Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

WHEN YOU WERE MERELY ten years of age, you realized boys were not the bugs crawling with cooties you had made them out to be . . . all thanks to Min Yoongi. You remembered the first time you met him, keeping the fond memory safe inside your head throughout the years.

You grew up lonely. Your father was a wealthy businessman, owning his own company, which his son would surely take over when he came of age. This meant he was always away on business trips or locked inside his office while your mother tended to every one of your brother's needs, oftentimes forgetting you had your own. You didn't have many friends; most of the kids your age labeled you as a snob because of who your father was, so there was no point in trying with them.

Your brother, Kim Seokjin, however, always made sure to drag you along wherever he went like you were his very own prodigy, apprentice, assistant, whatever. He had always been your protector from day one . . . even if he kicked you out of the room every time he had his friends over. (They were playing boy games, he'd always say, but you were smart for your age. You knew boy games actually just meant looking at the special magazines your father kept hidden in his room.)

You'd grown up alone. But you were used to it. It didn't bother you. You liked to be alone when you drew in your sketchbook anyway. And you did draw every chance you got. It helped keep the loneliness at bay.

The day you met Min Yoongi had been no different.

That day, you found yourself alone yet again. Your father had locked himself in his office for the night while your mother took Seokjin to one of his basketball practices. In your lonesome, you'd turned to mindlessly draw in front of the television in the living room, while the movie Matilda played in the background. You'd spent that time etching the ideas that had consumed your young mind onto the new sketchbook you had begged your parents to buy. You'd planned to ask for paints next.

You liked being alone. You liked painting in silence. Lately, you had been finding the silence, in general, not so bad. You'd even go as far as to say you enjoyed it.

Seokjin didn't. He could never handle it. Because of this, he'd always kept busy with his many interests that seemed to grow as he aged.

While only at ten, you enjoyed days full of art and color and watching Matilda over and over again, Seokjin was stuck at twelve almost thirteen with an overactive mind and a need to fight twenty-four-seven. Granted, he was only a preteen boy, so it was a given he’d beg his parents to let him join every sport he set his mind to.

And the sport he had chosen this year: basketball. And this time your mother decided to chaperon every practice and every game . . . so that meant you would be left alone even more, given the other invasive fact that your father was far too busy to give you the time of day.

It would just be you and your drawings from now on, you supposed. You'd have to draw faces to keep you company, and that wasn't so bad. You could find friendship in the two-dimensional caricatures you'd craft. And you could like that. You had to like that.

So when your mother opened the front door with boxes of pizza juggling in her hands, warning you that Seokjin and his friends would be in any minute, it was no surprise that you were still drawing. You had nodded, not paying much attention due to the fact that your dear (you noted, sarcastically) older brother always made it a habit to invite his friends over to his house after their basketball practices. It was routine by now. A routine you hated . . . because . . . your brother’s offer to have his teammates over meant you would have to sit there in the middle of their preteen antics and body odor and endure it all. (Just another reason why you had never paid attention to boys: they all smelled. Bad.)

But that day had been different. Because when the boys from your brother’s team finally all piled in, loud and obnoxious as they made their way to the kitchen for a slice of pizza, you spotted a new face. He was shorter than most of the boys, his limbs long and skinny, but he had this expression on his round face that convinced your young, hopeless romantic mind that you had truly just seen sparks fly. Like, full-on sparks. Perhaps there were even hearts in your eyes.

You observed him for the rest of the night, and in your ten-year-old mind, you had reassured yourself that no, this was not stalking . . .

Because, no, it was not creepy for Seokjin’s little sister to stand in the doorway of the kitchen, silent and standing still as you listened to the boys talk amongst each other. And, no, it was not weird that you kept staring at the new face amongst your brother’s friends, giggling when you saw him accidentally drop a piece of pepperoni on the floor.

He had looked at you then, his attention being drawn to the sound of your small laughter. And when he had, you, being ten and well . . . not used to interacting with other people often, tried to hide from his gaze, but the boy didn’t give you a weird look like your peers normally sent your way, instead, his mouth morphed into an awkward tight-lipped smile as he hastily picked up the pepperoni from the floor and flicked it onto his plate. He then turned away and focused his attention on Seokjin, who was loudly demonstrating the shots he had made during practice.

It was clear he could still feel your eyes on him as he kept awkwardly glancing your way, shifting under your gaze. It wasn’t until the boy grabbed another paper plate, put a piece of pizza on it, and approached you that you truly realized that the boy had actually seen you staring at him.

Almost as if you had been starstruck, you stared at him, your eyes as wide as saucers as you glanced between the plate in his hands and his face.

A second later he had asked, “Did you want a slice?” His voice was small with only a hint of awkwardness hidden behind his calm tone as he held out the plate toward you.

You blinked, nodding up at him, and a second afterward, you grabbed the plate from him, your eyes never leaving his face. You noticed then that he had a small freckle on his nose, and you decided that it was your favorite thing about him.

It only took a second longer for you to convince yourself that you were going to marry him. This caused your cheeks to blaze aflame. (You’d surely write this down in your diary . . . )

But your cheeks didn’t stay burning long before your brother finally became burdened by your presence and yelled your name, "Leave Yoongi alone. You’re freaking my friends out with your weird looks.”

You blinked, slightly stunned as you kept your wide eyes on the boy—Yoongi.

“It’s OK,” Yoongi mumbled, offering a small smile. “She was just hungry.”

You grinned widely at his words.

Yoongi.

You noted his name so you wouldn’t forget it. To the diary, it would go.

However, when you heard your brother click his tongue in annoyance, you quickly snapped out of your bashful daze and groaned at your brother, stomping your foot and pointing a finger at him. “You can't kick me out this time. It's dinnertime, dingus, and I'm hungry,” you huffed. “And . . . Mom said I could join!”

Your brother gave you an irritated look. “No, mom told you to leave me alone when I have friends over,” he hissed.

“No—” you bit out— “you did!” You groaned again. "I could starve . . . because of you!"

Seokjin clicked his tongue. “OK, you have your pizza now, so go.”

“But—”

“Go away, shithead,” Seokjin whined, shooing you away.

You glared at him. "You're such a nerd."

"Nerd?" Seokjin scoffed. "How-How am I a nerd?"

"Find a mirror," you muttered as you pointed at the glasses on his face, simultaneously taking a bite of your pizza at the same time.

Seokjin gave you a pointed look. "If you leave now-" he paused to release a sigh as he rolled his eyes and continued, his voice muffled- "we can watch Matilda later."

You smiled, complacently. “Fine.”

You turned to leave the kitchen, but not before you stuck your tongue out at your older brother. He reciprocated the action but flipped you off in the process. He, however, quickly realized what he had done, his eyes flying wide open just as a sly grin slid onto your face.

And at that, you took off running as you yelled, “Mom, Jin flipped me off!”

But as you ran away, you could have sworn you had heard a laugh fall from Yoongi. Maybe you had imagined it . . . but . . . it'd warmed your heart nevertheless.

The second time you saw Min Yoongi, it was a Tuesday. You had just returned home from school, skipping through the front door of your house with your mother close behind you. While your mother briefly told you she would be in the kitchen making dinner, you hummed in acknowledgment as you made your way to the living room, pulling out your sketchbook from your backpack and getting to work.

You hadn’t known how much time had passed before loud voices carried into the room and you felt the cushion beside you on the couch dip under the weight of someone else. Only when you glanced up did you realize sitting beside you was your brother’s friend, Yoongi.

Now, you had successfully found out a few things about the boy beside you over the past few weeks that he had become friends with your brother. While Seokjin was busy gaming, you would nag and nag and nag him to tell you more about his friend, to which Seokjin always teased you, telling you he was too old for you. You had only huffed and rolled your eyes, deciding to keep your mouth shut and deal with the information you had already gathered.

And to your diary, it all went.

