight made it less suffocating. They walked on, the quiet companionship between them a small but vital light in the vastness of the night. They walked on, the quiet companionship between them a small but vital light in the vastness of the night and somewhere just out of reach, Seokjin’s voice, never truly silent. 

---

The sky is dreary grey and overcast. There was a fierce chill in the air that made even Yoongi’s bones freeze over. Today was going to be miserable. It was the last time he had ever held Seokjin. He lay in his bed far longer than he should have. He had a ritual for February 15th.

He sat cross-legged on his loungeroom floor, The air smelled faintly of incense, the same sandalwood he had burned on that winter day centuries ago, when they laid Seokjin to rest with as little noise as possible.

He set the offerings on the low table one by one. A bowl of rice, a single pear, a cup of soju. The wooden tablet with Seokjin’s name he had on the first night. Next to it the small ornate box of Seokjin’s ashes. The old ways lingered in his methods, arranging the food neatly, lighting the three incense sticks, bowing three times. When he was younger, he’d placed paper charms and called for Jijang Bosal to guide Seokjin’s spirit safely beyond the reach of those who had shamed him. Now, he whispered the same prayer in a language the modern city around him had long forgotten.

The flicker of the incense smoke curled upward, pale and restless. Yoongi poured a second cup of soju and set it in front of the empty chair across from him. “For you, hyung,” he murmured. His voice caught, the title trembling. He poured himself a shot of Soju. 

He saw him take the seat across from him, exactly like he remembered. Brown hair falling just so, dark eyes warm, skin as perfect as porcelain. Yoongi’s voice quivered, “Hyung… I’ve no language left to say it.” 

Seokjin didn’t reply. A half-smile playing on his lips, his fingers brushing the rim of the untouched soju glass. He wanted to reach out, hold him, it was rare that Seokjin was silent. Ache blooming in his chest, almost unbearable. “I love you, I told you I do. It’s all I’ve ever felt, Yoongi.”

“I’ve kept you here too long,” Yoongi whispered, though he wasn’t sure if it was an apology or a confession. He lifted the cup meant for Seokjin and drank it himself. The burn on his tongue was sharp, but it was nothing compared to the ache in his ribs. He poured himself another shot.

The streets reeked of dust and blood, it irritated his nose. Yoongi moved through them like a shadow, slipping between market stalls and shuttered homes. It was still early, the sun barely broke over the rooftops, but the voices ahead were already rising, loud, eager, cruel.

They were gathering. A low drumbeat sounded in the square. It was steady, deliberate. It matched the pounding in his chest. He turned the corner, and there, tied to the post in the middle of the square was Seokjin. His Seokjin. 

His robes were torn at the shoulder, stained with dirt and blood. His face… God, his beautiful face, swollen, one eye nearly closed, lips split. Rope cutting into his wrists where they were bound high above his head. His knees buckled under the weight of his own body, but still he stood, chin raised, refusing to bow to the jeers.

The magistrate’s voice rang over the crowd. “Kim Seokjin, charged with moral corruption and violation of the public code. For sullying the virtue of this city, you are sentenced…”

Yoongi barely heard the rest. All he saw was Seokjin’s chest rising and falling in uneven bursts, his eyes unusually showing no emotion. The first blow landed. A thick rod against his back, the sound of wood on flesh echoed. Seokjin jerked, but no sound left his mouth. Yoongi couldn’t look away. The second blow made him cough blood onto the ground. By the fifth, his legs gave way and the rope was the only thing keeping him upright.

Yoongi’s nails dug into his palms until they broke skin. He could tear through every man here in seconds but the image of Seokjin, eyes filled with terror at him being revealed, froze him in place.

Another blow. Another .

Then the crowd began to thin, bored now that the spectacle was ending. The guards cut the rope. Seokjin crumpled to the ground like wet paper, unmoving for a moment before a shallow breath shuddered through him.

Yoongi was at his side before the last guard had turned away. “Hyung.” His hands were trembling as they cupped his face, cold and tender. “Why didn’t you tell me? I could have-”

Seokjin’s good eye fluttered open. His voice was a rasp, barely a thread of sound. “Yoongi” and he smiled, he actually smiled. How could he be smiling at a time like this?   “If they saw you. If they knew…” He coughed, blood spilling at the corner of his mouth. “They’d kill you too.”

Yoongi’s throat closed. “I don’t care what they would have done to me. We would have been together!”

