Archive of Our Own

Seokjin’s already in the kitchen when Yoongi walks in, sleeves rolled up to his elbows and an apron tied around his waist. He’s in the middle of dicing some carrots, a giant clear container of them in front of him, but he stops midway when he spots Yoongi.

“You’re late,” he scolds. There’s a teasing grin on his face. “Did you sleep a little too well, Yoongi-chi?”

Yoongi grunts as he finishes tying his apron. “I’m early,” he corrects, his voice still rough from sleep. He fetches a clean towel, immediately gets to work wiping down his station. “And I told you so many times, don’t call me Yoongi-chi. I’m still your boss.”

Seokjin hums. “Sure, Yoongi-chi,” he says serenely, before bursting into laughter, all bright and squeaky.

Yoongi rolls his eyes and ignores him, partly because Seokjin’s impossible to reason with, and partly because they’ve still got a whole day’s work ahead of them. He lays out the towel once he’s done, pulling out a chopping board and knife and setting them both down. He spots the container of garlic right where it always is, tucked next to the onions and the bell peppers, and he fetches it, popping the lid open when he’s back at his station to start on his prep work.

It’s quiet between them, nothing but the sound of chopping filling the air. Yoongi lets himself get lost in it, peels and dices clove after clove, his hands steady in their movements. He’s done this for so long now that sometimes, in the weird, depressive mess of his thoughts, he thinks that this is what he was made for—not to cook, but to chop ingredient after ingredient, whittle them down into different shapes for different dishes. To spend the rest of his life prepping for someone else.

On the wall, the clock reads 7:18 in blaring red numbers. The morning silence swells, then settles in the spaces between them. It feels fragile, delicate. Dreamlike, almost—a transient peace in a kitchen of chaos. It’s not long, Yoongi knows, before this peace will fade, not long until the others trickle in and the kitchen turns loud and messy and noisy, laughter and yelling filling up every crevice.

But right now it’s early and Seokjin is quiet and focused and calm at his station; right now, there’s nothing else for Yoongi to think about except all the garlic in front of him. Right now, despite the exhaustion in his bones and the sleep that still clings to his eyelashes, he finds that there’s nowhere else he wants to be. Nothing else he’d rather do but enjoy the quiet. 

Nine days after Yoongi’s birthday, his older brother Yunho kills himself.

Overdose, his mom had choked out over the phone, her breaths shallow and her voice trembling. His brother had taken a week’s worth of antidepressants and locked himself in the bathroom, and by the time they’d gotten to him, it was too late. He’d died in the frantic minutes they’d waited for an ambulance to arrive, his heartbeat fading into nothing.

Yoongi doesn’t remember much after that phone call; one minute he was in Paris, staring down a crate of mushrooms, the next he was back in his family home in Daegu, wearing a black suit and an armband and accepting condolences from family friends. It felt surreal, standing there lighting incense and arranging flowers, staring at the photograph of his brother, knowing that he’d never see him again.

It’s difficult, Yoongi thinks, to understand who he is in relation to his brother, to classify himself neatly into a role. Yunho was a wildcard—unpredictable and erratic, with moods that changed as quickly as the weather. Their parents had loved him, but Yoongi, quiet and mild-mannered as he is, was simply just the easier child to care for, and therefore was doted on much more. Which meant they were kept apart growing up because Yunho was difficult and their parents believed that Yoongi had a bright future ahead of him.

So they weren’t close. But when Yunho died, he’d still left something for Yoongi. 

The others arrive as the minutes tick by. Between him and Seokjin chopping, they’d managed to get quite a bit of ingredients prepped, divvied up into containers and set aside for easy access during service.

“Oh, wow, early again?” Jimin jokes as he ties his apron, surveying the amount of containers stacked up in front of them, then the mountain of vegetable peels already in the trash. “I think you two can run the restaurant without us. There’s nothing left for us to do.”

“There’s always something to do,” Yoongi replies gruffly. “If you don’t know where to start, I suggest giving the toilets another scrubbing. We can never be too clean in the restaurant.”

Jimin makes a face and slinks off, presumably to set up his station and do some actual work. Hoseok, from where he’s prepping potatoes, says, “That’s a little cold, hyung.”

”He’s not wrong,” Seokjin chimes in thoughtfully. His tone is light, but Yoongi can hear the authority beneath it. “There is always something to do in this kitchen.”

”Yeah, but Jiminie just likes to tease,” Hoseok defends. “You know how he is.” He cuts a peeled potato in half, quickly dicing it into perfect squares. “Anyway, Jiminie won’t take it to heart, but you shouldn’t be speaking to the intern like that.”

“Intern?”

“Did you forget?” Hoseok queries. “We’re getting an intern today.”

Oh. Yoongi didn’t forget, not really—he vaguely remembers Namjoon saying something about it, asking for his signature on some forms—but it had just…slipped his mind, that’s all. Faded into the background, superseded by all the things he needs to do and all the things he needs to worry about. 

“He probably did forget,” muses Seokjin. “After all, Yoongi has more important things to do than to babysit an intern.”

“Namjoon said he’ll be shadowing Jiminie today,” Hoseok replies. “Apparently, he mentioned it and Jimin volunteered. Jimin’s always liked doing stuff like that.” He sets aside his cut potatoes, grabbing a few more from the bin. “But you still have to be nice to the intern, hyung. He’s not getting paid much, but he joined us because he looks up to you.”

”Don’t worry, Yoongi will be nice,” Seokjin says, before Yoongi can respond. When Yoongi looks over, Seokjin’s already looking at him, a mischievous sparkle in his eye, a teasing grin playing on his face. “He’s just a little prickly in the beginning, but he’s as soft and sweet as spun sugar once you get to know him. Aren’t you, Yoongi-chi?”

“I told you not to call me that,” Yoongi hisses, at the same time Hoseok snickers, hiding his laughter beneath his palm. 

“But it’s my nickname for you,” Seokjin responds, unbothered. “C’mon, Yoongi-yah. What’s a nickname between friends?”

Yoongi shakes his head. “Whatever.” 

Lunchtime prep has always been simple. Service is from eleven to two-thirty, and they’re only really serving soups and stews, mostly to cater to the elderly population nearby. When Yoongi looks around, he finds Jimin and Jisoo prepping the stews, with Taehyung and Jeongguk rationing out the proteins while Yeonjun and Beomgyu heat up the stone pots. The rice still needs to be cooked, but that’s easy; Yoongi knows that someone will take care of it, eventually.

“I’m going to smoke,” Yoongi says gruffly. He pulls off his apron and drops it in front of his station. “Seokjin-hyung’s in charge.”

He doesn’t wait for a response, just stalks off to his locker to grab his pack of cigarettes. Distantly, he hears some chatter, some laughter, and a bout of quiet complaining from Hoseok, “He doesn’t always need to tell us that he left you in charge.”

“Well,” Yoongi hears Seokjin reply. “He does that because Yoongi has a cru—”

Yoongi shuts the door behind him. 

Kim Seokjin, Yoongi thinks as he lights a cigarette, is a fucking enigma. 

The first time they met, Seokjin was handsome, polite, and cold. It had been right after Yunho’s funeral, after most of the guests had left. The cold spring air had a bite to it, the smell of fresh earth filled his lungs, and there Seokjin was, a vision in black, shoulders shaking with quiet sobs as he stood before the place where Yunho was laid to rest.

Yoongi had known of him—hard not to know the name of your older brother’s best friend, no matter how distant they were. But Yoongi didn’t know much about him, just that he and Yunho had been best friends since childhood and were inseparable up until Yunho’s death. Yoongi had caught glimpses of him a few times growing up, when he’d look out the window of his childhood bedroom and find Seokjin standing by the door waiting for Yunho to come running out.

There, in front of Yunho’s grave, Seokjin was older than Yoongi remembered him to be. And yet, he looked so young, so helplessly lost, the lines of his face reminiscent of the boy Yoongi used to watch through his window. 

Yoongi introduced himself, unsure of what else to do. They’d never spoken to each other before, but Yoongi felt like they had to now that they were bound by this same grief. He didn’t know what he was looking for—a friend, maybe, or a shoulder to lean on, or someone to help him make sense of the noise in his head—but Seokjin simply smiled at him, detached and aloof, and took a step back.

It’s nice to finally meet you, Yoongi-ssi, he said. He didn’t try to make conversation after that, nor did he respond to Yoongi’s fumbling attempts. He simply stood there, cold as ice, staring down at the ground that had swallowed Yunho whole.

The latest delivery of ingredients arrives just as Yoongi finishes his cigarette. Yoongi helps Jeongguk look through them, noting down their quantities and checking their quality. There seems to be a missing crate of potatoes, but considering they’ve still got enough for service today, Yoongi lets it slide—though only after the delivery men promise to swing by and bring it tomorrow. The nicotine in his blood stream and the familiar work calm him, reduce the noise in his brain until it feels like he can think again.

When he gets back inside the kitchen, the clock reads 9:26, and the kitchen is in full swing. There’s a boy he doesn’t recognize standing next to Jimin, listening intently as Jimin talks him through flavoring the stew.

“Um, hi?” Yoongi says, stepping forward. “Hi. You must be the intern.”

The boy’s head whips up in surprise, and then his face flushes completely red. He steps away from Jimin and does a full ninety-degree bow, torso parallel to the floor.

“Hi!” the boy squeaks, before clearing his throat and trying again. “Hi. Oh, wow, it’s really—it really is you. Wow. Namjoon-ssi said, and I knew, but I—I’m rambling. Hi. My name is Choi Soobin. I’m excited to be working in your kitchen, Chef Min Yoongi-ssi.”

Jimin snickers, already amused by the interaction, and Yoongi feels like dying just a little bit. It never gets easier, these introductions—all these bright-eyed culinary students looking up to him in adoration, all of them clamoring to learn something from him just because he’d earned a Michelin star. The first time it happened, he’d turned on his heel and walked away, unable to deal with the fawning; now, he knows better, but the urge to do just that is still overwhelming.

“Um, thanks,” Yoongi says, useless and lame. “You’re early.”

“I was told to come at nine-thirty.”

“Four minutes. That’s…good. Punctuality is good. Keep it up.”

Soobin straightens up. Blinks at him.

Before Yoongi can say something else to try and salvage the situation, an arm is thrown around his shoulders. “Forgive our dear Yoongi-chi,” Seokjin drawls, his voice far too close for comfort, his tone teasing like it has been the entire morning. “He doesn’t get out a lot, so he tends to forget how to make conversation.”