Min Yoongi was his full name. He was around the same age as your brother, so about twelve, almost thirteen—around a little over one or close to two years older than you, but two grades apart due to the cut-off. He was new to the team, just recently moving to Seoul from Daegu because his father got a new job there and apparently it was paying better, so they decided to enroll Yoongi in the same school that Seokjin went to. That also meant that he had begged his parents to let him join a local basketball team in hopes of maintaining some familiarity with his old life. And he was surprisingly good, already mastering most of the positions and slowly improving their team bit by bit. And . . . he had the prettiest eyes you had ever seen. (Although, the latter fact being one that you had added entirely on your own.)

And as he sat beside you on that couch, you realized his eyes were even prettier than you had originally noted. When he offered you a small friendly smile, you could have sworn you were going to puke a butterfly.

But the boy turned away a second later and you realized you had been staring up at him with a wide (maybe too wide) toothy grin.

You heard your brother call your name, drawing your attention.

Only then as you turned to look at your brother did you realize Yoongi was only sitting beside you because your brother and his other friend from the team, Jung Hoseok were occupying the only other couch in the living room. And then you realized why they were in there—they wanted the TV and that meant Seokjin would be nagging you to leave them be any minute.

“Nuh-uh, I was here first,” you quickly groaned out before your brother could say a word, stomping your feet on the ground.

Seokjin sighed. “We’re watching a horror movie. You’ll get scared,” he told you, his brows raised. He thought he was so much older now since his birthday would be in a few weeks, but you were older too. You’d be eleven in January. You could so watch a scary movie.

“I like scary movies,” you lied. “I watch them all the time.” Another lie.

"You still watch Matilda," Seokjin countered. "You're practically four."

You shot him a look. "I'm ten, you four-eyed freak."

While Seokjin gave you a pointed look and lifted his glasses up his nose, Hoseok gave a small laugh. You, however, glanced at Yoongi beside you, seeing he was looking at his friends, a small smile on his face.

Fortunately for you, Seokjin let you stay as he started the movie. But you immediately lowered your eyes to your sketchbook, drawing to distract yourself from the noises coming from the television. About thirty minutes in, trying to mask your fear by drawing more and more, you heard Yoongi speak . . . to you.

“That’s cool.”

You stopped and looked up at him, speechless. “What?”

“Your drawing,” Yoongi whispered, pointing at your sketchbook. “I think it’s cool. You’re . . . really good.”

You turned bashful. “Oh. Thank you.”

A scream from the television, however, made you jump, causing your eyes to squeeze shut. You opened them, slightly more embarrassed now as you avoided eye contact with the older boy. Your eyes drooped to your sketchbook a second later, too embarrassed to look him in the eyes. One look from those feline-like eyes would surely make you embarrass yourself even more, and you had done enough of that tonight. But the boy didn’t let you dwell in your embarrassment for much longer before he reached behind him, grabbed a pillow, and offered it out to you.

You glanced between the pillow and Yoongi’s face.

The boy only offered a small smile. “Block the screen with it,” he began. “It helps . . . a little.”

You smiled, bashfully. “Thank you,” you mumbled as you took the pillow and rested it on your knees that were bent to your chest. And he was right. The pillow did block the screen, allowing you to rest a little easier now that you didn’t have to endure the jump scares through your peripheral.

And just when you thought your heart couldn't beat faster, Yoongi whispered to you, “Don’t worry, I promise I won’t tell your brother you’re scared as long as you don’t tell him I am too.”

You blinked.

Yoongi scrunched his nose as he held out his pinky finger, gesturing for you to solidify the promise.

And how could you oppose?

You couldn’t.

You reached for his pinky with a grin on your face, linking your pinkies together and shaking. This was your first promise, but you could tell it wouldn’t be your last.

It did not take long for you to warm up to Min Yoongi. In fact, you looked forward to every time he would come home with your brother after practice or just to randomly hang out on the weekend. You had even started to willingly go with your mother to watch your brother’s games . . . although . . . you never told any of them that you only went to see Yoongi.

So, you had a crush. So what?

You couldn’t help the heat that would creep up on your cheeks when he would come over to your house, sending a small wave your way when you'd lock eyes. Oftentimes when Seokjin’s teammates would hang out at the Kim household, they’d end up filtering to your spacious backyard where there lay a pool accompanied by an area where your parents had recently installed a small basketball court. It seemed Seokjin would be sticking with basketball for a while, and you couldn't complain.

You especially couldn’t complain when you’d pretend to go outside and draw in your sketchbook when you were actually just watching the boys play scrimmages of basketball. Your crush only worsened every time Yoongi would come over to you, dragging you with him to get you to play in one of the games with them. And every time, you found yourself unable to say no to him.

And when the rest of the boys had to head home, the night usually ended with Yoongi and Hoseok deciding to stay the night as per Seokjin’s request. This, of course, always resulted in the three of them plus you staying out in the backyard, teaching you how to shoot and block. However, Yoongi ended up being the one to teach you most of the tricks, telling you that you were his prodigy in the making.

“You’re gonna be better than me one day,” he said one night as you made a basket.

From the other side of the court, Seokjin snorted. “Don’t go lying to her, Yoon.”

“Yah!” you whined, stomping your foot at your brother. "Watch it, four-eyes!"

Your brother only laughed, quickly tsked at you when he'd heard your insult, while Hoseok, who stood beside him, whacked his chest. “She’ll get better the more she practices,” he reassured with a warm smile.

You beamed at him, opening your mouth to speak, but a hand resting on top of your head trapped the words in your throat. You blinked and followed the hand, discovering that it was Yoongi who had decided to rest his palm atop your crown, his other hand holding the basketball. “She’s already better than you are now,” the Min boy teased, raising his brows.

“Really?” you questioned, your voice small and hopeful.

Yoongi looked down at you and nodded. “Way, way, way better,” he hummed as he scrunched his nose, patting your head before he dropped his other hand to the basketball. “Just look at those long arms of his. He’ll slap you in the face before he can steal the ball.”

You let out a burst of laughter, and Seokjin scolded the two of you.

“Stop fraternizing with the enemy!” the Kim boy yelled, his hands out.

Yoongi rolled his eyes. “Your little sister is not the enemy,” he began. “Those long arms of yours are . . . and that awful hand-eye coordination you got going on.”

“Yah!” Seokjin hissed, almost stomping his foot on the asphalt, but stopping himself. “My arms are a normal length.”

“Let’s put it to the test,” Yoongi declared as he passed the ball to Seokjin. “New game?” His eyes drifted to you as if asking you personally.

“New game,” you mumbled, trying to find your voice but you were too wrapped up in his eyes. Yoongi grinned at that and you were sure you were going to faint.

“Me and the kid against you and Hoseok?” Yoongi announced, looking at Seokjin for confirmation. “Or are you too scared to face me and my prodigy?”

Me and my prodigy.

You turned bashful. To the diary, it would go.

And before you could convince yourself that you heard wedding bells in the background, you heard Seokjin agree and then Yoongi was giving you a friendly pat on the back before he immersed himself into the game. You had no choice but to follow suit, after all, you didn’t want to embarrass yourself in front of him by making him lose the game. It wasn’t until you guys had actually won that you were convinced Yoongi was some kind of good luck charm.

. . . You had a crush. A big fat one at that.

This carried on even as the years passed; even as you turned eleven and then twelve; even as Yoongi turned thirteen and then fourteen. You both grew, but the bond only strengthened, morphing into a friendship even you hadn’t seen coming. Even though you knew Yoongi only saw you as if you, too, were his little sister, you didn’t care. You realized having him as a friend meant more to you even at your young, immature age. You also didn’t mind having Hoseok around, finding yourself with a wide grin on your face when all four of you guys were together. And . . . Seokjin eventually got used to the fact that his friends were now also kind of his little sister’s . . . although he didn't take this information well at first.

(But you made sure to rub it in your brother’s face every chance you got.)

When you were twelve years of age you gave Min Yoongi a paper ring.

