#aktf

You're six years old when you meet him.

The arctic air nips at your nose, the icy breeze making you tremble from head to toe. Your tear streaks have been left frozen still on your cold face. But you forget the numbness, the pain when you turn around and see him.

He's wearing a black-fitted coat—one that reaches farther down his knees and almost to his ankles. His eyes are dark as nightfall but at the top of his head sits a mass of soft, gold-spun curls. Something about him looks ethereal. Like he doesn't belong here. You want to reach out and touch him, and you extend your arm to do so. But the towering figure steps back, looking bewildered at your sudden advance.

"I don't know you," you whisper, rubbing your eyes with your dirt-ridden hands. Your throat feels raw, tortured by the unyielding wind, but you continue to croak out, "Please stay with me."

In normal circumstances, you blend into the shadows, into the vast crowd. But it's only you and him now, in the murkiness of the night. And your loneliness fuels your boldness. After all, your mother is gone. Erased from your life after a custody battle that she lost. Your father is all that you have left, which isn't much. Your mother had pleaded for your custody, she'd begged and cried and dealt through sleepless nights for you. In the court, she claimed that your father is abusive. But they ignored her and handed you over to your father anyway—willingly, almost immediately. Your mother was right, though. Your father is abusive. But only when he drinks.

The tall man steps back again. He can read you like an open book. He can turn the pages of your story—your biography—in his mind. He can flip through your memories, scan the sentences that have made up your journey thus far. You're young, a fiery spirit yet to be dulled and suppressed by trauma and abuse. You are better at identifying alcohol than shapes. You like to hide beer cans and whiskey bottles in your free time; it's a fun little game you play. Mutually beneficial for your enjoyment and—more importantly— your safety when your father comes home after a stressful day of work. Your short life flashes before his eyes and the man stumbles back.

"You have to stay..." you say again, your teeth chattering involuntarily. You draw your thin cardigan around yourself, eyes beginning to water when you see the man stepping farther and farther away from you. "Please..."

He doesn't know what to say. He's shocked, filled with pity. By now, he should've been done with his job. A job that he is overwhelmingly excellent at. He doesn't even know why he had so instinctively stepped back from you.

You observe the man in hesitation, carefully watching the way he plays with the black gloves in his hands, revealing his pale, pearlescent skin for the moonlight to illuminate. He glows in the dark. You sense that he is thinking, contemplating your words. So you try again.

"Mommy said if I prayed hard enough, the angels would bring a friend for me." You look up at the man, scrambling up from your seat in the dampened grass. "You're an angel!"

That would explain the iridescent shine of his skin, the deep pools of black that make up his eyes, his posture and stance that seem too put-together to be that of a mortal's.

The man frowns. He hates the way you look at him. Like he's supposed to be some kind of savior. That isn't his job. He hates the trembling clarity in your voice, hates how you're so filled with hope and light, despite everything around you being so tangled up in grim colors.

"I'm not an angel," he grunts. "I'm just Yoongi."

"Yoongi!" You cautiously totter over the strange man in the dark coat. "I like your name," you say, looking up at him vigilantly, almost shyly. "It's pretty."

Yoongi grimaces. Nothing about him is pretty—nobody would ever look at him and call him pretty. Nobody ever notices him anyway.

When you reach out to grasp the man's hands hidden in the warmth of his coat pockets, he jerks away. You realize quickly that he doesn't like physical contact. The question of why never crosses your head. You've always learned to accept things the way they are.

"Yoongi?" you say, eyes sparkling. "I want to be your friend."

Yoongi can't describe the insurmountable hate he has for you. You can't just stumble up to him and dare ask to befriend him. That's not how it should work. This whole situation isn't how anything should work! He curses you in his head.

"Yoongi?" you whisper this time. Yoongi watches you shivering uncontrollably. The white wisps of your breath are visible in the freezing night, and he notices that your lips have turned into a painful shade of blue. Your movements are rigid, frozen. He can see the pain etched on your face as you move closer to him, but you never complain.

It's true. You had been just seconds away from death when he had first met you.

He wonders if you even deserve to continue living. What's the point of returning to an abusive household if you're going to run away and nearly die from it? What's the point of letting you live when you're trying to cheat your death? Befriend Death itself?

But you're young. You've lived six measly chapters of life, and Yoongi sees purpose burning within you. A glowing spark that would only catch fire with time.