Yoongi does his best to shove Seokjin away. “Fuck you,” he says tonelessly.

“Don’t fight,” Jimin chimes in.

Soobin’s eyes widen. “No, it’s—it’s okay,” he stammers. “It was my fault, Chef Kim. I just got a little too excited seeing him.”

“Enjoy that,” Seokjin laments, “Because trust me, a few days in and you’ll be tired of seeing his face. He’ll haunt you even in your dreams.”

Soobin’s eyes grow impossibly wider.

Yoongi lets out a sigh. “Let’s not talk about me like I’m not standing right here,” he says irritably. He manages to shrug Seokjin’s arm off his shoulder, taking a few steps away from him. “Soobin, don’t listen to him. He’s an idiot because his mom dropped him on his head as a child.”

“Touchy,” Seokjin sulks, but the glint in his eye is still there. “Well, Chef, I just came by to let you know that in terms of prep work, we’re ahead of schedule. Jimin and Jisoo have the stews on the stove, and they just need to add the sundae into the broth, then we should be good to open. Beomgyu’s setting up his station for tonight, and Taehyung just left. He mentioned some issue with the delivery of the new wines for dinner service, and he went to pick them up.”

“Do we have rice?” Yoongi asks.

Seokjin flashes him a grin. “Put it in the rice cookers myself.”

“Good,” Yoongi says. Nowadays, he doesn’t worry about service anymore; he’s learned over the course of the last two years just how dependable his team is. Seokjin, for example, can be silly and ridiculous, but he’s reliable and capable when he needs to be, with the ability to operate under pressure and to know exactly what needs to be done. 

“Is…there anything I can do to help?” Soobin asks.

Yoongi shakes his head. “We tend to keep it pretty simple for lunch,” he explains. “Save all the effort for dinner. If you want, you can keep shadowing Jimin or—actually, family meal? Can I get you on that?”

“Sure,” Soobin responds eagerly. “Um. Any preferences?”

“Surprise us. Hyung?”

To his credit, Seokjin springs into action, dropping his playfulness in the blink of an eye. “Chef,” he says, tone deferential, before he turns to Soobin. 

“Follow me,” he says. “Let’s get you set up over here.”

Soobin, bright-eyed and eager, follows immediately, and Yoongi watches the two of them weave through kitchen counters and chefs hard at work. Seokjin chatters away, warm, bright and happy, easygoing in a way that Yoongi’s learned is an attempt to keep his natural introversion at bay. If given the choice, Yoongi knows that Seokjin would choose to be at his station, laser-focused on his work and barely speaking. And yet, he isn’t. 

“See,” Jimin says. He’s got an eyebrow cocked and his arms are folded across his chest, and like this, he looks the slightest bit menacing. “Jin-hyung does respect you. I don’t know why you keep trying to fight with him.”

“I’m not trying to fight.”

Jimin’s tone is challenging. “Aren’t you?”

It’s not a topic he wants to discuss right now, or ever, if he’s being honest. “Get back to work,” he says instead of answering Jimin’s question. He’s gotten used to dealing with the crew’s tendency to stand by Seokjin no matter the situation, to the way they jump to his defense at every small thing they perceive as an offense to him. “That stew looks a bit underseasoned, chef, and we’re opening soon.”

“It’s still simmering,” Jimin shoots back, always a little argumentative with Yoongi. In other kitchens, this would be a sign of disrespect; here, Yoongi welcomes it. He’d rather have this Jimin than the Jimin he was first introduced to, all polite and deferential, without a single idea he wanted to share. 

Thankfully everyone else is preoccupied, so Yoongi manages to head back to his station without incident. His garlic is still there on his chopping board, half-peeled and undiced, but the garlic container has been packed away, and the counter has been wiped clean. 

Yoongi looks across the kitchen, finds where Seokjin is standing with Soobin and explaining the kitchen layout. Then after a moment, he shakes his head, puts on his apron, and begins to mince his garlic.

The second time Yoongi meets Seokjin, it’s a month after Yunho’s funeral and he’s manning the counter of the gukbap restaurant.

To be honest, they’d gotten off on the wrong foot, mostly because Yoongi was lost and grieving and Seokjin was no better. Seokjin hid it well, though; his smile had seemed so real when Yoongi and Namjoon walked in, and his personality was so upbeat that it was difficult to even tell that he was struggling.

But he’d shut down when Yoongi started talking, stayed unmoving when Yoongi explained to everyone in the kitchen how he wanted to take over the restaurant and help Yunho’s spirit live on. Namjoon showed me the books, you see, and the numbers are a bit strange, but the gist of it is that we’re operating at a loss and if we optimized the menu—

So, let me get this straight, Seokjin cut in then, anger audible in his voice. You’re going to come in here, take over the restaurant, slash half the menu and change the way we do things, and call that letting Yunho’s spirit live on?

I just want to help, Yoongi said.

We don’t need your help, Seokjin retorted. His tone was terrifying in its quiet ferocity, in the emotion packed into the words. You didn’t even know him. What makes you think you have the right to decide what he would’ve wanted?

“Oh,” Yoongi says, at a loss for words.

Behind him, Soobin nervously shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “I hope you like it,” he says.

It looks good, Yoongi thinks distantly, staring down at the plate in front of him. Smells good, too. Beef stir-fry with broccoli and potatoes, sitting nicely atop a plate of warm rice. The smell is savory and garlicky with just a kick of spice. He knows that if he took a bite, it would taste exactly how he likes it.

There’s a lump that forms in his throat, sudden and immovable. He can’t bring himself to take a bite.

Soobin must sense his sudden discomfort. “Chef?” he asks, uncertain.

Before Yoongi can make up an excuse, there’s a shadow that falls over him, a hand swooping in to grab his plate. “I’ll take that,” Seokjin says, cheerful and bright. In one quick motion, he sets down another plate in front of Yoongi—pajeon, Yoongi notes a little amusedly—and quickly takes a step back, like he’s running away. “Yoongi-chi, let’s trade!”

Yoongi doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry. “You do know you’re supposed to ask to trade before taking it, right?”

Seokjin’s laugh is squeaky. “Sorry,” he says, entirely unapologetic. “Yours just looked so good!” He takes a big bite out of the stir-fry.

Soobin’s gasp is so loud that it makes everyone in the dining room pause to look at him.

“Wait, but—!” Seokjin cocks his head at Soobin, chewing, and the mere sight of it makes Soobin’s eyes look like they’re about to bulge right out of their sockets. “Chef, you can’t eat that! You’re going to die!”

“Oh? Will I? Were you actually trying to poison dear Yoongi here and I thwarted your plans?”

Soobin looks like he’s about to have an aneurysm. “No, he can eat it, but you—garlic! And potatoes! You’re allergic to garlic and potatoes!”

There’s a long, awkward pause.

Jimin’s the first to break the silence, bursting into loud laughter. That, of course, somehow makes him choke, and his laughter quickly morphs into loud coughs.

“Oh, my god,” Jeongguk mutters. He reaches over to thump Jimin on the back. “Jimin-hyung, don’t die.”

Soobin looks like he’s ready to just keel over and die.

“Huh,” Seokjin says. He takes another bite of the stir-fry. “Did I say that?”

“You mean…you’re not actually allergic?”

It’s Namjoon who decides to interject. “No, he is,” he says, shooting Soobin a kind smile. “Hyung actually is allergic to garlic and potatoes. But funnily enough, hyung also doesn’t really care that he is.”

Soobin blinks, confused. “But…why not? Wouldn’t he die from eating them, then?”

“At most, he’ll itch a little,” Namjoon replies dismissively. “And then complain about itching.” He raises his voice. “Which is what he deserves because he’s a five-year-old who stole Yoongi-hyung’s food.”

Seokjin cackles. “Sorry, but it looked so good.” His eyes slide over to meet Yoongi’s. “I’m sure Yoongi doesn’t mind, does he?”

Yoongi raises an eyebrow at him. “Don’t you dare ask me for allergy medicine later,” he says mildly. He picks up a pair of chopsticks and cuts into the pajeon, picking up a piece and popping it into his mouth. “Also, I’m locking up the first aid kit.”

“No,” Hoseok cuts in, alarmed. “No. You can’t do that. I’m pretty sure that’s a health and safety violation of some sort.”

“He’s a health and safety violation of some sort,” Yoongi shoots back, childish.

Soobin watches them with wide, tense eyes. “So…it’s okay?” he hedges. “No one’s—no one’s going to die?”

“You’re good,” Namjoon reassures, giving him a kind smile. “And thank you for making a special meal for Seokjin-hyung. But just a heads up, you don’t have to do that next time.”

“Sorry,” Seokjin says again. “And thank you, Soobin. This is really good.”

Soobin deflates, looking a bit like a wilted flower. After a moment, his eyes flicker to Yoongi. 

“Oh, Chef Min,” he says, tone subdued. “I, um, the pajeon’s a little plain, ‘cause I—well, you know, but I mean, I can add something? Or, um, I can give you some sauce for it?” 

Yoongi feels for him, he really does. iIt’s not easy being the new person in a group with established hierarchies and institutional knowledge.”Some sauce would be great,” he responds, making sure to smile kindly as he speaks. “Thanks, Soobin.”

Soobin nods once, the action stilted, then hurries back to the kitchen. Yoongi waits until the door swings shut behind him before he turns to Seokjin, an eyebrow raised.

“You know you didn’t have to do that, right?”

Seokjin winks at him, and then laughs. He takes another bite of the stir-fry, and Yoongi rolls his eyes.

Jeongguk always tells him that they’re not as busy as they used to be, back when they were open 24/7 and their area had a lot more bars and nightclubs. Still, they do get decent foot traffic for lunch—mostly housewives, nearby workers, or retirees from the neighborhood looking to get a quick, filling, and delicious meal. 

The restaurant’s always been known for their sundaeguk—Yunho had been the one to perfect the recipe—and even now, it remains their most ordered dish. Still, Yoongi’s more recent additions of a kimchi jjigae and a bulgogi jeongol to the menu has also helped boost their popularity, so much so that it’s helped increase the restaurant’s monthly revenue, at the very least.

Yoongi works in the back during the lunchtime rush with Jimin, Hoseok and Soobin, while Seokjin and Taehyung man the counter. It’s easy, mindless work; there’s nothing too technical about packing bowls of rice or doling out portions of soup. It’s a far cry from the cutthroat kitchens he used to work in to make a name for himself, different from all the places that forged him and left burn marks in their wake.