Over the past two years of Yoongi and Hoseok coming over without the other team members, you had grown to know more about the two. For instance, one day Hoseok showed up after agreeing to meet Seokjin and Yoongi for a game, but he didn’t show up alone. Instead, accompanying him was his little sister, Jung Hari, who stood small and lanky with her head held low as she bashfully peeked up to look at her brother’s friends.

And you wasted no time. You’d grabbed the girl by the arm, asking her if she’d like to watch a movie (preferably your favorite . . . Matilda) while the boys played a game of basketball.

The thing was: you weren’t a shy kid, you just didn't have many friends. You had been shy when you were younger, but now, you weren't as bashfully shy as you had been, even if you still heated up any time Yoongi asked you to teach him how to draw the simplest of things. You were loud and colorful. And since Hoseok was only a year older than you, you oftentimes found yourself running your mouth along with him while your brother and Yoongi rolled their eyes at the two of you.

So when you saw Jung Hari, only one year younger than you, sulking as she was forced to accompany her brother to his hang out, you had jumped at the chance to make the girl feel at home.

Hari ended up coming along with her brother a lot more after that, and it was no surprise that the two of you had grown close.

You introduced the world of art to Hari, and Hari shared with you her secret pastime of origami. You guys had rolled your eyes when the boys would eat their food too fast, resulting in three teenage boys groaning about their stomach aches. And when you would sit outside and watch the boys play their silly little games, Hari would join, her nose held high in disgust when they’d try to pull her in to join the game. (While she would protest and protest, it was normally you who would convince the younger girl to join. It became evident the two of you would do anything for each other.)

And when you turned twelve, the month of February rolling around, you came to the one person who you knew would help you—Hari. Why exactly did you need help? Well . . . you heard from your brother that Han Daeun was going to ask Yoongi to be her valentine, and suddenly you were an atomic bomb.

For three days you contemplated asking Hari to show you how to make a paper ring, and on the third day, you went to her. And a day later, you trudged out to your backyard with a paper ring clutched tightly in your hand. There, you found Yoongi shooting hoops while he waited for Seokjin to return from the bathroom.

“Yoon,” you called out toward the older boy.

At the sound of your small voice, Yoongi glanced over his shoulder, brows raised high in question as he clutched the basketball in his hands. Once he found your face, his nose scrunched as a smile lifted onto his face. He tossed the basketball to the side and made his way toward you.

“Hey,” he said, his voice ever so calm. He sounded the way he always did—cool, calm, and collected. “How’s my prodigy doing?”

You forced yourself not to get too flustered, but it was no use. Yoongi was almost fourteen now. It would be March soon and then there would be two years still between you guys once again. Even now he looked older than he was. Perhaps it was because he always carried himself in such a way that even you couldn’t wrap your mind around. You supposed that was one of the first things you noticed about him—he seemed to view the world differently from everyone else.

“I’m OK!” you exclaimed, your voice coming out an octave too loud. It was just that . . . you were nervous. You knew you had to give him the ring quickly before your brother came back out and made a fool of you. “Um . . . I just have . . . something to give you.”

Yoongi grinned wider, his gums showing. “You have a present for me?” he asked. “It’s not my birthday for another month.”

“It’s not for your birthday,” you rushed out, perhaps a little too quickly. You nervously twisted the paper ring in your hand and gnawed on your bottom lip.

Yoongi blinked in confusion. “Oh.”

You squeezed your eyes shut. “It’s for valentine’s day,” your words were clumped together as you spoke. “Here—” you shoved your hand out, revealing the paper ring with a perfectly crafted heart in the middle of it— ”It’s a ring. I wanted to know if you’d be my valentine?”

The silence was your only answer. Your heart dropped.

Slowly, you peeled open your eyes to find Yoongi staring at you with a sympathetic look in his eyes. You got the feeling that this would not be the last time Min Yoongi would give you that damned look. But at the time, the look nearly made you sob at the sight.

The older boy murmured your full name, trailing off. He didn’t refer to you as his prodigy or as kid. He just simply called you your boring old name, and somehow that broke your heart more, because you knew what it meant. You knew he only saw you as your brother’s kid sister. He’d never see you as anything else, so when he said your name, it was the simplest rejection he could’ve given you.

You dropped your hand and averted your gaze. You had to get out of there. “I’m sorry,” was all you could mumble as you threw the ring to the ground, turned around, and walked back inside. You passed Seokjin on your way to the living room, but when he went to tease you, you only flipped him off and flopped down on the couch. Your sketchbook awaited you, and you sat there sulking as you drew.

An hour later, Seokjin came back inside with Yoongi behind him. You wanted the ground to swallow you whole. You couldn’t help but flush with warmth as you avoided eye contact with Yoongi at all costs.

But then came Seokjin’s voice. “Why are you acting so weird?” he questioned you as he sat down on the other couch. “Did you and Hari fight?”

You shook your head, huffing. “No, you nerd.”

“Did something happen at school?” he pressed. “Was it a boy?”

You stilled.

Seokjin stood to his feet and said your name. “Was it?” he went on, his voice gruff as he fixed his glasses on his face.

You didn’t respond.

And Seokjin took that as an answer. “OK, here’s what we’re going to do,” he began, pointing to Yoongi as if the two of them were trying to come up with their next play for a game. “We’ll round up the team and jump the fucker. There’s a dozen of us, and one of him. We got this.” He turned to you next. “What’s the dickhead’s name? Huh? Spill it or I’ll call Hoseok and he’ll get it out of Hari.”

“It’s fine,” you mumbled, your voice barely audible.

“It will be once I find him,” Seokjin grumbled. “Come on—”

“No!” you yelled, finally glancing up at your brother, but your eyes found Yoongi’s instead. “It’s fine. He didn’t do anything.”

It was silent for a moment as Seokjin searched your face, but ultimately, he gave in, sighing and plopping down on the couch with a loud huff. “Fine,” he grumbled. “But if he does anything, you tell me and I’ll beat his ass.”

You hummed.

Only then did Yoongi finally sit down, but just your luck, he sat right beside you. Great.

Ten minutes later, Seokjin put on a movie, still grumbling from when you refused to tell him what was wrong. You rolled your eyes. He could be so immature even at his age. It wasn’t like you could’ve told him anyway. How were you supposed to tell him that you had made a fool of yourself in front of Yoongi because you were just a lovesick preteen crushing on your older brother’s best friend? Then they’d both be giving you that stupid look.

But . . . twenty minutes into the movie, and Yoongi plucked the pencil out of your hand. You watched in confusion as the boy leaned forward and began to write on your sketchbook. When he was done, he pulled away, gesturing for you to read the words.

I’m sorry I upset you. I never want to do that.

You sighed at his handwriting. There was the pity. You slowly nodded your head and added a shrug before you took the pencil from him and wrote underneath his words.

It’s OK. I forgive you.

You sheepishly turned away from him, but he surprised you again, taking your pencil and writing more underneath your handwriting. When he pulled away, you blinked at his words in disbelief.

Ask me again when you’re 25.

You blinked a couple more times, not believing your eyes. Then, you felt his hand touch yours as he pried your fingers apart, revealing your palm. He put the paper ring you had thrown away into your palm and then pulled away, leaving you in utter confusion as you blinked up at him, your eyes as wide as saucers. The boy only muffled his laugh as he pinched your chubby cheek before he turned back to the movie, completely unbothered.

But you couldn’t pay attention to the movie. You knew he only saw you as Seokjin’s little sister, but still, his words had comforted you, nursing the embarrassment you had previously felt. Ask me again when you’re twenty-five, he had written, and you made a vow to yourself that you would.

Ask me again when you’re twenty-five. You smiled.

To the diary, it would go.

“I can’t believe you ran away,” Yoongi groaned as he plopped down on the seat next to you.

You only smirked. You were fourteen now, and not willing to listen to anyone’s advice. The only thing on your mind: you wanted to be an artist.