“You should.” His breath hitched. “One of us has to live.” He took a raspy breath, Yoongi could hear a horrifying rattle coming from his lungs “You’ll live a long time, Yoongi.”

“How long then, Hyung?” His eyes welled with tears.

“An eternity without me.” The light in his gaze faltered. “It’s cold. Why is it so cold?” Yoongi was shaking. “Yoongi, I’m so cold.” He looked at Yoongi as if he could make it better. Yoongi held him tighter. His head grew heavy in his hands, breath slowing until it stopped altogether. The drumbeat had ended long ago, but in Yoongi’s ears, it still pounded a slow, merciless rhythm.

Yoongi wiped violently at his face, his sleeve coming away damp. A low, ugly sound tore from his throat. The bottle of soju on the low table now empty, the glass knocked over on its side. Looking outside, the rain blurred the streets. 

‘Yoongi, get up.” Seokjin called from his seat at the table. “You’re hungry.”

“I’m not hungry!” Yoongi’s voice cracked, more plea than protest. “I’m broken. I want you, and there’s no way to fix that.” His shoulders shook. “You know how much I need you. I am alone here, hyung. I just wait… and I burn for you.” He let out a shuddering breath. 

Seokjin’s gaze softened, and for a heartbeat Yoongi could almost believe he was actually in the room. “You were never alone,” he said quietly. “Not then… not now. I’m here, even if you hate the way I stay. Even when I’m cruel.”

Yoongi’s eyes squeezed shut, a sob catching in his chest. “Then why can’t I touch you?”

Seokjin’s lips curved faintly, almost apologetic.

A sharp knock at the door shattered the fragile stillness, making the incense smoke shiver. Yoongi stiffened, blinking toward the sound. His chest still ached from the phantom warmth of Seokjin’s presence. “Who…?”

“Yoongi hyung…” Hoseok said gently, voice carrying that mix of teasing familiarity and concern only a close friend could have. “Are you there?”

Yoongi’s jaw tightened. He didn’t move immediately, afraid the faint shimmer of Seokjin might disappear if he turned. Seokjin, still seated across the table, gave a small, knowing smile, almost teasing, as if amused by the mortal interruption.

With a heavy breath, Yoongi forced himself up. “I’m here,” he called, voice hoarse. “Just… give me a moment.”

Hoseok pushed the door open, concern etched into his features, carrying the warmth and noise of the outside world into Yoongi’s cold, shadowed apartment. The contrast made the absence of Seokjin almost unbearable. Hoseok stepped fully inside, shaking off his wet coat. His eyes softened immediately when they fell on Yoongi, who still hunched over the low table, trembling slightly.

“I know what today is,” Hoseok continued quietly, careful not to startle him. “I know you’ve been thinking about him.”

Yoongi’s head snapped up, voice cracking as he struggled to hold himself together. “You, you remember?”

“Of course I do, I’m your friend,” Hoseok replied, taking a careful step closer, but still keeping a small, respectful distance, he was looking at the memorial shrine. “Seokjin, he was your hyung, your partner, and I know how much he meant to you.”

Yoongi’s fingers tightened around the rim of the cup on the table, his chest aching. Across from him, Seokjin still seated and looking towards the window.

Yoongi whispered, voice barely audible. “I can’t stop missing him.”

Hoseok knelt beside him, placing a hand gently over Yoongi’s. “You don’t have to,” he said softly. “Remembering him, honouring him… that’s enough. I’m here with you today, hyung.”

The incense smoke curled upward between the living and the dead, and for a fleeting moment, the apartment felt full of grief. Hoseok stayed kneeling a moment longer, letting the quiet settle before speaking again. He cleared his throat. Awkward, “There’s… something I wanted to ask, maybe it will take your mind off it for a little while,” he said carefully, voice low.

Yoongi’s gaze lifted, wary but curious. “Go on,” he murmured, fingers still gripping the cup.

“I’m helping a colleague with some research,” Hoseok began, keeping his tone gentle. “He’s focused on later Joseon history,  not the usual topics. There’s an event, the Gapsin Coup. He is struggling with it. I thought of you, your perspective, your insight and I hoped you might be able to shed some light.”

Yoongi’s shoulders tensed, a flicker of a smile tugging at his lips despite the heaviness in his chest. “ You … want to talk history today?” he asked quietly, voice fragile but intrigued.