Sometimes, Yoongi wonders if he’s doing the right thing. If he was right to give up his successful career in Paris, right to pack everything up to take over this restaurant. He had worked so hard to get that far, after all. He still had a lot higher to reach.

But this was the only thing Yunho had left him, the only thing of his brother he had left. And in the weeks following his death, Yoongi had come to realize that Yunho had never once asked him for anything else.

And then, there was Seokjin. 

A loud ding breaks through his thoughts, and when he looks over, he finds Seokjin grinning at him through the service window, his hand gleefully poised over the service bell he’d insisted on keeping there.

Speak of the devil, Yoongi thinks, and wanders over to the service window. “What do you want?” 

Immediately, Seokjin starts complaining. “Nooo,” he whines, despite the wide grin on his face. “That’s not what you’re supposed to say. You’re supposed to say, Hi hyungnim, how are you? You’re looking especially handsome today, how can I help you?”

Yoongi snorts. “You really think I’m more polite than I actually am,” he deadpans.

“What do you mean? You’re sweet as sugar.” He doesn’t give Yoongi the chance to respond to that, sliding an order ticket over to him.

“So Jeonggukie and I met this ahjumma at the market,” he begins conversationally. “She was so sweet, Yoongi-yah, and she let us pick the best cuts of meat for a fraction of the price.”

Yoongi picks up the ticket and scans the order. “Is there a point to this story or are you just trying to blow off work?”

“You wound me,” Seokjin replies, in a tone that tells Yoongi he isn’t really wounded at all. “But if you must know, there is. For weeks and weeks, I’ve been trying to get her to drop by the restaurant. And now she’s here.”

Yoongi looks past his shoulder to the lady standing at the counter. She looks sweet, kind and motherly in a way that reminds Yoongi of his own grandmother. When she catches Yoongi staring at her, she waves, her face lighting up in a smile.

“Apparently, she adores you,” Seokjin continues conversationally. “She followed your story on the news and always dreamed of getting to try your food. She’d been saving up, you know. Wanted to book a flight to Paris so she could get a table at Milou and try your cooking specifically.”

Yoongi’s eyes flicker back to Seokjin’s, and it dawns on him exactly what Seokjin wants him to do.

“Oh, fuck you,” he huffs, no heat in his voice. “Get back to work, hyung.”

And Seokjin, because he can recognize when Yoongi’s given in, grins even wider. “Chef,” he parrots, and saunters back to the counter.

Yoongi heads back to his station, takes a heated stone bowl from off the stove. From a distance, he hears Seokjin still talking to her—don’t worry ahjumma, he’ll make sure you have the best dwaejigukbap you’ve had in your life—and he shakes his head, doing his best to tune it all out. It’s not good business sense, he knows, to give out bigger portions of their food to a select few people. Namjoon would surely scold him for it if he ever found out, say some shit about profit and cash flow and return on investment. 

But Namjoon wouldn’t have to know—after all, it had been ruled that he be banned from the kitchen proper due to his clumsy nature, lack of knife skills, and missing survival instinct. He’d gotten a tiny office in consolation.  

So Yoongi works quietly. Spoons far more meat and vegetables into the bowl than he usually would, carefully arranging them to keep hidden from Jimin’s nosy eye. He sets it on the tray, next to the already-prepared bowl of rice and banchan, before picking it all up and bringing it to the serving window.

“Hands,” he calls, and then dings the bell once, for good measure.

Seokjin’s there in a flash. “Add a drink,” Yoongi mutters under his breath, setting the tray down. Seokjin’s face brightens, and his hand brushes against Yoongi’s as he picks it up, somehow managing to blow him a kiss before sauntering off.

“Um,” Yoongi hears Soobin say quietly. Yoongi ignores him and heads back to his station to start on the next order.

The rest of the lunch service passes quickly. Yoongi loses himself in the motion, in the sound of a busy kitchen, the aromatics sizzling and the soup boiling. The times he looks out through the serving window, he finds Seokjin working his magic at the front, making bad jokes and charming customers into reluctant smiles. Sometimes, their eyes meet, and Seokjin does something ridiculous: shoots him a wink, blows him a kiss, or gives him a finger heart. Always, Yoongi rolls his eyes at him, but finds he’s unable to stop the way his mouth tugs up into a smile. 

Still, he does his best to focus, because there’s work to be done. There’s always more work to be done. 

Beneath all that, however—beneath the bustle of the kitchen and the banging of the pots and the pans, Yoongi hears Soobin speak, quiet as a mouse.

“Are Chef Min and Chef Kim…?”

“Don’t worry about them,” Jimin replies flippantly.

After lunch service is over, Yoongi heads to Namjoon’s office.

It’s something of a tradition with them: as the rest of the kitchen clears out lunch and gears up for dinner service, Yoongi takes some time to sit with Namjoon and discuss business plans and operations and every logistic minutiae about the restaurant. Or rather, Namjoon discusses it with him, while Yoongi mostly listens and lets himself enjoy the time away from the kitchen.

In the beginning, of course, these meetings weren’t as stress-free—getting the restaurant out of the red and pouring money into the renovations was all blood, sweat, and tears, and there were so many things that needed to be dealt with. But now that they’ve managed to establish some modicum of stability, Yoongi finds that he can relax a little.

Namjoon doesn’t even look up when Yoongi slips in, his head bent over his desk as he pores over documents. 

“There’s a few things,” he begins. “Do you want the good news or the bad news first?”

Yoongi thinks about it as he takes a seat. “Good news,” he decides.

Namjoon shrugs. “We’ve actually filled our tables for the next two weeks,” he says. “Both dinner seatings, all the two-tops, even the bar. Our waitlist is packed, too. That article in the Red Ribbon Survey really helped boost our numbers. Oh, and we can claim more tax credits this year.”

Yoongi braces himself for the other shoe to drop. “And the bad news?”

“The tax credits are only claimed against net losses,” Namjoon deadpans. “And our operating costs are continuing to go up. Which means, we can’t keep buying the stupid expensive olive oil, hyung.”

Yoongi lets out a sigh. “It’s a non-negotiable, Namjoon.”

“It tastes exactly the same.”

“No, it doesn’t—” At that, Namjoon looks up and shoots him a glare so icy that it actually makes Yoongi shy back. “I’m just saying, Namjoon. We’re trying to get a Michelin star. It just makes sense to use the best ingredients.”

“Well, if you keep it up, there won’t even be a restaurant to award a Michelin star to,” Namjoon replies. A moment, then he deflates, all the anger suddenly leaving his body in a sigh. “Look. All I’m saying is, we need to find an alternative, hyung. We’ve just finally managed to get our heads above water. If we want that to continue, we’re going to have to increase our profit margins.”

“But it’s—”

“Please, hyung,” Namjoon cuts in. “At least for a little bit. Then once we’re making steady profit, we can re-explore the fancy olive oil.”

It’s hard to argue with Namjoon, partly because he’s the smartest person Yoongi knows, and partly because he’s the person Yoongi trusts most in this world. They’ve been friends since university, went through hell and back getting their respective degrees together—Namjoon with the constant academic pressure and the constraints of having his life all planned out for him, Yoongi with the loneliness of living in Seoul and the mental pressure of an active kitchen. He’d been the first one to show up when Yoongi served his first prix-fixe menu, the first one Yoongi broke the news to about his employment at Milou and his subsequent Michelin star. He’d even followed Yoongi here, to Daegu, quitting his well-paying job in Seoul to try and help him keep Yunho’s restaurant afloat. He’d sacrificed just as much as Yoongi did, and Yoongi knows with full certainty that Namjoon would never once steer him wrong.

“Heard, Chef,” Yoongi says. 

Namjoon slumps in his seat. “Thank you,” he replies, tone full of relief. He leans back, pulls off his glasses to rub at his eyes, the stress leaving him in waves.

Yoongi watches him for a few moments. “Well, if that’s all, I should probably get going,” he says. “Jeongguk wants me to try his new dessert, and Jimin—”

“Oh, right!” At the mention of Jimin’s name, Namjoon straightens up, pins Yoongi with a strange look. “Actually, there’s one other thing I wanted to talk to you about. The intern.”

“What about him?”

There’s a pause. “I think you might be scaring him.”

Yoongi blinks a few times. “Huh?” he says eloquently.

The corner of Namjoon’s mouth twitches up in amusement. “Actually, let me correct that,” he says. “You and Seokjin-hyung are scaring the intern.”

That doesn’t really make anything clearer. “I mean, I’m being nice,” Yoongi says, baffled and unsure where the conversation is headed. “And normal. Hyung’s being…whatever the fuck he usually is.”

“The Chef de Cuisine of the restaurant?”

Yoongi fixes Namjoon with a glare. “A nuisance and a pain in my ass,” he corrects. “Keep up, Namjoon.”

Namjoon looks like he’s trying to hold back a laugh. “Somehow, I don’t think you really mean that.” He shrugs, leaning forward a little. “But you know, Jimin says that Soobin’s not really sure what to make of you two.”

“Well, does he have to make something of us?” Yoongi asks point-blank.

Namjoon shakes his head. “Look,” he begins. The amusement in his eyes has grown. “I’m only telling you this because I’m your best friend, but genuinely, you and hyung are weird.”

Yoongi opens his mouth to protest, but Namjoon raises a hand. “So weird,” he reiterates. “I’m pretty sure everyone else in the kitchen thinks the same, too. Of course, we don’t mind it, because we’d much rather have this than you two being at each other’s throats every day, but seriously, hyung. None of us understands whether you’re the worst of enemies or the best of friends.”

“Okay…?” Yoongi hedges, confused. “Not sure what actionables you want me to take from that, if any.”

“Simple,” Namjoon replies. “Stop scaring the intern. We need cheap labor and he’s a big help to us right now. We can’t have him running away just because you and hyung are acting…like this.”

“Like I said, I’m not doing anything. I’m not sure he is, either. Maybe this is a conversation you should have with hyung instead of me.”

Namjoon raises an eyebrow at him. His gaze is sharp, pointed, and a touch intimidating. That’s the thing with Namjoon, Yoongi thinks, already feeling himself relent. He’s like some sort of sheep dog—silly, smart, and capable, with a terrifying intensity that’s difficult to ignore. 

“Whatever,” Yoongi mutters. “Fine. Fine. I’ll talk to him.”

“That’s all I ask.”