That all led you to that day. You see, there had been this art gallery in Busan where there were bound to be scouts and agents looking at all the underground artists that had the privilege to have their work displayed in the gallery. And, well, about three months prior, you had submitted a bunch of your pieces to the gallery, and to your surprise, they’d chosen one of your pieces to display. You, of course, had lied about your age, claiming you were four years older than you actually were, but still.

And the event was today.

Obviously, you couldn’t go telling your parents about this, especially your father, who’d have a fit if he knew his daughter wanted to waste her career on paints rather than medical tools. So that left you with no choice other than to book a ticket (with your allowance, of course) for the train going from Seoul to Busan that Saturday morning.

And who, of course, caught you sneaking out of your house that early Saturday morning? Min Yoongi . . . as always. And just your luck (or rather misfortune), Yoongi wouldn't let you go alone unless you let him come with you. To which you had only rolled your eyes at and hastily agreed as you were pressed for time, and then the two of you were off, riding your bikes to the sound of "It's No Big Deal” as you both approached the Seoul train station.

That led you to now—the two of you sitting on a train about to take off toward Busan, and you couldn’t wipe the wide grin off your face no matter how many times Yoongi complained.

“For the record, I didn’t run away,” you jested as you looked at Yoongi out of the corner of your eye. “I’m just . . . destined for greater things.” You giggled at your own words, sighing a pleasant hum. “Plus . . . no one else is going to make this happen besides me, so I have to seize the day, right? Isn’t that what you’ve always told me? Never give up?”

Because he had. Ever since the paper ring incident; ever since the two of you grew closer; ever since Yoongi started asking questions about the things you would draw; ever since you started attending his piano recitals, he’d always tell you to get what you really wanted out of life for yourself and not for others. He’d always told you to chase what you desired, and you’d always listened.

Yoongi sighed, resting his head against the headrest of his seat. He lolled his head to the side, meeting your eyes. “I can’t say you’re wrong,” he hummed, sending you a warm smile. “You should chase your dreams. You’ll blow them away with your drawings.” He smiled wider. “I told you I thought they were cool years ago, and I meant it.”

“Well, then,” you began, your head held high with your nose in the air as you tried to come up with words to respond with. “I guess this means you support my decision?”

Yoongi tapped your nose. “You’ll always have my support, kid.”

“Good, because I wouldn’t have gotten off this train even if you forced me,” you huffed, sinking into your seat.

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” he laughed, his gums showing slightly. “You can’t be controlled. That’s what I like about you. You’re reckless—” he glanced over at you for just a second— “in a good way. Don’t go thinking I’m dissing you. Actually . . . I think I envy you.”

Yoongi was sixteen now. He knew a lot more about the world than you. And you were still only fourteen. You didn’t know who you were. You were sure Yoongi had always known who he was and who he’d become. It was one of the things you admired about him. It was the reason you were on that train. So . . . how did he envy you when he had been the one to teach you to fight for what you wanted?

“Me?” you finally snorted. “Why would you envy me?”

“Because you know what you want.”

“Oh.”

“You always have.”

You turned away, looking out the window. “I wouldn’t say that,” you sheepishly mumbled.

“I would,” he countered, gaining your eyes on him. “You’ve never done anything you didn’t want. You just go for it. Anything you want . . . you go for it.” He nudged you with his elbow. “You’ll go far, kid. You’ll see. Just . . . promise me you won’t forget me when you’re famous.”

You slapped a hand to your chest. “I promise.”

And then Yoongi was sticking out his hand, his pinky on display.

You smiled and locked your pinkies together, shaking. A pinky promise—just like the one he’d offered to you that time you were young and scared of a horror movie your brother had put on. It was another promise shared between you both.

“I promise,” you said again, grinning wider now.

It was silent for a moment as you guys dropped your hands just as the train had begun to move. But it wasn’t quiet for long. It never was with the two of you.

“How long do you think before Jin figures out we’re not there?” Yoongi asked after a minute.

You looked down at your watch. “About . . . tomorrow morning o’clock.”

Yoongi scrunched his nose as he laughed—it was loud and hearty, unlike you’d ever heard before. “Oh, really?”

You only nodded, taking in his laugh. You’d surely remember it for years to come.

“Well, we should probably call him when we get off,” he said, his shoulders still slightly shaking from his laughter. “Wouldn’t want him to have a heart attack when your mom finds out that you’re not in your bed.”

“Fine,” you huffed.

Yoongi patted the top of your head. “Hey, now, don’t sulk,” he began. “They were going to find out about your little mission eventually. You just got to rip off the bandaid.”

“Easier said than done,” you mumbled. “Dad wants me to be a doctor. He says I’m too smart to let it go to waste. He’ll be pissed when he finds out . . . “

“So what’s the plan?” Yoongi asked, although you both knew he wasn’t really asking. You both knew what you were going to do. You had already decided.

And as expected, you said, “I’m gonna go to this art gallery.”

“And then?”

“Even if it doesn’t work out, I’ll keep at it,” you reassured yourself, but you still felt . . . weak. “This is my thing . . . my life. I’ll keep at it even if no one supports me. I’ll make it even if I make it alone.”

Yoongi smiled—it was warm, innocent. “You’ll never have to do anything alone,” he murmured, his voice soft as if he were comforting a small child. “I’ll be here every step of the way. Wherever you are in the world, I’ll support you and hope it reaches you.”

You stared at him for a minute, taking in his words. As you stared, searching his comforting smile, you could feel your eyes growing hot. You didn’t want to cry . . . but . . .

“And if it doesn’t?” you questioned. “Reach me, I mean.”

“Then I’ll come to you,” he said, simply.

Against your will, a tear slipped down your cheek as his words fell.

Yoongi reached forward and wiped the tears from your, still, chubby cheeks. “The day I became friends with Jin, you became my sister, too,” he told you, “so don’t ever think you don’t have me, because you do. You won’t ever have to worry about being alone. Even if you have no one, I’ll always be here. Even if we fight and end up hating each other . . . I’ll always be a call away. You’ll always have me.”

You’ll always have me.

To your heart this would go. These words were too sacred to write in your diary. You’d keep them locked away in your heart, unable to be tainted by the cruel world.

“Promise?” you asked, weakly.

“Promise,” he confirmed, neither of you guys holding out your hands to pinky promise on it. You both knew this pact went beyond silly gestures. There was no need for a pinky swear when you both knew your words to be true. It was as simple as that.

The two of you smiled at each other for a minute after your shared words, before Yoongi dug into his back pocket and pulled out his iPod attached to a pair of cheap wired headphones. “I have a song I want you to hear, kid,” he spoke up, handing you an earbud.

You took it without hesitance, plugging yourself in as the boy did the same and pressed play on this mystery song. And as you listened, you realized the song was entirely instrumental and being played on a . . . piano. And then you realized you recognized the speed of the song, and the style of the keys playing. This was Yoongi playing.

“It’s you,” you breathed out, not able to stop yourself.

“Thoughts?”

“I love it.”

You saw a hint of a smile tug at Yoongi’s lips. “I composed it myself,” he confessed. “I’ve been staying late after school these past few weeks working on it.”

“Has anybody heard it yet?”

“Just you.”

You felt yourself grow hot.

“I just knew you’d get it,” he told you. “Everyone else would tell me I was wasting my time, but I knew you wouldn't.”

“What’s the inspiration behind it?” you questioned, still listening to the sound of the keys.

“What it would be like to leave and grow up . . . in the way I wanted and not the way everyone else wants,” he explained, curtly.

You nodded. You understood. “It could be a reality, you know?”

Yoongi scoffed. “To be a world-renowned jazz musician and travel the world?” he asked, his words sorrowful. He shook his head before you could answer. “I hate to disappoint you, kid, but I believe in you a lot more than I could ever believe in myself.” He scoffed again. “You’ve got talent. No, you’ve got the talent everyone thinks they have but don’t, because you’ll make it while everyone else won’t.” He looked at you then, his eyes soft but sad. “We’re different, you and I. I’m not like you. I won’t make it. Besides, my parents would never support me if I even thought about going down that road.”