Hoseok shook his head gently. “ I just thought… Maybe it would be nice to sit together, even if the conversation is about something academic. I can invite him or I can give you his number. I can wait, I can listen, whatever you need.”

Yoongi exhaled, the tension in his chest easing slightly. He glanced toward where Seokjin’s shimmer had lingered, feeling both the ache of loss and the quiet steadiness of Hoseok beside him. “…Very well,” he murmured. “We can talk. Who is he?”

“Professor Kim! And of course,” Hoseok said softly, offering a small, understanding smile. “I’ll follow your lead.”

Yoongi rubbed his temples, the ache in his chest still fresh from the morning’s remembrance. He met Hoseok’s gentle gaze and let out a long, shuddering sigh. “Hoseok… I appreciate you bringing this to me,” he said quietly. “But today I can’t. I want to… I want to sit with Seokjin, properly. Later this week, perhaps, I can speak to your colleague. I’ll email him, answer his questions.”

Hoseok nodded slowly, understanding in his eyes. “Of course, hyung. I’m sorry! Today isn’t for history.” He hesitated, then smiled faintly. “I’ll leave it in your hands.”

Yoongi gave a small, tired nod. “Thank you, Hoseok. Just stay today, if you want. It helps, having someone here.”

Hoseok moved a little closer, careful not to crowd him, and knelt beside him again. “Of course I will. I’ll stay.”

Yoongi could feel the shift in energy, a soft knock at the open doorway made Hoseok glance over. Namjoon was there, tall and calm, holding a small paper bag. “I thought you might want some company,” he said, stepping in without pushing further. “So I brought something warm for him.”

Yoongi’s lips twitched into a faint, grateful smile. “You didn’t have to.”

“I know,” Namjoon replied simply, setting the bag down on the dining table. “But I figured it’s the kind of day where you shouldn’t be alone too much.”

Hoseok shifted, clearly relieved at the reinforcement. “We were just talking,” he offered, “but I think we’re done for now.”

Namjoon only nodded, his eyes lingering on Yoongi for a quiet beat, then shifted over to the ‘empty’ space on the low table before he began unpacking the food. “Good. For now, lets eat something.”

The three of them settled in without hurry, the silence not heavy but deliberate, filled with the sound of tea being poured and paper wrappings rustling. Outside, the winter wind pressed at the windows, but here, with Hoseok on one side and Namjoon on the other, Yoongi felt steadier. It had been just over a millennium, he had been mourning Seokjin far longer than he had knew him.

Namjoon was the first to speak after they had eaten “why don’t we take a walk to the temple? There’s that small one tucked near the river. It’s quiet there.”

Hoseok blinked, surprised. “There’s a temple in London?”

“More than you’d think,” Namjoon replied with a smile. “This one, it’s good for days like this.”

Yoongi’s gaze lingered on Namjoon, reading the unspoken meaning beneath the casual tone, a proper place for offerings, for words meant only for the dead, for guidance that came from beyond.

“All right,” Yoongi murmured after a pause. “We can go.”

The midday light was already thinning by the time they left Yoongi’s apartment, the air carrying the damp bite of London winter. Namjoon walked a little ahead, scarf tucked high, his long strides purposeful as though the temple might vanish if they took too long.

“Is it far?” Hoseok asked, adjusting his coat collar against the wind. His voice had that natural lift of curiosity, but he tempered it with a quick glance toward Yoongi. The reminder of the day was still there, a quiet shadow.

“Not far,” Namjoon said over his shoulder, and there was an energy in him, not hurried exactly, but driven. “It’s tucked away. Easy to miss if you’re not looking for it.”

Hoseok smiled, his breath fogging in front of him. “That makes it better, doesn’t it? Ohh a secret hidden place.”

Yoongi followed between them, his hands in his pockets. The streets were slick from earlier rain, the reflections of passing headlights rippling underfoot. His chest still ached with the morning’s memories. They passed shopfronts and narrow turns until the city noise seemed to dim. Namjoon glanced back once, as if checking they were both still there, and then led them into a side street barely wide enough for two people to walk abreast.

“You’ll see it soon,” Namjoon said, voice almost excited.

Hoseok’s steps slowed in response, his earlier eagerness giving way to something softer. Even without understanding why Namjoon was so intent on this visit, he sensed the shift, the air here felt different, calmer, like they were stepping out of London altogether.