Yoongi pushes himself off the chair. “I’m leaving,” he says. He heads to the door, pulling it open forcefully. “This conversation was strange, and I didn’t like it. I never want to speak to you ever again, Namjoon.”

“See you tomorrow, hyung,” Namjoon says cheerily.

Yoongi rolls his eyes. For good measure, he slams the door behind him. 

“Corner!” Yoongi hears Seokjin yell while he’s halfway through trimming some mackerel, his sleeves pushed up to his elbows and his fingers covered in fish guts. 

A moment later, Seokjin’s voice comes from somewhere closer behind him. “Behind.”

“Chef,” Yoongi responds, focused on scraping out the bloodline. He stays put, waits for Seokjin to move, but strangely enough Seokjin doesn’t.

Yoongi waits a few more moments. “You know saying ‘behind’ implies that you’re going to get out of the way eventually, right?”

“I don’t know,” Seokjin replies thoughtfully, and Yoongi can hear the smile in his voice. “I quite like the view from here.”

Yoongi lets out a sigh. “What do you want? Genuinely?”

“Oh, I don’t know. To be a bother, maybe?” Seokjin steps up so he’s standing right next to Yoongi, his profile sharp in Yoongi’s peripheral vision. “How’d it go with Namjoon?”

Yoongi sets down the knife, weighs out Namjoon’s words in his head. “He said that we have to stop buying the fancy olive oil,” is what he settles on.

“Oh,” Seokjin says, disappointed. “But I liked the fancy olive oil.”

“He says we’ll go bankrupt with it.”

“Huh.” Seokjin’s hand finds its way to Yoongi’s shoulder, a barely-there touch, months of shared understanding tucked in its lifelines. “Bankruptcy by olive oil.” 

A pause, and then he bursts into loud, squeaky laughter, the sound bouncing off stainless steel countertops and punctuated by the sound of chopping. 

“Imagine that,” he continues. His hand travels down, lightly, to the small of Yoongi’s back, the barest hint of warmth before it falls away completely. “We’ll be the first, I guess.”

Yoongi shakes his head. “Get back to work, Chef.”

“Chef.” And then Seokjin’s gone just as quickly as he’d arrived, disappearing back into the smokescreen of sounds and smells, into the chaos of a bustling kitchen.

Yoongi looks back down at the fish in front of him, all its guts and innards spilled out in front of him. Thinks that he understands it, a little—its vulnerable, exposed state, its heart laid bare for everyone to see. 

The thing is, it’s difficult to classify his and Seokjin’s working relationship. To put into words what they are to each other, exactly.

In the beginning, it was straightforward: Seokjin was Yunho’s best friend, turned coworker, turned bane of Yoongi’s existence. He was stubborn, uncooperative, and unwelcoming; he shot down every single one of Yoongi’s ideas around the restaurant. They fought a lot, clashed over the menu and the ingredients and even Yunho’s nonsensical ledger, threw insults like bombs and slipped snide remarks like knives. Everyone else rallied behind Seokjin, because—well, why wouldn’t they? Seokjin was trying to protect what they knew, whereas Yoongi, precise and exacting in the ways fine dining demanded, was the one trying to change everything.

You know, I think you and Jin-hyung would actually get along if you guys talked it out, Jeongguk told him once during a smoke break they shared. At the time, Yoongi had scoffed, rolled his eyes, carted in a lungful of smoke in the hopes that the nicotine would calm his rising blood pressure. 

And then arguments got worse, insults turned biting, and in a last-ditch attempt, Jimin and Taehyung locked them both in the freezer.

I don’t understand why you keep fighting with me, Yoongi had raged at Seokjin back then, his frustration and anger rearing its full, ugly head. You have to—look, I’m trying, Seokjin-ssi. I’m doing my best to keep this place alive. To keep his spirit alive.

And you think I’m not? Seokjin snapped back immediately. There were tears pooling in his eyes, his mouth twisted in a snarl. You think you can waltz in here with your fancy fucking culinary degree and your Michelin star and act like you know what’s best for us? That you can just change everything he built? Everything he left behind?

Well, it’s the only thing I can do, Yoongi roared, unable to stop the tears prickling in his eyes. You don’t think it’s hard for me too? I didn’t know him, I don’t know what he would’ve wanted, and yet I come here everyday, trying to fit into the life he left behind even though I know I’m an outsider and none of you want me here. I’m fucking trying, Seokjin-ssi.

Like I care that you are, Seokjin roared back. Because if this whole fucking place goes tits up, you still have your reputation and your Michelin star to run back to. For the rest of us, this place is all we have. 

A tear streamed down his cheek, which he forcefully brushed away. 

You don’t get it, Seokjin continued, his voice cracking. You won’t ever get it. Because congratulations, you got the career everyone dreams of and you’re only here out of some misguided notion that this is what Yunho would’ve wanted. But I’ve been stuck here for years, working my ass off in this restaurant with no fancy culinary school education, no recognition, no Michelin star to speak of. 

And Seokjin’s words lodged into the tiniest fissure in his chest, wedged themselves tight between his ribs. Stayed, heavy and immovable even as their harsh words morphed into something quieter, then tapered off into a lasting silence.

Eventually, Taehyung let them out after an hour. Seokjin didn’t spare him a single glance for the rest of the evening, and Yoongi couldn’t bring himself to look at Seokjin either. He could only replay those words over and over in his head, throughout the night and into the early hours of the morning—the weight of them difficult to swallow, difficult to ignore.

I’m sorry, was the first thing Yoongi said to Seokjin the next day, when it was just the two of them in the kitchen. I didn’t know that was how you felt. I didn’t think beyond the restaurant. 

I’m sorry too, Seokjin had responded. It was the kindest he’d ever looked around Yoongi, his icy expression softening, his eyes gentle. It’s still hard for me to deal with the fact that he’s gone.

It wasn’t much, but it was something: a step forward, a mutual attempt to find common ground. 

“The idea of doing prix fixe dinner service was all Yoongi-hyung’s,” Yoongi overhears Jimin telling Soobin, tone like he’s imparting a deep secret despite his voice being loud enough to carry. 

No, Yoongi immediately thinks to himself. But he doesn’t say that out loud; instead, he keeps his eyes trained on the plate in front of him, watching Jeongguk carefully piping ganache on a dessert he’s been practicing for weeks, a tangerine-flavored pastry shaped like a lotus flower. 

“His goal was to highlight the cuisine of Gyeongsang Province,” continues Jimin, completely oblivious to Yoongi listening in. “But he wanted to do it by using ingredients local to the area and adding his own twist to traditional cooking methods. 

Soobin, when he speaks, sounds awed. “I read about that,” he says. “On Haps Korea, they said that he single-handedly transformed a failing gukbap restaurant into an upscale, trendy dinner spot.”

Jimin makes this face, sometimes, when he fully disagrees with a statement but is trying to be polite about it. Yoongi can picture him doing exactly that. “I wouldn’t say ‘failing’,” he says diplomatically. “Back when Yoongi’s brother was still running the restaurant, we were actually doing pretty well. There were more clubs and bars around the area, which meant more foot traffic. But there was some rezoning, the bars and clubs around us all shut down, and it became this dead area.”

“Oh,” responds Soobin. “His brother…?”

“Min Yunho,” Jimin responds. “He’s—well, he’s not around anymore. Yoongi-hyung took over the restaurant to keep his memory alive, even though it wasn’t doing too well. But then he recognized that there was a more affluent neighborhood a few streets down, and he had this insight that those people were probably looking for a nearby restaurant to go to for special occasions. And in a stroke of luck, the restaurant came into some money, and then it was just a combination of a good redesign, good marketing, and Yoongi-hyung’s wildly amazing food that would get people to come, and eventually come back.”

“Wow,” Soobin says. “But it makes sense. Chef Min’s got a Michelin Star, after all. People all over the country probably want to try his food.”

Yoongi pictures Jimin nodding. “We’ve been running dinner service for about six months now, and so far we’ve managed to fill up every seating. Obviously, we still need some time to break even, but it’s been good so far.”

“I’ve only heard great things about this place. Everyone says Chef Min is a genius.”

“He is,” Jimin agrees. “Wherever he is, I know his brother is proud of him.”

Yoongi’s chest tightens. There’s a part of him that hopes that Yunho is proud of him too, that were he alive, he’d look at everything Yoongi did to the restaurant and pat him on the back, say something like, Well done, Yoongi. But it’s not something he can say for certain; it’s easy, after all, to put words into a dead man’s mouth, to shape his imagined reactions to support the narrative you want. But Yoongi doesn’t know what Yunho would think—he never could read his brother like that—and beyond that, he isn’t quite sure how Yunho would feel seeing the gukbap restaurant he worked so hard to establish turn into this. 

He opens his mouth to interrupt, but loses his chance when Jimin and Soobin walk away, the former already discussing something about polishing silverware.There’s much about the story simplified as it was, that isn't quite true. In reality, Yoongi isn’t a genius, and he certainly isn’t as noble as Jimin made him out to be. 

The truth of it is far, far simpler. 

“Chef?” 

When Yoongi looks up, he finds Jeongguk staring at him with wide, worried eyes, his piping bag laid down and his hands behind his back. His lotus flower dessert sits nicely on the plate, artful streaks of coulis and precise dots of ganache surrounding it.

“You okay?” he asks, tone gentle and worried. 

Yoongi shakes his head. “It’s nothing,” he says. He inspects the pastry, takes note of its ridges and its edges, of how every part of it is exactingly precise. Honed to perfection, after Jeongguk spent weeks practicing and practicing, hoping to finally get this dessert on the menu.

Yoongi picks up a fork.

The first bite has the tart sweetness of tangerines, bursting onto his tongue. After a split second, the slightly bitter notes of Jeongguk's dark chocolate ganache kicks in, melding together into this subtly rich flavor. The third note, an aromatic hint of Ceylon cinnamon, ties everything together and leaves Yoongi feeling warm and sated.

“It’s good,” he tells Jeongguk once he swallows, setting down the fork. “Great job, Jeongguk.”

Jeongguk doesn’t respond, just keeps staring at Yoongi. He looks both nervous and hopeful, tension in the set of his shoulders.

Yoongi smiles. “Let’s add that to the menu tonight,” he says. “I’ll leave you to prep.”

The smile Jeongguk gives him is bright and with the slightest hint of bashfulness, his shoulders sagging in relief. 

“Chef,” he says, bowing ninety degrees, before turning back to start portioning out the ingredients.