“You can call yourself Gloss,” you simply said, ignoring his words.

He said your name in a whisper, trailing off.

There it was again. The way he said your name with such sorrow as if he didn’t want to disappoint you by continuing his sentence. But, you would continue for him.

“If you can support me so blindly, then why can’t I support you?” you questioned.

He stayed quiet.

And you continued. “When I don’t believe in myself, I believe in you and I do this because I know you believe in me. That is how I get through things. When I believe in you, I can do anything,” you spoke, your words getting trapped in your throat as it became harder to speak. “So, I say do what makes you happy. And when it gets too hard to believe you can make it; to believe in yourself, then believe in me and it will give you strength.” You swallowed the lump in your throat. “Believe in me because I believe in you.”

Yoongi bit the inside of his cheek, but still, he did not speak.

“OK?” you spoke for him.

He nodded.

“OK,” you reassured yourself as you shuffled toward him, locking your arm with his as you rested your head on his shoulder.

A second later you felt Yoongi lean his head on yours, and your heart glowed golden.

“When did you get so smart?” he asked after a minute, intertwining your hand with his.

You snorted. “I always have been.”

“Cocky.”

“No, just confident.”

“Shut it.”

You laughed.

Another second of silence before Yoongi snorted and asked, “Why Gloss?”

“Because your lips are always glossy, duh,” you retorted. “I swear it’s like you’re constantly drooling, Yoon.”

Yoongi scoffed. “I do not drool.”

“Slobber, then?”

“You’re pushing it, kid.”

You only grinned, ear to ear.

At fifteen, you swore you felt your heart break for the first time.

You had gone to meet Hari in the parking lot outside of school before you went to the school’s studio to work on some of your paintings when you saw them. Standing near a secluded part of the parking lot stood Min Yoongi with a girl, the two of them leaning against his car. And no, they weren’t just talking, unless you considered talking to be Yoongi sticking his tongue down the girl’s throat and his hand inching toward the hem of her skirt.

Which . . . you did not.

And you certainly couldn’t contain your shock as you gaped at them and spat out, “What, the fuck?”

The two teenagers jumped slightly at the intrusion and glanced over to see who had caught them. Yoongi found your eyes first, his growing in size as he realized you had caught him. It wasn’t that he felt guilty, you knew that, but it was the fact that he knew it would be awkward between you both, because . . . well . . . just yesterday he was blowing spitballs your way through a straw and now you had just seen him with his tongue down a girl's throat.

“Fuck,” he managed to mutter out as he detached himself from the girl and caught sight of you standing and looking at him in shock.

But you weren’t staring at him in shock. No, you were standing still because if you moved, you were sure you’d end up letting a few tears fall. It wasn’t that you didn’t know Yoongi wasn’t a virgin anymore. You knew. You’d heard Jin go on and on about how Yoongi hooked up with his jazz band partner or how he went down on some girl in the girl’s bathroom last month. You had heard it all, and every time it’d gnaw at your flesh just a tad. But this . . .

Actually catching Yoongi in the act was something you never wanted to see because you knew you wouldn’t have been able to handle it. You’d always wonder what it would be like to be that girl he was with. But you knew that could never be. You were Seokjin’s little sister. Yoongi couldn’t have you in that way, even if he wanted to or even if you were older, because of the very fact that you were Kim Seokjin’s sister, and that meant that you would always be off-limits.

So when you saw them, all you wanted to do was cry.

But you had grown into your skin a little more now. You were not brittle or weak, and you certainly did not let anyone see you cry. And you would not have Min Yoongi see you cry over him like he had seen when you were twelve and gave him that stupid paper ring that you still foolishly kept in a drawer in your room.

That was exactly why you turned completely around and walked back toward the school when you made eye contact with Yoongi, then drifted to the girl’s face, recognizing her as Han Daeun. You didn’t want to see it. They could continue for all you cared. But, fuck, did it hurt.

And when you didn’t hear anyone come after you, you couldn't stop the tears from falling down your cheeks as you silently cried. Until . . .

Yoongi’s voice filtered through your ears and he was . . . yelling your name.

You only walked quicker, almost breaking into a sprint, but Yoongi was faster. The boy secured his hand around your arm before you could bolt away from him. You quickly wiped your tears away before he could see them as you turned around to meet his eyes.

“What?” you questioned, your voice curt. You knew how you looked—cold and vacant, but you didn’t care. You were hurt.

Yoongi breathed out through his nose and dropped his hand. “I’m sorry,” was all he said.

“You don’t have to be sorry,” you hissed, your voice coming out harsher than you intended. “You can do whatever you want. I don’t care.”

“Don’t be like that,” Yoongi pleaded, his voice as calm as ever. He always sounded like that—collected and calm, which you usually admired, but right now, it made you want to bite his head off.

You took a step toward him, sending him a challenging look. “Like what?”

“Come on, kid,” Yoongi scoffed. “I’m sorry you had to see that.”

“I don’t care.”

He said your name in a whisper, trailing off.

“Look, I get it, you think I’ve got this big crush on you,” you began, crossing your arms over your chest. “I don’t need you to protect my feelings. In fact, I don’t have any anymore, not for you. So I don’t need you coming after me, apologizing like I’m some stupid little kid.”

Yoongi sighed, running his hands through his jet-black hair. “I just know how you get. I don’t want to hurt you.”

You couldn’t help the scoff that left you. “Oh, please, you’re so fucking full of yourself,” you spat. “Just because I had a stupid crush on you when I was a kid, does not mean I still have one. Got it?”

Yoongi only looked at you, his face blank. “Look, kid, I didn’t mean it like that,” he muttered. “I just don’t want you to—” He cut himself off, attempting to rest his hand on your shoulder, but you pulled away.

“Think I have a chance with you?” you finished for him, seething.

Yoongi only dropped his hand, his head dropping with it as he squeezed his eyes shut in regret. It was perhaps the first emotion he had shown you like this. And it managed to piss you off even more.

He still thought you were some dumb kid.

Well . . .

. . . he could go fuck himself.

Another scoff fell from your lips. “Heard you loud and clear,” you bit out. “But next time, Yoongi, maybe don’t chase after me. Wouldn’t want the crazy obsessed little girl to think you might like her.” And with that, you turned around and stormed off to paint your feelings.

He called out to you.

But you only flipped him off.

And Yoongi didn’t follow you.

On your sixteenth birthday, you made sure you got absolutely plastered.

Your parents were away for the weekend, so that meant Seokjin had made it his personal mission to throw his baby sister the best sweet sixteen yet. And that meant booze, booze, and more booze.

He’d invited the guys from his basketball team that had now become nothing more than a few friends coming together every once in a while to play against each other now that they were all ready to go off to college in the new semester. Hari, of course, was one of the first people to come over way before the actual party started, bringing along with her Kim Taehyung and Park Jimin, two boys in her class who she had grown close to that school year. That also meant you had grown close to them too, but that wasn’t much of a surprise given your outgoing personality.

(Let’s just say you had gained some attention as time passed, the rumors about you being a snob, trickling into nothing.)

And if they were invited, then that meant your brother no doubt had also invited Min Yoongi.

One problem: you had been avoiding Yoongi since you caught him and Daeun up against his car earlier that year.

So you decided getting drunk was your best bet.

And you did, in fact, get drunk. Maybe that was an understatement. You were completely and utterly out of your mind, shooting back shots of vodka with Jimin, meanwhile, Taehyung and Hari laughed at the two of you the drunker you became. Hell, at one point, you were sure you told Jimin you loved him . . . that was how drunk you were.

You’d caught Yoongi’s eyes a few times that night, glaring briefly before you looked away. You had a mission that night: get your first kiss, and if you kept making eye contact with him you feared you’d accidentally let it slip that you wanted him to be the one to kiss you even though you knew he never would. So, every time you’d make eye contact with him, you’d look away and take a shot.