Yoongi breathed in deeply, letting the quiet settle in his bones. The day had been heavy, but in this moment, walking toward an unseen temple with two friends, the grief was less a weight and more a tether, something that bound him, gently, to what mattered.

The temple sat behind a low wooden gate, lanterns swaying faintly in the wind. Its tiled roof gleamed under the grey London sky, the sound of water trickling somewhere within the courtyard. A robed attendant invited them in. 

Namjoon paused just inside, closing his eyes for a brief moment, as if letting the air here wash over him. Yoongi noticed the slight shift in his breathing, the way his shoulders eased but didn’t comment. Hoseok only glanced around, his awe obvious as he took in the incense haze and the intricate carvings over the entrance.

“I’ll be a moment,” Namjoon said, his voice unusually gentle. “Go ahead, look around.”

He stepped toward a robed attendant near the main hall, speaking in a low tone. The words didn’t carry far for Hoseok, but for Yoongi he chimed into the conversation, hearing “mourning space,” “blessings,” “private moment.”

Hoseok sidled up to Yoongi, lowering his voice. “Since when does Namjoon do this?”

Yoongi shook his head slightly. “He doesn’t.”

That much was true. In the six years they’d been friends, Namjoon had never arranged anything like this. He’d visited temples with them before, yes, but always as a fellow guest, never as someone quietly pulling strings behind the scenes.

When Namjoon returned, there was a brightness in his eyes, tempered by something more serious beneath. “They’ve prepared a place for you,” he told Yoongi softly. “Just for today. No one else will be there. You can take your time.”

Yoongi hesitated, unsure what to say. “Why?”

Namjoon’s smile was small, almost unreadable. “Because I think you need it.”

Yoongi’s chest tightened at that, the words hanging heavy in the incense-thick air. Hoseok looked between them, puzzled, sensing that whatever Namjoon meant, it wasn’t something to question right now.

They followed Namjoon deeper into the temple grounds, toward the quiet space he’d secured. Yoongi couldn’t shake the feeling that Namjoon knew more than he was saying, that he could see something on the horizon that Yoongi himself couldn’t yet.

Namjoon led them through a narrow path lined with stone lanterns, their soft glow reflected on the damp ground. At the end was a small alcove, tucked away behind a low wall, where a single wooden platform had been prepared. A faint smell of incense lingered, and the faint trickle of water nearby added a soft rhythm to the quiet.

“This is…” Hoseok began, but Namjoon held up a hand.

“Quiet,” he shushed. “Just breathe, and let him settle.” His eyes met Yoongi’s for a brief second, a look heavy with unspoken understanding. Yoongi felt the weight of that glance, the subtle warning beneath it, and nodded.

Hoseok stepped back, giving Yoongi the space he needed. Namjoon set the small bundle of incense, herbs, and a cup of soju down on the wooden platform. “Go ahead,” he murmured. “You don’t need to speak. Not yet.”

Yoongi knelt, chest tight, fingers trembling as he arranged the small offerings with deliberate care, muscle memory. The quietness pressed in around him, but it wasn’t oppressive, Namjoon’s presence gave it a strange steadiness, a protective weight.

“Close your eyes,” Namjoon said softly. “Breathe in the air here. Feel it. Let it carry what you cannot speak.”

Yoongi obeyed, inhaling slowly. His mind immediately drifted to Seokjin the way he had smiled, the warmth of his hand in his own, the terrible loss that had left him hollow for so many years. His chest ached, but here, in this hidden alcove, the ache could exist without consuming him.

Namjoon stayed silent, merely adjusting the incense and murmuring under his breath words that Yoongi didn’t understand but that seemed to shift the air around him, calming the tremor in his hands, the restless ache in his chest.

Hoseok remained near the edge, quiet, sensing that this was something not meant for him, yet feeling the gravity of the moment.

Yoongi poured a small cup of soju, placing it reverently before the tiny shrine he had made. “For you, hyung,” he whispered, voice catching. He pressed his forehead lightly against his folded hands, letting the ritual, simple, intimate, private, carry the weight of years, grief, and love he could never let go.

Namjoon watched him carefully, noting the tension that still lingered, the tremors of sorrow Yoongi hadn’t yet released. He could feel the subtle shifts a prelude to something coming, something that would challenge Yoongi in ways only Namjoom can see. That was why he had arranged this moment, why he had insisted on the temple.