Yoongi watches him fondly for a few more moments before leaving him be.

Dinner prep is a cacophony of sounds and smells, the time passing by in an aroma-induced haze. The rest of their crew arrives—part-time employees, Yoongi hears Jimin helpfully explain to Soobin, and in the blink of an eye, the kitchen becomes a lot livelier.

“Chef!” Jihyo greets him as soon as she sees him. She’s bright, bubbly, and, as Yoongi’s come to learn, working with her, runs dinner expo like she’s running the navy. “You’re looking especially cat-like today.”

“He does,” Sakura, one of their servers, muses, tapping her finger against his chin. “More cat-like than usual, actually.”

“Chef cat,” Yunjin, another server, chimes in, saluting as she does it.

Yoongi blinks at them. “Hi.”

They laugh a lot, these girls, like it’s instinct, like it’s something that’s just natural for them to do. Nothing even has to be that funny—just the slightest thing can set them off, like they’re already so full of happiness that it’s always just waiting for a moment to spill out of them. A few months ago, back when Yoongi was the outsider stepping into his brother’s shoes and this kitchen was a complicated pattern he’d had to learn to read, their laughter was a little jarring to listen to. The kitchens Yoongi had worked in never really had any laughter. In fact, they never seemed to have any sense of joy at all.

But Seokjin handpicked them, and Yoongi has to admit, he picked well. They’re yet another testament to Seokjin’s brilliance, to how he’s slowly been changing Yoongi’s life.

To how Yunho’s death has been changing Yoongi’s life. 

A strange feeling settles in the pit of Yoongi’s stomach.

Funnily enough, it’s at this moment that Seokjin appears, a handful of shallots in one hand and a handful of garlic in the other. 

“Girls,” he greets, all business, “there are some last-minute changes to the menu for tonight. You need to speak to Hobi, he’ll explain it so you can talk through it during service. Jihyo, make sure you take note of the timing. And make sure you speak to Namjoon, I think there might be a few VIPs on the reservation list for tonight.”

The girls snap quickly to attention. “Chef,” they say in unison, pulling themselves up straighter. 

Seokjin, unable to help himself, gives them a fond smile. “Oh, and it may interest you to know that we have an intern starting today. Jimin has him polishing silverware right now, but you should go say hi to him when you can.”

“An intern?” Yunjin echoes, both bewildered and excited, her eyes gleaming. The three of them disappear just as quickly as they’d arrived, slotting into their rightful place within the well-oiled machine of the kitchen. 

Seokjin doesn’t leave right away. Yoongi had known that he wouldn’t, so he stays perfectly still, keeps his expression neutral. His lungs feel constricted like they’ve been caged into place, unable to expand and draw in enough air, and he wonders offhandedly if this is the fault of the many cigarettes he smoked in the past years. 

“You good?” Seokjin asks.

Yoongi takes a moment before he speaks. “Yeah,” he replies. “Just feel a little weird today.” 

Seokjin keeps watching him carefully. “Yunho?” he asks.

The funny thing about Seokjin, Yoongi thinks, is that he’s somehow gained the uncanny ability to see right through him, recognize his imperceptible reactions, and understand, implicitly, everything that he doesn’t say out loud.

“Dunno,” Yoongi says, rather than yes. He knows Seokjin will hear it anyway. “I think I just need a smoke. You good to run pre-shift?”

There’s a myriad of expressions that flash through Seokjin’s face, far too quick for Yoongi to pin down. “Yeah,” he says. “Sure.” After a few moments, he takes one step forward, then another, almost like Yoongi’s an animal about to bolt. “Let me know if you need anything, Yoongi-chi.”

The damn nickname again. This time, Yoongi holds onto its levity like a lifeline. “Yeah, yeah,” he says. “Whatever.”

Yoongi doesn’t speak about Yunho’s suicide much.

Not for a lack of trying; during his first session after Yunho’s death, his therapist, bless her heart, had tried her best to coax it all out of him. It’s not good to keep things bottled up, she’d said, sympathetic and kind, and Yoongi had spent the rest of the hour answering her questions to the best of his ability. 

Min Yunho. He was thirty-six years old. He ran a gukbap restaurant. He liked football. I don’t know his favorite color. I don’t know his favorite dish. I don’t know his favorite song.

Even later that evening, Yoongi kept trying; he’d scrounged up all the words he knew, played with synonyms and antonyms, rhymes and reasons. Sorted fact from fiction, abstract from concrete, listed out his nouns and his pronouns and practiced all his verb tenses. 

But his brother was a language Yoongi never learned to read, and after a while, Yoongi gave up. Every word he’d come up with to describe Yunho felt insincerely large and woefully cumbersome, his mouth clumsy forming shapes it hadn’t learned to make. The most Yoongi could say was that Yunho had always felt like a given to him, a constant like the sky, the sun, or the trees—always there and always something he could reliably anchor to. Something he never thought he’d lose until he lost it.

No one ever talks about how the hardest part of losing someone is relearning how to speak about them, reorienting facts and reconstructing sentences, shifting the verb tense to reflect this new reality, going from I have a brother, to I had a brother.

So Yoongi ends up saying nothing at all.

When Yoongi makes it back to the kitchen after his cigarette break, the pre-shift meeting’s just about to start. He hangs back, positions himself so he’s half-hidden behind Jimin and Soobin, and turns his attention fully to Seokjin.

“We’ve got a few things on the agenda for tonight,” Seokjin begins, flipping through his notebook. His voice isn’t particularly loud, but it’s commanding anyway, the entire room hanging onto his every word. “First, we received our new shipment of ingredients today. We’re missing a crate of potatoes, which should be brought in tomorrow, but we should have enough to cover for tonight.” 

He’s met with silence. Seokjin gives it a few more moments before speaking again. “Alright. Next, the menu. Please keep in mind that miso butter for the scallop has been changed to a truffle miso butter. Fancy, I know, but it adds a bit more depth and richness to the flavor. 

He turns to a page. “Our wine pairings for tonight are still the same: cheongju, makgeolli, soju, sikhye, and maesil-ju. For soju, we’re serving Jinmaek tonight, barrel-aged for two years. For Maesil-ju, the Matchsoon, aged 15 years. Thanks to Taehyung for the suggestions, and for picking them up from the distributor.”

There’s a whoop in the room, likely coming from Taehyung himself. Seokjin purses his lips to keep from smiling and continues speaking. 

“Another change in the menu: as of tonight, we’ll be serving a new dessert. It’s called Lotus.” He clears his throat. “Flavor-wise, it’s built around tangerine, so it’s bright and aromatic, with a nice contrast of dark chocolate ganache and finished with some Ceylon cinnamon. Think of it as an interplay between citrus, bitterness, and gentle spice. Warm and rich, but not too sweet. Very refined plating too, so when you drop it off at their table, take a second to let the guest see it before you start talking.” There’s a moment, and then his expression breaks into a proud smile. “Kudos to Chef Jeongguk.”

“Yeah, Jeonggukie!” Jimin cheers, and the room bursts into a round of applause. Jeongguk looks shy, and starts bowing to every person in the crowd in thanks.

“Stop by Jeongguk's station after this so you can try it for yourself,” Seokjin adds. The room quiets down almost immediately. “As I always say, it’s easier to speak about dishes once you’ve tried them. But don’t eat it all, or we’re deducting it from your paycheck.”

It’s a stupid joke, but he laughs, and the whole room laughs with him. 

“Now, let’s move on to service updates,” Seokjin says once everyone has quieted down. He’s still smiling, the roundness of his cheeks making him look younger. “I’ll pass it over to Jihyo-ssi.”

“Thank you, Seokjin-ssi,” Jihyo says, stepping forward. Seokjin steps back to turn the room’s attention to her, but Yoongi has a hard time tearing his gaze away from him.

It must be something else, Yoongi muses, to grow up this beautiful. Introverted as he is, Seokjin’s always had this magnetic ability to command the room, to draw the eye. Coupled with his easy nonchalance and his engaging charisma, he should’ve been set up for success—a handsome, endearing chef that was both inspiringly passionate and wildly talented.

Again, Yoongi thinks about Yunho and everything that he’d left behind. The mess he’d made, one everyone else had to clean up for him. It’s a tragedy in two parts: death, and what’s left of the living. Everyone’s lives derailed because of this one, fucked up event.

He feels a pair of eyes on him, and he turns to find Soobin watching him curiously. There’s a question in his eyes, half-formed and stuttered. 

Yoongi deliberately averts his gaze and turns his attention back to the meeting. 

“You know, you worry Seokjin-hyung,” Taehyung says by way of greeting.

Yoongi grunts as he’s studying over the newly-printed menus. “Heard, chef,” he replies. “Thank you. Anything else?’

There’s a pause where Taehyung thinks about it. “I want a raise.”

“Denied.”

“Ouch, you didn’t even think about it.” Taehyung’s lower lip juts out in a semblance of a pout. “Am I not a valued employee of this restaurant?”

Yoongi scrubs a hand down his face. “You are,” he says, keeping his voice kind. “It’s just that with what the numbers are looking like right now—”

“I know, I know,” Taehyung cuts in before Yoongi can spiral into accounting minutiae. “I get it. I was just kidding.”

“Thank you.”

“Not about the Jin-hyung thing, though,” adds Taehyung cheekily. “I’m completely, a hundred percent serious about the Jin-hyung thing.”

Yoongi sighs. “I don’t know why he worries,” he says, his shoulders slumping forward. “It’s not like he can do anything about it.”

Yoongi can feel Taehyung’s eyes on the side of his face. "That's not really something you can control.”

“I guess,” responds Yoongi. “He does what he wants with no regard for what everyone else around him wants.”

There’s a beat. “Do you want to get locked in the freezer again?” Taehyung asks cheerfully. 

“No,” Yoongi replies vehemently. “No. Sorry. I didn’t mean it like that.” He draws in a breath. “It’s been a weird day.”

“I figured,” Taehyung says, tone wry. “You’ve kind of been off today.” He claps Yoongi on the shoulder. “But talk to hyung, okay? And be nice to him. He isn’t really saying anything, but I can tell he’s really concerned about you. He keeps looking over at you. You understand, right, Yoongi-chi?”

“Don’t call me that,” Yoongi replies on instinct, but it’s too late. Taehyung has already bounded off elsewhere. 

Yoongi breathes out, turns back to the menu in front of him and takes a moment to collect himself, to let the jumbled mess of his thoughts and his emotions wash over him, then wash away. 