It wasn’t until you started to lose count of how many shots you took that you realized that maybe getting drunk was not the best plan. And as the night came to a close, everyone drunk and gleeful, you tried to make your way to the bathroom, but found yourself not being able to walk up the stairs. You just kept falling over.

And after the fifth time you fell over, you felt strong, warm arms wrap around your body. One arm went under your knees, the other wrapping around your back, carrying you bridal style, and you didn’t complain (partially because if you opened your mouth, you’d end up puking on the person).

You lost track of time after that. You remembered getting to the bathroom, puking as much as you could before you felt someone wipe your mouth and proceed to help you brush your teeth. You remembered being picked up again and carried somewhere. Only when you were laid on something soft did you realize you were laying on your bed in your room while the person carefully took off your heels and shoved on a comfortable sweatshirt over the dress you were wearing. But the person didn’t dare to remove your clothes. Instead, they kept you in your dress accompanied by the sweatshirt before they pulled back the covers of your bed and tucked you in.

And you let this all happen because for some odd reason you felt . . . safe.

Only when the person sat down, their weight making the bed dip, did you flutter your eyes open enough to see that Min Yoongi had been the one to take care of you. You almost puked again at the thought out of pure nerves.

“Hey, kid,” he began, slowly as he brushed a hand over your forehead. He grabbed something from your nightstand and brought it to your lips. “Take a drink.” You realized it was a water bottle he had picked up. “It’ll help.”

And you did as you were told, for once.

When you were done, you stuck out your bottom lip, pouting. “I’m mad at you,” you whined as you weakly smacked his face, trying to push him away.

Calm as ever, Yoongi simply grabbed your wrist, halting you. “You’re drunk.”

“You’re—I hate you.”

“Fair.”

“I’m still mad.”

“I know.”

You sniffled. You didn’t want to cry, but the alcohol in your bloodstream was impacting your emotions. “You’re mean,” you huffed, jutting out your bottom lip as it quivered. “I hate that you make me feel this way.”

A sigh left Yoongi. “I know.”

It was silent for perhaps far too long.

Then Yoongi spoke. “Can I tell you something?”

“Hmm.”

“I got a gig,” he confessed. “It’s at this underground jazz place.”

All previous sadness left you then. You couldn’t help it. You sprung forward, looking at Yoongi through droopy eyes, but the grin on your face was wide. “Really?!”

A smile tugged at Yoongi’s lips. “Yes.”

You patted his shoulder. “That’s great, Yoon,” you hummed. “You’ll blow them away.”

Another second of silence. You fell back to your bed, resting your cheek on your hand.

And it was silent, until Yoongi spoke again. “I’d like it if you’d come,” he mumbled, his voice quiet and for the first time, you questioned if this was the first time you were truly hearing Yoongi let go of that calm exterior.

“Why would you want me there?” you questioned, sulking slightly. You knew you hadn’t been the nicest to him recently. In fact, you thought you guys were drifting apart.

“When I couldn't believe in myself, I believed in you and that gave me strength,” the boy spoke, his words soft. “That’s what you told me that day on the train. Your words didn’t go over my head. I’ve cherished them just as I’ve cherished our friendship.”

His words only stung your heart. Friendship. You knew this by now but it still hurt.

“I hope you know how much you mean to me, kid,” he went on. “You’ve given me hope, and I can’t think of anyone else I’d want to stand beside me when I take that first step other than you.” A laugh left his lips then. “To be honest, I don’t think I can do it without you. You’re kind of my good luck charm.”

You hummed, “Good luck charm?”

Yoongi only tapped your nose in response, something he had been doing since childhood. It was a sign of affection. It was perhaps the only affection Yoongi ever really showed as hugging wasn’t his style and telling people how he felt had always been too hard for him to fathom. But you yearned for it nonetheless.

“I’ll come,” you said after a minute. “But . . . can I ask you something first?”

“Hmm.”

You opened one eye, peeking at him. “Promise you won’t laugh?”

Yoongi tilted his head to the side in thought. “Well . . . “

“Yoonie, please,” you whined, lightly slapping his chest.

That only earned you a laugh from the boy beside you. “OK, OK, what is it, kid?”

You stayed silent for only a second before you shot your hand forward, your pinky on display. “Pinky promise?”

Yoongi rolled his eyes, but locked his pinky with yours and shook. “Pinky promise,” he murmured, softly. “Now what’s your question?”

“Can you kiss me?”

Your question was like a bullet going off in the darkness of your room. It silenced everything, and you felt it slowly swallow you whole.

And with your heart pounding in your throat, you took your chances (again). “I don’t want it to be with anyone else,” you went on, your voice pleading as you locked your pinky with his. “It’s my first. It’s supposed to be special.” You squeezed his pinky finger. “You’re special to me.”

But Yoongi pulled away, unlocking your pinkies in the process.

The older boy said your full name in a whisper, trailing off. He didn’t refer to you as his prodigy or as kid. He just simply called you by your name, and you knew what that meant.

“Don’t say it,” you quickly rushed out, putting a hand up. You couldn’t hear him say those words again. Your heart couldn’t take it. “I’ve been rejected enough to know what that means.”

Yoongi rested a hand in your hair. “Please,” he whispered, his voice weak and anxious, not the soft calm it normally was. “I don’t want to hurt you. You’re one of my favorite people, but I just . . . you’re like a little sister to me.”

You buried your face in your hands. “God,” you cried into your hands, your voice being muffled. “This is so embarrassing.”

You felt Yoongi stroke your hair, and you just knew he was giving you that same sympathetic look he always sent your way. “You’ll have your first kiss, kid,” the boy spoke up again, breaking your heart even further. “And it’ll be with someone so much better than me. You’ll see, kid. I promise.”

He didn’t dare lock his pinky with yours this time around. He just let the silence consume you. But you didn’t care about the deafening silence; all you could hear were his words repeating in your head over and over again.

It’ll be with someone so much better than me, he had said, and you felt the urge to scream, because all you could think was, But I wanted it to be with you.

Despite the ache in your heart, you did end up going to Yoongi’s first gig. You had dressed in your nicest clothes, and gone with a smile on your face. And when he played, you felt the keys were playing to the hum of the beat of your heart. You were crazy to think that this song the boy had composed had been made for you, but you still allowed yourself to think it. Hell, you wished for it, even if, deep down, you knew it had never been meant for you.

And when his set came to a close, he glanced out at the audience, a small, strained smile on his face as his eyes searched the crowd. Only when his eyes had landed on you, did he stop searching as he let a wide grin break out on his face, and you could have sworn your heart stopped right then.

There was that wide, gummy grin that sat on his face as he bowed to the audience before he quickly rushed over to you. “You came,” he breathed out as he wrapped his arms around you, bringing you in for a hug. (Something that he never did.)

“When I told you you would always have my support, I meant it, Min Yoongi,” was all you responded with as you embraced him. And you had meant that.

Because you had never admitted it before, but you knew why you would do anything for Min Yoongi. You knew why you would always support him. You knew why your heart beat a little faster when he was near. You knew why you cared so much about his opinion. You knew what you felt for him.

You loved him.

So while Yoongi thought your friendship would continue to flourish, you weren’t sure how much of this you could take. You were sure it’d break you completely one day.

You had to fix this. You couldn’t have a life without him in it, but you also couldn’t live a life waiting for someone who would never look your way.

And then you realized one thing: you were entirely fucked.

You quickly figured out how to get over Min Yoongi. How exactly would you do this? Boys.

Although you weren’t entirely sure it helped all that much, you convinced yourself it did. So just as the school year was coming to an end, you set out on a mission: kiss a boy. And by the end of that week, you had completed it.

You’d invited Kim Namjoon—a boy in your year who just so happened to sit next to you in a few of your classes—over to your house one evening. Your parents would be out, and you were sure Seokjin would be preoccupied with Yoongi and Hoseok. So that meant, you’d be alone. Correction, you’d be alone with Namjoon and that was exactly what you wanted.