For now, though, the moment belonged entirely to Yoongi. The living and the remembered, the aching and the comforting, all coexisted here, in the small, sacred space. Namjoon simply stayed, a silent guardian, until Yoongi’s ragged breath slowed, until the first tears fell and were gently absorbed into the quiet of the temple.  He hadn't mourned in a temple since the day he laid Seokjin to rest.  

The incense smoke curled slowly toward the rafters, each pale thread dissolving into the shadows. Yoongi knelt before the low table, the polished wood bare except for a bowl of rice, a single cup of wine, and a cluster of winter pears Seokjin had once claimed were his favorite. No ornate spread, no long lines of mourners, only three others sat behind him in the cold room, heads bowed in silence. Others from the temple Seokjin had formed bonds with. 

The execution had stripped Seokjin not only of life, but of the honour that would have brought crowds to mourn him. His name could not be spoken aloud in reverence. The monks who agreed to chant did so with eyes averted, their voices quiet, almost apologetic. Yoongi understood. To be seen here was to risk suspicion.

He bowed once, twice, three times, his hands trembling against the tatami mat, his tears endless. In his mind, he pictured Seokjin’s face, not the bruised and broken one he had last seen, but the one that had laughed under summer trees, that had looked at him like there was no one else in the world.

The sutras droned on, a low hum beneath the sound of his own slow heartbeat. Yoongi poured the wine, watching it ripple in the cup. “There is nobody better than you, Hyung.” he whispered, the words swallowed by incense and prayer.

When the final chant ended, the others rose and filed out without speaking. Yoongi stayed, tracing the rim of the cup with his fingertip. He could not touch Seokjin’s hand anymore, but he could touch the offering he left behind. 

As he stared at the offering table, the small wooden tablet with Seokjin’s name etched into it, next to a portrait of him, a heavy wave of emotion ripped through him, all restraint and resilience gone. “Kwanseum Bosal! Do you hear me? Why!” he yelled into the empty space, his eyes red and puffy, a blood curdling scream erupted from his mouth. The purest expression of grief. 

---

The afternoon light blurred against the wet streets as Yoongi walked home, shoulders heavy, hands shoved deep into his coat pockets. The apartment door clicked shut behind him, the familiar quiet pressing in. He flicked on the soft overhead light, but it didn’t chase away the shadows he carried. Every corner seemed to echo the absence of the one person he had never truly stopped needing.

And then he saw him.

Seokjin.

He was seated in the armchair, hands folded casually in his lap, a small teasing smile tugging at his lips, waiting.

“Hyung…” Yoongi’s voice a whisper. He took off his shoes at the entrace, and sat in the couch next to his armchair.

“You’re home,” Seokjin said softly, his tone carrying that familiar gentle amusement. “How did it feel?” His gaze flicked toward Yoongi.

“How did what feel? Being at a temple?”

“Yes. Were you trying to get rid of me?” Seokjin’s eyes angry, hurt even.

“No, we went to mourn you. Namjoon thought it was needed.” Yoongi admitted. 

Seokjin leaned slightly forward, eyes cold and steady. “Why would you listen to him? That shaman. His kind hate you, he hates you.”

Yoongi’s chest tightened at the accusation, the room suddenly feeling smaller, heavier. “No,” he said quietly, “you’re wrong. He’s my friend. He was trying to help me.”

Seokjin’s smile had vanished completely now, replaced by something colder, sharper. “Help you forget me?”

“That’s not what he-”

“Do you know what shamans do to spirits like me, Yoongi?” Seokjin’s voice was low, threaded with something similar to anger. “They burn us out. They sever us from the ones we… need.” His gaze locked onto Yoongi’s, unblinking. “And I need you.”

Yoongi swallowed hard, unsure if it was the chill in the air or the intensity in Seokjin’s voice that made him shiver.

For a long moment, neither spoke. The only sound was the faint hum of thefireplace, the London cold seeping in through the windows.

Finally, Seokjin leaned back, the anger in his eyes dimming into something almost pleading. “Don’t let him take you from me.”

Yoongi broke the stare first, his hand brushing over his thigh as if to shake off the weight of Seokjin’s words. Without another glance, he stood and crossed the room to his desk.

The lamplight there was warm, but it didn’t quite reach the corners of the room where Seokjin sat. Yoongi switched it on anyway, letting the familiar clutter steady him, books stacked in precarious towers, ink pens scattered over half-written notes, a chipped porcelain cup holding a tangle of paperclips.