After a moment, he looks up. Catches Seokjin’s eye from across the room, deliberately holds his gaze. There’s concern written all over Seokjin’s face, a worried furrow in his brow. Yoongi wants so badly to smooth it out.

There are things, Yoongi knows, that Seokjin still can’t bring himself to say, things that he hides behind silly little jokes and dumb little nicknames. Taehyung doesn’t get it—none of them do. Despite knowing him for longer, none of them can read Seokjin as well as he can. 

A beat passes. Yoongi gives him a pointed eye roll. 

Seokjin’s expression calms, relaxes.

He blows Yoongi a kiss.

And here’s the honest-to-God truth behind the restaurant:

Three months after the freezer incident—three months after their last fight—he and Seokjin were outside together. It was late and everyone else had gone home, but Yoongi didn’t feel like returning to an empty apartment, and apparently neither did Seokjin. So they stayed behind breaking down boxes, crushing them up and flattening them to fit them all in the dumpster. 

Through it all, they started talking, surface-level requests that turned into probing questions that morphed into a full-blown conversation. Seokjin curiously asked Yoongi about his time at Milou. Yoongi asked Seokjin about how he’d gotten into the restaurant business.

At that point, Yoongi had already made the decision to leave. 

It was an uphill battle after all, one that Yoongi was happy to lose. The ledger didn’t make sense, the restaurant was losing money, and there was nothing Yoongi could even think of doing to try and salvage that. He wasn’t the best person to steward Yunho’s vision, simply because he didn’t know what that vision was. He didn’t know anything about Yunho.

His plan was to sell his shares, move to Seoul, and find a new restaurant to work in. He had his train ticket already booked. He was one foot out the door. 

But then Seokjin spoke, and Yoongi found himself lingering.

He talked about growing up and loving food, particularly his grandmother’s home-cooked meals, whose recipes he’d learned at age twelve. He talked about meeting Yunho and the friendship that blossomed from splitting their lunches and kicking a football around in the schoolyard. He talked about the two of them traipsing around Daegu, pooling their small allowances together just so they could try more food at the street market. 

In the summer before they went off to university, Yunho approached Seokjin with a proposition: a gukjib that specialized in sundaeguk. Seokjin’s grandmother made the best sundaeguk, after all. He thought that it was time to share it with the rest of the world. 

Yunho had drawn up a business plan so thorough that Seokjin, fully convinced, turned down his admission to Seoul’s top culinary school to help him. 

Honestly, I probably should’ve just gone to Seoul, Seokjin told Yoongi that evening, laughing self-deprecatingly. I could’ve been just like you. But Yunho was convincing. And we actually did pretty well, up until the rezoning happened.

Do you regret not going? Yoongi asked.

Seokjin cocked his head in thought. I don’t like to think about it, he demurred. There was something tucked in the lilt of his voice, a longing he did his best to keep hidden. I just try to focus on what comes next. The restaurant’s here, so I have to keep it afloat. There are so many people depending on this.

His tone was wry, defeated. His words hung in the silence between them, swelled like an orchestra and crashed like a wave. Yoongi felt the urge to dig deeper, to unspool his words and find the truth hiding in its core.

But is that what you want? Yoongi asked. Say that you woke up tomorrow with a fresh start. Is this still what you’d be doing?

Seokjin looked at him funny then, a strange clarity settling in his eyes. The night wind blew his hair off his forehead, and the moonlight bounced off the curve of his cheek, rendering his face half in shadow. 

I don’t know, he responded. Maybe. His eyes were bright, and his gaze pierced directly into Yoongi’s core. I think I’d still be running a restaurant. But not—maybe not a gukjib. Maybe something fancier, with a prix-fixe menu. I’d use my grandmother’s traditional recipes—or maybe elevate them, so it’s something unique but still comforting. Familiar, but still elegant. Something the people who give out the Michelin Stars would like. 

He laughed then, almost like he couldn’t believe what he was saying. It’s stupid, he finished. I don’t know. It made more sense in my head.

It’s not, Yoongi responded immediately, unable to help himself. I like it. 

The corner of Seokjin’s mouth ticked up in a half-smile. 

Yeah? he asked. He looked like something out of a dream, out of a painting, out of a work of art hung up somewhere in the Louvre. Something artists would devote their whole lives to trying to immortalize. 

And there was something about the evening that felt large, looming—a fixed moment in the greater fabric of the universe. Yoongi looked at Seokjin, kept looking at him as the night grew deeper and the stars shone brighter. There was a weird sort of exhilaration bubbling in his chest, a quiet burning in his lungs tempered by a sudden buffeting of air. Seokjin’s words felt certain, indubitable. Bone-deep, the same way intuition is.

What do you say then? Seokjin said. He looked young, untouchable, and his words were a prophecy waiting to come true. You wanna run a Michelin-star restaurant with me? 

A week later, Namjoon called him, his voice shaking. Hyung, he said, I figured it out. Yunho’s ledger. There’s—holy shit—there’s 450 million won for the restaurant.

And Yoongi, to this day, still doesn’t know why he did it, still can’t pinpoint the one thing that made him change his mind. All he remembers is looking around, feeling his gaze land on Seokjin, who’d been working hard at his station. Yoongi remembers his focused gaze, his intense expression; remembers the delicate swan’s curve of his fingers around his knife. Remembers the way he looked under the harsh kitchen fluorescents, exhausted and washed out and yet somehow still so, so beautiful. 

The honest-to-God truth of it all is, it was never about Yunho. 

I know what to do with it, he told Namjoon.

That very evening, he cancelled his train ticket to Seoul.

Service always starts as a trickle, then a flood. 

The first few guests show up early, unwilling to miss their reservation and excited to see what culinary adventure awaits them. After them, it’s one after the other, their easy chatter layering, filling up the room. Quickly, the energy of the kitchen shifts. The laughter dies down, the intensity dials up. The night is young, alive, and full of opportunity.

Every night, it’s the same. And yet, it never gets any easier, the stakes rising. This is where they prove that they’re not just some trendy restaurant that’s doomed to fizzle out after a year. This, Yoongi thinks, is where they can’t fuck up.

“Look alive, chefs,” Jihyo calls to the kitchen from where she’s standing at her station. Just a few minutes ago she was laughing with Taehyung; now, her face is stoic. “Walking mushrooms to table twelve, fire two scallops for tables seven and four. Fire steak for table six, hold the cilantro. That’s two scallops and one beef, all day!”

“Chef!” the kitchen responds in near-unison.

Most people don’t realize just how chaotic the kitchen can be. Yoongi’s been trained in this; some nights he still dreams of his time at Milou chopping and re-chopping scallions into small, even pieces. All the precision and strict detail needed in a fine-dining restaurant has been carved into his bones, ingrained into his muscles. He’s had the best chefs in the world as his mentors, which meant he was subject to the worst verbal lashings and the most terrible insults thrown his way. All the emotional turmoil and mental health issues were just a consequence of that.

When he started the dinner service, he promised himself he’d never subject them all to what he’d gone through.

Still, that didn’t mean it was easy. Fine dining was an exacting art form, and everyone had to learn to be meticulous. It was difficult to get everyone the training needed to get them up to speed, but they managed.

Yeonjun arrives at the pass, sets down a gochujang mushroom dish. Yoongi gives it a quick look, wiping off a smear of sauce on the plate before garnishing, delicately placing a few basil leaves on the dish and adding a sprinkle of sesame seeds.

“Hands,” he calls.

Sakura appears to take it, but Seokjin moves quicker—he pulls the plate towards him, other hand already reaching for the tweezers. He re-wipes the smear and re-adjusts the basil leaves, microscopically moving it to the left.

“There,” he says, grinning, stepping away as soon as he’s done. “Now it’s perfect.”

A year ago, that probably would have infuriated Yoongi. He probably would have taken Seokjin’s teasing as an insult, his cheekiness as antagonism. Now though, he recognizes it for what it is: some friendly banter, a childlike plea for attention, and a furtive way to check if he’s okay. 

Sakura looks between the two of them, confused. Yoongi gestures for her to take it.

As soon as she’s gone, Yoongi gives Seokjin a look. “You know,” he begins mildly, “if you keep doing this, people are going to think that we started fighting again.”

The corner of Seokjin’s lips tick up. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says flippantly. “I just wanted to make sure it was perfect for service.”

“You know it was.”

“The herbs were angled slightly off, and you missed a spot when you wiped,” replies Seokjin. He clicks his tongue. “Silly Yoongi-chi. Have you gotten complacent in your old age?”

“You do know you’re older than me.”

“But I’m younger in career and in spirit.”

Jimin chooses this time to appear, depositing two pans with scallops. The two of them immediately get to work plating, garnishing it with a smear of their truffle miso butter.

“So,” Seokjin begins, his hands delicate over his own plate. “You okay?”

His tone is light, airy. A deliberate contrast to the nature of the question he’s asking, his words hiding connotations of a ghost remembered, of a ghost haunting. Kept alive by memory and memory alone, the thought of him an undercurrent to every action Yoongi takes, to every decision Yoongi makes.

There’s a dull ache in his chest. Yoongi lets the sadness wash over him, then wash away. 

“Yeah,” Yoongi says. He places the scallop perfectly centered on the plate, doesn’t say anything else. “I guess.”

Seokjin hums. “Wanna talk about it?”

Yoongi delicately adds a few strips of jidan onto the dish, a few small perilla leaves angled forty-five degrees. “Maybe,” he decides. He takes a step back from his dish. “As soon as you manage to finish plating before me. Hands!” 

Seokjin grumbles something that sounds like a swear word, and Yoongi resists the urge to laugh. Out of everyone, Seokjin had learned the intricacies of fine dining the fastest, but that didn’t mean it was easy having to unlearn old habits and replace them with something more precise. He’s gotten better at it, but still isn’t quite as good as Yoongi is, who’d been forged in that kind of fire and has the scorch marks to show for it. 

“No fair,” Seokjin sulks, once he’s done plating his dish. He steps back, lets Yunjin pick both up to walk to the waiting tables. “You cheated.”

“It’s not a competition.”

“Still.”

Yoongi shrugs. “I guess that’s just what happens when you’re older in career and in spirit.”

“Chefs,” admonishes Jihyo, “don’t fight.”

She’s giving them a hard look, uncompromising with anything that can fuck up her flow. Yoongi bites his lower lip to stifle his laughter, turning to catch Seokjin’s gaze. Seokjin shoots him a pointed eye roll, and Yoongi feels his smile break free.