It did not take long before you hooked one leg over the boy, straddling his waist as the two of you made out on your bed. And while you didn’t hate kissing the boy, you couldn’t help but imagine you were actually kissing Yoongi instead, because you knew for a damn fact Yoongi would not be beating around the bush, too afraid to stick his tongue in your mouth.

You knew Yoongi would be gentle, but you also knew that wouldn’t last long. He’d surely end up biting your bottom lip, desperately asking for you to comply with his request before he slipped his tongue into your mouth. And you knew he’d taste just as good as he smelled.

But . . . you weren’t kissing Yoongi, instead, your first kiss was with Namjoon, and while it wasn’t bad . . . it wasn’t what you wanted. However, you wanted a distraction. You wanted more, and you were sure Namjoon didn’t mind as he had just told you he didn’t want to go into his final two years of high school with a girlfriend. Which . . . fair, you supposed. Pregaming for college?

You were fine with that.

In fact, you were entirely fine with that as you deepened the kiss, lightly tugging on his bottom lip before you pulled your shirt over your head, leaving your chest only to be covered by a bra.

Namjoon tugged his bottom lip under his teeth as he glanced down at your bare skin. He was leaning toward you a second later about to connect your lips again when the door to your bedroom slammed open.

“I got another gig!” the intruder cried out in glee. “Kid—oh.”

Standing in the middle of your doorway was Min Yoongi dressed in a blank tank and baggy black sweatpants to match. His hair was a little longer now, but what stuck out the most was the look on his face as he caught you sitting on the lap of some random boy he had never met with your shirt entirely off.

Yoongi nodded his head toward Namjoon. “Get out,” he spat, his voice calm, but menacing.

You groaned at him, sliding off of your classmate. “Oh, get a grip, Yoongi,” you hissed as you slipped your shirt back on.

But Yoongi was adamant. In fact, he hadn’t even looked at you once. His narrowing gaze was on Namjoon and Namjoon only as he ordered once more, “Get out.”

Namjoon stayed quiet, eyes wide and mouth slightly agape.

You, however, did not keep your mouth shut. “Seriously?”

A muscle in Yoongi’s jaw twitched. “Jin!”

At that you jumped up, pulling Namjoon to his feet. “You, motherfucker!” you hissed at the older boy as you quickly shoved Namjoon out of your room. You shoved Yoongi’s chest, hard, before you waved to the boy retreating out of your house. “Bye, Joon. Call you later.”

When you both heard the front door slam shut, Yoongi set his sights on you. His jaw was locked, his eyes angry and full of a fire you had never seen before. And then came his words, “Are you fucking serious?”

You didn’t miss the way he spat his words as if they were tiny daggers aiming for your heart. Instead, you put up the front you had grown into over the years and shoved past him. “Eat me,” you muttered with malice as you made your way down the stairs.

But Yoongi didn’t leave it at that. At the bottom of the stairs, he reached you, wrapping his hand around your arm as he tugged you toward him. And with your eyes finally on him again, he asked, perhaps a little harsher now, “What the fuck were you thinking?”

A sly grin slid onto your face. “So you can make out with girls and practically finger them against your car, but I kiss a boy and the world ends?”

His jaw twitched again. “You don’t get it,” he began, his voice low so your brother wouldn’t hear. “Boys your age only want one thing. I’m trying to protect you.”

You narrowed your eyes. “I can protect myself,” you protested as you ripped your arm out of his grasp. “I’m not a little girl, you know? I’m sixteen. I don’t need you to tie my shoes or block the screen when a scary part comes on during a horror movie.”

“You don’t know anything about guys like that,” Yoongi said again, not truly hearing your words.

“And you do?”

“Yes.”

“Why’s that?” you beckoned, putting your hands on your hips and tilting your head as if you were challenging him. “Because you’re one of them?”

He began to say your name.

But this time you cut him off before he could give you that look again. “Don’t,” you uttered, putting your hand up. “I can take care of myself. I don’t need you anymore.”

Your words lingered in the air.

I don’t need you anymore.

Yoongi’s face softened.

He dropped his hand, taking a step back. There was this wall slowly being put up between the two of you, and you both knew it. You had felt it for a long time now, but chose to ignore it. You were sure Yoongi felt it now, too.

“What the fuck are you guys fighting about?” Seokjin’s voice intruded in on your conversation (or lack thereof).

The two of you did not turn to glance at Seokjin, though. You kept staring at each other, Yoongi’s eyes now soft and wide while you held your stance, your eyes narrowed and sharp. It was almost as if you were challenging each other to see who would let go of the other first.

You looked away first.

You stormed away from the Min boy, approaching your brother as you shot your hand out and punched him in the shoulder. “Fuck you,” you spat as your fist collided with your brother’s shoulder.

“Ow, she hit me,” Seokjin gasped, looking between the two of you. “She’s mad at you and she hit me.”

“Respectfully, Jin . . . shut the fuck up,” was all Yoongi said.

“I don’t think I will,” Seokjin scoffed, turning around to set his sights on you as you headed for the front door. “Yah—”

But you cut him off, once again. “Fuck you!” And with that, you slammed the door, walking further away from your brother and the boy who held your heart. You knew you shouldn't have said those things, but . . .

Fuck you, Jin. That was it. That was all you felt. Just—Fuck you. For what exactly? You didn’t really know.

Fuck you for intruding?

Fuck you for being your brother?

Fuck you for being friends with Min Yoongi?

Fuck you . . . for bringing him into your life.

That—

That was it.

It was the brief break before you went into your junior year of high school when you lost your virginity. And it was nothing like how you used to dream it to be.

You’d been invited to a bonfire by Jimin who had dragged Hari and Taehyung along with him, begging for you to join them as well. But you had been hesitant.

See, the thing was: Hari and Taehyung seemed to have something going on, so that meant they’d spend the entire night together while Jimin would probably be off trying to get the number of one of the girls from the cheer squad and maybe try to snatch the digits from one of their football player counterparts. That all left you to be alone. Now, you’d gotten used to being alone over the years, opting to put on this extroverted front so you didn’t feel so lonely in a crowd of people, and normally you liked that. Normally you liked being out there and aloof like your paintings . . . but you hadn’t been feeling it that night.

The reason for your dull attitude? Min Yoongi.

You hadn’t spoken to Yoongi in two weeks. You knew he'd be leaving for college soon, but you were stubborn. You’d ignored him when he’d come over to the house to hang out with your older brother. Even when he called your name to get your attention, you’d turn your head, nose held high as you ran off to your bedroom and locked the door.

It wasn’t that you hated him. You just couldn’t bear to see him.

So your only option? Get drunk and get over it.

And you had gotten drunk, and you had tried to get over it (to get over him), by getting under someone else. So on the night of the bonfire, you lost your virginity in the back of a beat-up car to a boy you never even learned the name of.

Truth be told, you didn’t want to learn his name. That would make it real—the fact you had lost your virginity and it wasn’t with the person you loved.

You’d forced yourself to tell the unnamed boy that it was good and you had a fun time. Then you’d gotten dressed, texted your friends that you’d head home by yourself, and left.

You’d ended up back at your house around three in the morning, completely sober and not really caring if you slammed the door a little. Your parents were away for the week on business or whatever, and you were sure Seokjin wouldn’t be home, so who cared?

But, just your luck, when you had gone to your room, changed into a sweatshirt and shorts, then made your way to your backyard to dip your feet in the pool, you caught sight of the one person you had been trying to avoid.

“Do you ever go home?” you groaned out as you stared at Min Yoongi, who was currently shooting hoops in your backyard.

Yoongi stilled, his back stiff. But he didn’t turn to look at you.

So you went on, “It’s three in the morning, you know? You can sleep.”

“I couldn’t,” was all he said. “Boyfriend drop you off?”

“More like fuck buddy,” you lied.