He pulled his chair out and sat, the wheels creaking faintly against the floorboards. On the desk, his laptop blinked to life, the pale blue glow washing over his face.

Behind him, Seokjin’s voice floated across the room, softer now, but still carrying that sharp edge. “What are you doing?”

“I said I’d email someone,” Yoongi murmured, fingers tapping idly on the keys though he hadn’t yet opened anything.

“Hoseok’s professor friend?” Seokjin asked, his tone flat.

Yoongi hesitated, his cursor blinking in an empty email draft. “Yeah.”

The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It pressed against his back like a weight, the kind that made him acutely aware of every breath. The soft hum of the computer filled the silence as he opened a blank email.

To: prof.kim@-
Subject: Inquiry on the Gapsin Coup

His fingers hesitated for a beat before he began to type.

*Professor Kim,

Hoseok mentioned you’re researching the Gapsin Coup of 1884. I’m happy to share what I know and suggest some primary accounts that may be of interest. I believe this is better discussed in person, some details aren’t suited to writing. Please let me know a convenient time for you.*

- Min Yoongi*

He paused, the cursor blinking at the end of his name, as if waiting for permission to send.

From the armchair behind him, Seokjin’s voice came, calm but laced with something sharper.
“You don’t even know this man. Why offer yourself up?”

Yoongi didn’t turn. “Because Hoseok trusts him. And because he asked.”

“That’s not reason enough.” Seokjin’s tone cooled. “Some knowledge isn’t worth handing to strangers. What happens when it comes back on you?”

Yoongi’s lips pressed into a thin line. “It won’t.”

“Or maybe that’s exactly what will happen,” Seokjin murmured.

Yoongi clicked send . The faint whoosh felt heavier than it should.
When he finally turned, the armchair was empty.

---

The reply came faster than Yoongi expected - less than an hour later.

From: Prof. Kim
Subject: Re: Inquiry on the Gapsin Coup

*Dear Mr. Min,

Thank you so much for offering to share your insight. I’ve been immersed in this period for months, but the 1884 coup remains frustratingly elusive beyond the same tired narratives. I’m particularly eager to hear your perspective, Hoseok speaks very highly of your knowledge!!

Would you be free to meet this Friday, there is a cafe near the British Library? I’ll bring my notes, but more importantly, my questions.

Sincerely,
Professor Kim*

---

Yoongi sat by the window, the rim of his coffee cup cooling under his fingers. Outside, the street was wet with rain, buses hissing past and umbrellas bobbing between the puddles.

He checked his watch again, ten minutes past the time they’d agreed on. Not late enough to be rude, but enough for the waiting to feel like it meant something.

He pulled out his phone and opened the group chat.

“ at the library café. professor guy’s late.”

Hoseok’s reply came wicked fast 

“late as in 2 mins late or he stood you up?”

“10 mins.”

Namjoon chimed in

 “maybe he’s just caught in the rain? or maybe he’s one of those academic types who think time is a suggestion.”

Yoongi huffed a quiet laugh, typing back one-handed.

“ if he’s not here in 5 i’m leaving.”

The café door chimed, a burst of cold air threading through the warm hum of conversation. Yoongi didn’t look up. Not until a warm voice broke across the room.

“Mr. Min? I’m so sorry I’m late. The tube was a nightmare.”

His hand froze on his cup. The sound of that voice hollowed him out, made the porcelain tremble against the saucer. Slowly, he turned.

“Hyung…” The word escaped him raw, his breath catching in his chest. His eyes locked on the man’s face, the jawline, the curve of his mouth, the cadence of his words. Every detail dragged him backward through time. “No… you’re not…”

The man blinked, concern edging past his polite composure. “Do I look like someone you know?”

Yoongi’s throat worked around the truth, brittle and breaking. “No. My… husband. He died. But you-you could be him. Your face, your voice. Just your hair, your clothes are not…” 

Silence pressed in, thick and heavy. The stranger’s gaze softened, flickering with something Yoongi couldn’t name. He hesitated, then lowered himself gently into the chair opposite.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly, and it was sincere.  He managed a faint, careful smile, extending a hand as though to ground the moment. “My name is Seokjin. I don’t look like a ghost, do I?”

Yoongi didn’t take it. His fingers curled tight around his cup instead, knuckles pale, as he searched that familiar face and felt the floor tilt out from under him.