“Yes, chef,” Yoongi responds. Quietly, under his breath, he says, “Later,” only for Seokjin to hear.

Seokjin smiles. Under the counter, his hand finds Yoongi’s, intertwining their fingers for a split second before letting go.

If Yoongi had to pinpoint a turning point in his and Seokjin’s relationship, it would probably be the night after their first dinner service.

Or, well—if he’s completely honest, the slow shift started months before that, a quiet simmer just beneath the surface of deceptively calm waters. They’d learned to co-exist, then to be vulnerable; learned to take the early mornings as their unspoken invitations to talk. Yoongi learned that Seokjin had a brother, two nephews, and a dog. Seokjin learned that Yoongi once had a pet cat named Tang, which he’d had to give up when he moved to Paris. 

It was in these early morning conversations that Yoongi told Seokjin about the money, and approached him with a proposition. What do you say, he said, we turn your Michelin-star restaurant into reality?

The pieces fell into place quickly after that. They spent many late nights together, poring over business plans and renovation blueprints and menu planning. They studied recipe after recipe, tweaking and testing them until they landed on something they were happy with. They bickered a lot and only got locked in the freezer one more time. They only lasted a minute before they both burst out laughing. 

Through it all, Seokjin never once asked what pushed Yoongi to take up this half-dreamt endeavor. And Yoongi never once told him, because how could he? There was nothing he could say that didn’t make him sound like a madman.

He knows how it would look, after all: Chef Min Yoongi, who threw away a promising career to keep his dead brother’s failing restaurant alive, just changed the whole concept of said restaurant because some pretty boy told him to. They’d spin a whole narrative, talk of romantic gestures and acts of love, and turn it into something it wasn’t.

Because it wasn’t love, not really—even though Yoongi spent many nights awake building out the business proposal, accounting for every detail, for every cost. It wasn’t love, even though Yoongi spent an hour and a half driving them both down to Pohang just to eat some good seafood and search for recipe inspiration. It wasn’t love, even though they’d texted almost every day while Seokjin was in Paris improving his knife skills and getting a crash course in fine dining.

It wasn’t love, it was just Seokjin as he is, in his entirety, all his ridiculous jokes and his harmless teasing and his squeaky laughter. It was the way he paid attention to the little details Yoongi obsessed over, the way he pored over all the forms and regulations to keep the renovations on track. It was the way he worked so hard, practiced a dish over and over until it was perfect, until he could replicate it a hundred more times with his eyes closed. 

It was the way he wore that sad smile, yet still kept pushing forward no matter how difficult, no matter how daunting.

Their friends and family night was a huge success.Their months and months of hard work had finally come into fruition, their dishes well-received and their service impeccable. Yoongi received compliment after compliment from each person he spoke to, which he delightedly redirected towards Seokjin. Yoongi had never seen Seokjin so bashful. He’d never seen him turn that shade of red, either.

And yet, after all the lights were turned off and all the guests had gone home, Yoongi found Seokjin standing outside, crying.

I’m sorry, Seokjin said even before Yoongi could say anything. It was great, everything went well. I really am happy.

His voice was filled with a deep sadness. Yoongi didn’t say anything, gave him the space to fill the silence.

I’m so happy, Seokjin reiterated, but I’m still so, so sad. It’s just—the whole time, all I could think about was, ‘What would he have thought if he was here?’

And there it was: the one unspoken heartbreak, the tragedy that lived within the walls. The ghost that haunted them, loomed over all their heads like a shroud. Yoongi had spent the whole evening doing his best to ignore it. 

I don’t know, continued Seokjin. I just—He cut himself off, drew in a breath. Said, in the smallest, saddest voice Yoongi’s ever heard him use, I miss him.

It was difficult to come up with something to say. Yoongi hadn’t known his brother well enough to miss him the way Seokjin did. Seokjin had walked with Yunho through all stages of life, but Yoongi only really had half-baked memories and stories retold. There was nothing he could say that could assuage Seokjin’s grief.

The silence stretched long between them, wrapped around Yoongi’s neck like a compulsion. 

Well, Yoongi eventually said, What do you think he would’ve thought?

Seokjin’s head snapped up to look at him.

You knew him best, Yoongi prompted. What do you think he would’ve said?

A pause. He would’ve hated the color we chose for the walls, Seokjin admitted quietly. And he would’ve made fun of our fancy food.

Maybe, Yoongi replied. He took a step forward, cautious. But you know, I think he would’ve been happy for us.

Seokjin smiled, a sad little thing. I hope so. He drew in a deep breath. The thing is, we’ll never know. 

There was something so defeated in his words, something so hopeless that it made Yoongi’s heart ache. 

Yeah, we won’t, he replied, words slow. But see, he isn’t here anymore. And thinking about what he might’ve wanted won’t bring him back. He held Seokjin’s gaze, ignored the urge to look away. You spent years walking toward his dreams. Don’t you think it’s time to try and reach yours?

Yoongi saw it flicker—a new expression on Seokjin’s face, something understanding playing at its edges. A shift; not necessarily something changing, but rather something landing. An epiphany on the cusp of dawning.

You deserve to be happy, Yoongi continued, the words falling easily from his lips. I think it’s time you let yourself. 

Seokjin didn’t say anything after that. He just kept looking at Yoongi, his eyes clear under the moonlight. There was a gravity to his gaze, a weightiness that kept Yoongi rooted, unable to leave. 

I still don’t get it. Seokjin’s voice was quiet when he spoke, but it echoed loudly in Yoongi’s ears. Why did you…I don’t…?

He trailed off and then fell silent. Yoongi’s heart did a strange turn in his chest.

Even back then, Yoongi knew they were on the precipice of something momentous, something pivotal. Something that would fundamentally alter their relationship forever.

He forced himself to look away. Good night, hyung, he said. I’ll see you tomorrow. 

He had only managed to take three steps before he felt a hand on his shoulder, physically turning him around. Yoongi, wait, Seokjin said, his face coming into view. They were suddenly close, so close. Seokjin’s face was all he could see. Yoongi felt his breath catch in his throat. 

A long moment passed. Seokjin’s expression shifted, turned lax. He looked at Yoongi like this was the first time he was truly seeing him, like Yoongi was an answer to a question he’d been asking for years. 

Then ever so slowly, Seokjin leaned forward and kissed him. 

It was a fragile, delicate thing: the soft petals of a rose, a butterfly flapping its wings. And yet, it felt momentous, like desert blooms after rainfall, like auroras lighting up the night sky. Yoongi felt his heart tumble out and then upwards, into the stars, as its harried drumbeat rang loud and true in his ears. This was the last piece of the jigsaw puzzle slotting into place, this was the finishing touches on a long worked-on painting. This, he thought, was what he was building to, what finally made sense.

Because it wasn’t love with Seokjin. Not when the curve of his lips felt both new and familiar, not when the hitch of his breath sounded like the city’s exhale, Daegu at night when no one was awake to hear it. Not when the taste of his mouth was this addicting, this intoxicating; an alleviation to a hunger that long settled into the recesses of his body. A hunger he’d learned to ignore as time passed.

It wasn’t love with Seokjin. Not when it felt like something deeper, something more primal. Something he felt like he’d been waiting lifetimes for.

Yoongi kissed him back. Kissed him slowly, like he had decades still to waste; kissed him thoroughly, like he was made for nothing else. Kissed him in a way that left no space for words, no space to reason—just a shared, innate understanding that defied all logical reason.

After a few heartbeats, Yoongi pulled away. Seokjin blinked at him owlishly, eyes hazy. He looked breathless, wild. Yoongi was sure he looked no better.

Thank you, Seokjin eventually said, his voice hoarse. One of his hands came up to cup Yoongi’s cheek. Really, Yoongi, I…

Yoongi shook his head, caught Seokjin’s wrist with a hand. Turned to press a tender, lingering kiss on the curve of his palm, listening to the way Seokjin’s breath came out trembling.

Go home and get some rest, hyung, he said. He let go of Seokjin’s wrist and took a step back. I’ll see you tomorrow. 

The end of service always feels like the tail end of a long rollercoaster ride, when everything slows down and it feels like you can breathe again. Your body catches up to your heart, your adrenaline falls from its high, and when it all comes to a stop, you feel drained and exhausted.

Contrary to the bustle of the day, nighttimes in the kitchen are always quiet. Everyone cleans up their stations in silence, labels all the bins and containers and sets aside what they need the next day. One by one the numbers dwindle—their uniforms taken off, their belongings packed up. One by one, everyone leaves.

”Bye, Jeonggukie,” Yoongi hears Seokjin say from across the room. “Bye everyone, see you tomorrow.”

“Wait, Jinnie-hyung,” Yeonjun calls, following after him. “Come here, let me give you a goodnight kiss!”

Seokjin’s tired exasperation bounces against the kitchen walls. “No!”

This has always been one of Yoongi’s favorite parts of the day. There’s just something about how the dust settles, all the chaos winding down; about how, slowly, the noise fades, leaving just him and the glowing warmth after another service well done. The whole world feels soft, surreal, and for the first time in the day, Yoongi feels like he can breathe. 

”See you, hyung.” Jimin pats Yoongi’s shoulder as he passes. “And see you tomorrow, Soobin. Thanks for sticking around, I know it was a bit intense.”

“No problem,” replies Soobin. Even he sounds tired. “It was great, I really feel like I learned a lot.” A pause. “So should I come by the same time tomorrow, or…?”

”Just come for dinner prep,” Jimin says. “Around two should be fine. Take the morning to rest. You deserve it.”

”Awesome, thanks.” Soobin sounds pleased. Yoongi waits, listens to the sound of Jimin’s footsteps—first receding, then disappearing all at once.

Then the silence falls. Yoongi exhales, letting the tension drain from his body. He moves slowly, takes his time wiping down his station—already spotless, but the repetitive movement grounds him, keeps him anchored in the liminal space of the empty kitchen.

Behind him, there’s the sound of quiet footsteps, a nervous clearing of the throat.

“Chef,” Soobin says. He’s standing politely in front of Yoongi, the inner edges of his feet pressed together, his hand nervously clutching the strap of his bag. “Um, I just wanted to thank you again for—for hiring me. I admire you, and um, getting to work with you is a dream come true.”

Soobin’s a good kid. Hardworking and endearing, at the very least. “No problem,” Yoongi replies, “and thank you for your kind words. Great work today. Go home and get some rest.”