A scoff came from Yoongi. “You’re too young for that.”

“Like you don’t fuck?”

He murmured your name, trailing off, giving you that same look. He looked at you as if you were still that same stupid little girl who he gave a slice of pizza to while you stood in the doorway, trying to get his attention. But you weren’t. That wasn’t you anymore, and you wanted him to know that.

“You don’t get to tell me how to live my life,” you stated, firmly. “I am not a little girl anymore.”

Yoongi gave you a sympathetic look, and you wanted to deck him. “You’re only sixteen,” he spoke, calm as ever. “You deserve more than . . . boys like that.”

You rolled your eyes. “Of course, you’d say that. Shocker,” you huffed as you plopped down at the edge of the pool, your feet dangling in the water.

It was silent for only a second before you felt something smack into your back. You released a gasp and looked for the source, finding that Yoongi had just bounced the basketball off your back.

“What the fuck?!” you yelled, not caring if your snobby neighbors heard.

“Sorry,” Yoongi hummed, a hint of a smirk tugging at his lips. “It slipped.”

You felt nuclear. “Bullshit!” you shouted as you sprung to your feet and lunged for the older boy. You jumped at him, locking your arms around his neck and hooking your legs around his waist, trying to tackle him to the ground. “You’re a piece of shit, Min Yoongi!”

A laugh only erupted from Yoongi. “You know, this is amusing?” he chuckled, swinging you from side to side. “It’s like carrying around a backpack or a baby koala.”

You were not impressed. “You’re a bitch!” you yelled again, pounding your fist into his chest, but doing no damage whatsoever.

“Me?” he questioned, adding a light teasing scoff to his words. “You’re the one who’s been ignoring me.”

“Because you don’t know when to give it a drink!”

“You’re the one climbing me like a goddamn tree!”

“Yeah! Because you left me no choice!”

The boy suddenly pried you off of him, clasping his hands around your wrists as he bent down to be eye level with you. His jaw was tight and his eyes were narrowed. He’d never looked at you like this before.

You stilled in his grasp.

And then he spoke, “What choice have you ever given me?”

“What?”

“Don’t do that,” he grumbled. “You know what I mean.”

You tore your wrists out of his grasp and he let you. “No, I don’t.”

“For years, I’ve known you had a crush on me, and I tried to be careful about it,” he began, his jaw still tight. “I’ve tried to be your friend. I’ve tried to tell you that I can’t be anything more because you’re you and I don’t ever want to hurt you.” He took a deep breath in. “And I know that’s, in turn, what’s been hurting you—our friendship.”

You stayed silent.

Yoongi only continued, “You are my favorite person I think possibly in this entire world, but . . . I can't give myself to you in the way you want.” He blinked, his eyes glossy. “I don’t want to hurt you, but you’ve given me no choice.”

You’ve given me no choice, and you knew you hadn’t.

“Instead, you avoid me and get mad at me for this, and I don’t know what to do anymore about it,” he confessed, the night making his eyes appear woeful. “So I’ll ask you again, kid, what other choice do I have?”

And for once in your life, you didn’t know what to say.

So the only response you could fathom was, “I’m sorry.” And then the floodgates opened, and the tears spilled, your sobs soon swallowing you whole. “I—I’m so sorry, Yoon. I wish I could stop it. I’m sorry. I’m so—“

That was all it took for Yoongi to let down the tough exterior he always wore. A heavy sigh escaped his lips as he slowly wrapped his arms around you, pulling you into him and hugging you tightly. He didn’t like hugs, but he’d put up with them for you.

You slowly embraced him, weakly clutching onto his shirt as you buried your face into his chest. You hadn’t known exactly what pushed you over the edge. Perhaps it was everything all at once.

And then everything really did hit you all at once.

You realized what happened that night. You realized you’d lost your virginity in a way that made you feel worthless. You realized you’d been hurting Yoongi just as you’d been hurting yourself. And then you realized he had graduated. He’d be leaving for college soon. He wouldn’t be here anymore.

Yoongi would be gone, and you’d still be there, right where he left you.

That, perhaps, was the second time you felt your heart truly break. Because Yoongi meant more to you than that. His friendship had brought beautiful technicolor to your life. He’d been the one to support you when no one else had. He’d been there, and he wouldn’t be anymore in a few months.

How could you let him go?

And then, for the millionth time that night, you embarrassed yourself again. You rasped in a loud breath and sobbed, “I lost my virginity tonight.”

“Oh.”

“Fuck you.”

“No, it’s just—“ he pulled back, slightly, to meet your eyes— “I didn’t expect that.”

“Well, it happened.”

“Was it—“ he made a face— “good?”

You couldn’t help it, you whined out a sob. “No!” you slapped your hands against your face. “It was awful, and he smelled like fucking asparagus!”

“Oh.”

“I know!”

Next came a pat on your shoulder. “It’ll get better,” he reassured. “Like wine . . . better with age.”

Your hands slid down your face. “You are the worst person I know.”

A laugh erupted from Yoongi, revealing his gums as his shoulders shook. “You love me.”

“I loathe you,” you corrected, finger high in the air.

“Yeah, kid—“ he tapped your nose— “I loathe you, too.”

Your face slowly fell. Not because he had said something wrong, but because of the thoughts that consumed your brain. In a few months, you wouldn’t get to hear him joke with you like that. You wouldn’t get to have him anymore.

“You wanna know the worst part about it?” you questioned, eyes flicking up to meet his.

Yoongi nodded, growing solemn.

“I should be more upset about losing my virginity to some loser, but instead, I’m here trying to wrap my head around the fact that you’ll be gone soon,” you confessed, trying not to feel like a stupid child.

Yoongi nodded again, his eyes now on his shoes. “I’ll visit.”

“But . . . I don’t want you to leave,” you mumbled, weakly.

A hint of a warm smile lifted onto Yoongi’s face, but he didn’t glance up to look at you. “I’ll miss you, too, kid,” he whispered, his voice quiet and weak almost as if he were having trouble getting the words out.

And when he did glance up, his eyes were slightly reddened, but you didn’t pull any attention to it.

“Are we . . . OK?” he asked the question the both of you were avoiding.

You sniffled. “We have to be,” you affirmed. “You’re my hope, Yoon. We have to be OK.”

Yoongi pulled you into him again, consuming your body with his as he rested his chin on top of your head and let you bury your face into his chest. You’d let him hold you forever if you could. But for now . . . this was enough.

“I’ll always be a call away,” he mumbled into your hair.

“I know.”

“And I’ll always pick up.”

“I know.”

Silence for a second.

Then, he spoke again, “You give me strength, kid.”

“That’s all I’ve ever hoped for.” 

You felt him nod.

“Just promise me one thing?” you questioned.

“Anything for my prodigy.”

You snorted, but your heart felt heavy. “Just promise me no matter what happens even if we fight and never see each other again that you’ll always remember you have my support,” you spoke, softly and quietly. “Never feel like it’s a burden. It’s free and unconditional. It’s for you to keep forever, even if you end up hating me in the end. I will always support you.”

“I promise.”

“No—” you reached for his pinky— “pinky promise me.”

Yoongi snorted, softly, but nevertheless, locked his pinky with yours and shook.

“Promise.”

Silence once again. This time it wasn’t uncomfortable, until . . .

“Well—” Yoongi huffed into your hair— “B-ball time. Wanna scrimmage? One-on-one?”

You snorted and slapped his chest. “I hate you.”

Yoongi scrunched his nose before he briefly pressed his lips to your forehead. “You love me, kid.”

You faked a gag, which caused Yoongi to burst out laughing.

“I fuckin’ hate you,” he laughed, shaking his head as the wide gummy grin never left his face.

You only smiled. “Ditto.”

As the two of you spent the early hours of the morning fighting to win the one-on-one basketball match you’d started, you made peace with it all. If this were to be the last happy moment with him, you’d cherish it. No matter what. You’d cherish it forever.

And . . . you did.