Something flashes across Soobin’s face, far too quick for Yoongi to identify. “I will,” he says. 

Yet contrary to his words, he doesn’t leave; he stays rooted in place, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. There’s a funny expression on his face: the same delicate curiosity Yoongi had identified earlier, this time mixed with equal parts determination and hesitation. Like there’s something just at the tip of his tongue, something he wants to ask but can’t bring himself to say out loud.

Eventually, he makes a decision. “Chef Min…?”

“Hm?”

Soobin’s eyes are far too discerning. “Are you and Chef Kim…?” 

Yoongi lets the question ring out like a bell. It’s funny, he thinks distantly—out of everyone in the kitchen, Soobin’s the only one who has noticed.

Soobin’s determination falters, then crumbles entirely. “Sorry, never mind,” he says, his words coming out in a rush. “It’s nothing. See you tomorrow.”

“See you.” Yoongi watches, amused, as Soobin bows and leaves, hurrying out of the kitchen like he can’t get out fast enough.

And then it’s just him in the empty kitchen, far larger than he’s used to it being. It still looks too new. Six months since the renovation and there are parts of it that still feel impersonal, parts where its past still shines through, all its warmth and chipped walls and mismatched pots and pans. If Yoongi tries hard enough, he can overlay the stories he’s heard and picture it in his mind’s eye: Yunho, standing in the old kitchen, laughing about something or the other with Seokjin. The way he moved around the space. All the things he’d touched, everything he’d laid out. His ghost tucked into all the nooks and crannies. 

It’s, ironically, the closest he’s ever felt to Yunho in his entire life. 

Yoongi lingers a little bit longer tonight; he re-checks the bins, re-does the labels, and rearranges the ingredients. He makes a mental list of things to do for when he arrives tomorrow morning, listing them down on a spare napkin and tucking it into his pocket. The quiet seeps into him, all his insides settling. He breathes, and he feels whole again.

Once he’s run out of things to do, he heads to his locker to shed his uniform and grab his bag. He gives one last look at the kitchen, at the bright fluorescents and the shiny steel countertops. Alone, he doesn’t feel lonely. He smiles.

“Good night, hyung,” he murmurs. And when the kitchen echoes it back to him softly, his own voice ringing in the cavernous space, for a moment—just a moment—it sounds like Yunho’s saying good night to him, too.

Just four weeks before Yunho killed himself, they shared a meal together.

It was the first time in seven years that Yoongi was able to make it home for Seollal, and for that, his whole family was buzzing. His parents were out, doing some last-minute grocery shopping, and it was just him and Yunho left in their childhood home, the silence of the halls a prelude to the feast to come. Yoongi had been bored, jet-lagged, and the slightest bit hungry, and he’d gone to the kitchen with the intention of fixing himself something to eat.

But Yunho was already there, scooping warm rice into bowls. Oh, he said, when he spotted Yoongi. Sit. Hyung made us lunch. 

He passed Yoongi a bowl of rice, then set out a plate in front of him—beef stir fry with garlic and potatoes. The smell was divine, the aroma mouth-watering. Yoongi doesn’t think he’ll ever forget it.

So, Yunho said. He took the seat across from Yoongi, his smile not dimming. I just thought we could use this time to talk, since we never really get the chance. I’ve always been curious, what’s it like in Paris?

His eyes were downcast, and his demeanor tired. He looked a lot older than Yoongi remembered him to be, strands of grey peppered into his hair. But when he smiled, he looked familiar—like the same boy Yoongi grew up watching from afar.

So Yoongi told him stories about Paris, about the cobblestone streets and the architecture. He talked about always being homesick and having to learn French, the shape of his tongue unbefitting their silent letters. He talked about meeting a Korean auntie who always gave him some of her kimchi, and of how the only good Korean restaurant within the city was a small hole-in-the-wall tucked in some sketchy side street. He told him about the restaurant and the dishes they served, and about how he earned his Michelin star incorporating Korean flavors into his dishes. 

The whole time, Yunho simply listened, nodding and reacting at the appropriate times. His expression was soft, fond and proud, but the sadness in his eyes never really went away.

I wonder, he said when there was a break in the conversation, Yoongi stopping to take a swig of water. You’ve already accomplished so much. What would be the next step for you?

Yoongi mulled it over. Starting my own restaurant, I guess.

There was a strange look in Yunho’s eyes. Have you ever thought about it?

Yoongi remembers making a face. Sometimes, he replied, but it just seems too ambitious. I don’t think I’m ready for it. I mean, you have started one, hyung. You should know how difficult it is.

Yeah, Yunho conceded. A pause. But you know, I don’t regret it. I think I’d consider it one of the best decisions I could’ve ever made.

Even back then, Yoongi could tell there was something he couldn’t bring himself to say, true meanings obscured by words he didn’t mean. Yoongi wanted to pry, wanted to push back and pull apart his sentences, but he didn’t think it was his place; he and his brother had lived two separate lives, after all. He wasn’t privy to the inner workings of Yunho’s life the same way Yunho wasn’t privy to the inner workings of his.

For what it’s worth, Yunho continued, I think you’d be great at it, Yoongi. His smile was something quiet, something sad—resigned, like there was a domino tipped over, an idea set in motion he could no longer stop. I think you’ve got a knack for making people happy.

(Four weeks later, staring down at the earth that covered every part of his brother’s body, it was that exact smile Yoongi couldn’t stop thinking about.)

When Yoongi finally leaves the restaurant, locking the door behind him, he’s not at all surprised to find Seokjin still loitering around, huddled up in his puffer jacket. “Took you long enough,” he says, kicking himself off the wall. “I feel like I’ve been waiting for ages.”

The tip of his nose is red, his cheeks rosy. “Why are you still here?” Yoongi asks, stepping towards him. “It’s cold out.”

Seokjin rolls his eyes. “Yes, dear Yoongi-chi, it’s cold out. Thanks for noticing. I’m practically frozen.”

“You didn’t have to wait for me.”

“Too late, already did. Now let’s head back so you can warm me up like you promised.”

Yoongi snorts. “I didn’t promise anything,” he replies. He starts walking, and Seokjin falls into step next to him. “You shouldn’t be putting words in my mouth, Chef Kim.”

“Well, Chef Min, if you hadn’t brushed me off the whole day, I wouldn’t have to.”

Yoongi feels himself smile. Despite the cold, there’s a warmth simmering in his chest, a spark of a match catching into a quiet bonfire, crackling and controlled. A gentle breeze blows, makes him shiver on instinct; Seokjin, fluent in the unspoken language they share, takes a step closer to him.

Seokjin nudges him. “So,” he says, tone light. “You wanna tell me about it?”

“I mean, it wasn’t…” Yoongi trails off, cocking his head as he tries to find the right words. “I don’t know, hyung. It wasn’t anything, really. I just missed him a lot today, that’s all. And for a while there, it kind of felt like he was around.”

Seokjin hums, like he’s mulling Yoongi’s words over. “Yeah,” he says eventually. “I get that. Sometimes, I look over my shoulder and half-expect to still see him standing there.” A pause, and Yoongi hears him draw in a breath. “I’m not sure if I’ll ever stop.”

“Yeah,” Yoongi replies. It’s hard to cope with grief, especially when it’s for a life cut short—a sentence half-finished, a story half-told. There was still so much Yunho could have done, so much he could’ve accomplished. Instead, he’s doomed to haunt the rest of the narrative, his spirit coloring every thought and every action moving forward. 

This is what he left them with. And this, Yoongi thinks, is what they have to work with to move forward.

Yoongi breathes deep, the cold air expanding his lungs. He looks up at the dark sky, the moon shining bright amongst the clouds, and something like a laugh bubbles up from the base of his throat. His exhale catches, and his words come out half air.

“God, he’s a dick.”

Seokjin’s answering laugh is quiet. “Such a dick,” he agrees. He’s smiling, his cheeks pushed up and his eyes crescent moons. “Left us the restaurant and the money and then killed himself just like that.”

“With no instruction,” adds Yoongi. “With no regard for what we might have wanted. Now I’m stuck dealing with you on a daily basis.”

Seokjin’s amusement underscores his words. “You don’t mean that.”

“I do,” Yoongi says, even though he doesn’t, not really. “I could be back in Paris, not getting called nicknames and not getting scolded by Namjoon.”

“You got scolded by Namjoon?”

“He said, and I quote, ‘you and Seokjin-hyung are scaring the intern.’”

Seokjin throws his head back and laughs, and the sound has both the cadence of bells and the exuberance of youth. “Oh, Yoongi-chi,” he says. “That’s amazing. You should’ve told me earlier; we could’ve made plans to scare the intern even more.”

Yoongi rolls his eyes. “You’re ridiculous,” he says. “And genuinely, stop calling me that. At least during work hours. Even Taehyung called me Yoongi-chi earlier.”

“Did he?” Seokjin sounds far more delighted than he should be. “I’m so happy it’s sticking. You’re such a Yoongi-chi.”

“One more and you’re going home alone tonight.”

“Ah, no.” Seokjin skips a few steps forward, then whirls around to grab Yoongi by the shoulders and keep him still. “Don’t be like that. You know Taehyung’s only teasing you because he loves you. They all do.”

His smile is soft and fond, his eyes sparkling with mirth. Under the moonlight, his edges are softer, rounder, blurred like something ethereal. Something made of stardust and dreams, something precious Yoongi wants to keep all to himself.

”And you?” Yoongi can’t help but ask, eyebrow raised and expression challenging. He spots it immediately—a small flush that starts and blooms slowly on Seokjin’s face, travels down his neck; Yoongi counts himself lucky that he’s allowed to see exactly where it ends. “Is that why you do it too?”

Seokjin regards him for a moment, his mouth curved into a knowing smile. He won’t say it, Yoongi knows; he’ll hide it behind his teasing and his bluster, behind the silly little jokes and the dumb nicknames. But Yoongi doesn’t mind cutting through his deflection and his witticisms, doesn’t mind meeting him halfway and waiting until he’s ready.

“Oh, Yoongi-chi.” Seokjin says the stupid nickname like a promise, like a secret only the two of them share. He cups Yoongi’s cheek, presses their foreheads together, faces so close that Yoongi can feel Seokjin’s breath against his lips. “I don’t know. What do you think?”

Yoongi smiles, lets his eyes fall shut. Closes the distance between them, all warmth and tenderness and gentle, burning heat. And when Seokjin angles his head to kiss him a little more certainly, a little more firmly, Yoongi finds he knows the answer.