Slowly, agonizingly slowly—as if giving himself time to change his mind—Yoongi fumbles with his stark black gloves, gliding them onto his hands. And in one swift motion, he silently shrugs off his coat, leaving him in his jet-black turtleneck and matching slacks. Your eyes widen when Yoongi hands his coat to you, but you take it without another word. Tears well up in your eyes as you realize Yoongi is your angel of darkness—your nighttime guardian.

Yoongi doesn't like the way you look at him.

"Run along, little girl." His voice comes out gruff and laced with ice. But it's almost as if the warmth of your look melts him just a little inside. "The coat is yours to keep."

"Oh, thank you!" you sob. "Thank you, Yoongi!"

It's not often Death himself decides on mercy. You have little to no clue of the circumstances but you're not stupid enough to believe this wasn't a special moment.

As Yoongi begins to turn to walk away, you shriek, "Wait!" Slowly, the man faces you once more. "I want to see you again!" you say urgently, wrapping the warm coat around your figure. It trails behind you like a king's cape with an extravagant mantle. You notice it bears no smell.

Yoongi looks at you through the slits of his narrowed eyes. No one ever sees him again. Once is deadly. Twice is reserved for the poor, ill-fated souls. He turns around again, completely silent, and begins to walk away from you. He's spared your life. What more could you expect him to do?

"You're my friend, Yoongi!" you call after him. "Please visit again!"

He doesn't answer. Simply moves into the shadows of the night as he is conditioned to do. He leaves you clutching his coat—the only piece of evidence that you've ever met such a peculiar man. A man you consider your new friend, your guardian angel. A man you vow to meet again.

The whiteness of the station is nearly blinding. Yoongi despises it. It makes him stand out like a sore thumb.

There are others wearing long coats and monotone outfits, swiftly walking past him. Shades of pink, deep blue, even yellow color his vision.

"Those pesky Newcomings," Yoongi mutters under his breath. They're breaking the damn tradition. Death is supposed to be dark. Grim, for Heaven's sake. Pink cannot possibly be the wardrobe of a Reaper. Yoongi begins to tug at the collar of his turtleneck with his gloved hand, feeling uncomfortable in such a bustling crowd full of philistines—completely ignorant of the art of death.

Some of them are dragging along mortals with them, their bare hands intertwined with human skin. The mortals look terrified, confused, in awe—all at once. They will soon come to realize that death is technically not the end of their existence. If they hadn't yet already come to that epiphany, that is. Yoongi almost feels guilty that he came back to the station empty-handed. It's something that isn't a usual occurrence.

"Where's your coat, sir?"

There's a teasing cadence to the sudden voice, and immediately, Yoongi recognizes whose it is. "Namjoon."

"The one and only, sir." Namjoon smiles, shoving his two hands in his brown coat pocket. Yoongi nods slightly in approvable. Brown is a sensible color. Not as dark as black but good enough to elicit a similar feeling.

"My coat, huh?" Yoongi pauses. Ah, he had given it to you. But he frowns at the memory, still unsure what to make of the odd experience of a girl who wanted to befriend Death. A girl who called him, a grim creature, an angel. You're young, naïve and excessively hopeful. He should've taken you away by hand. Yoongi hates that he'd failed his only job and had let you go. He sighs, preparing himself to respond to the younger Reaper. "I suppose I lost it," he swiftly lies.

"Lost your coat??" Namjoon's eyes widen. "Boss isn't going to be happy about that, sir."

"I'll let him yell at me." Yoongi shakes his head, a small smile forming on his thin lips. "Alternatively, he doesn't have to find out."

Yoongi isn't one to break tradition. A Reaper must have a coat; of course, it's not written law, but it is a simple dress code. One that even the Newcomings don't dare to break. But Yoongi's been here for years. He's practically the boss. He can bend a few rules and get away with it. He can let a few people go from the clutches of death and nobody will question his judgment. Except—

He feels the urge to lie. To cover you up.

"Sir, I thought you went to guide a mortal back to the station?" Namjoon says. "One of the Innocents too." He looks to Yoongi's sides, and his eyes glint when he sees that Yoongi is still wearing his gloves. "I don't see the child anywhere."

Yoongi tolerates everything about Namjoon, who is a loyal, compassionate associate. But if there's one thing that Yoongi wishes to fix about him, it's the incessant question-asking.

"You must've heard wrong," Yoongi replies smoothly. "I wasn't in the Mortal Realm."

Namjoon nods, accepting Yoongi's lie in a dead heartbeat. The younger Reaper respects his elders too much not to accept anything they say. "My apologies, sir. Would you like a coat replacement?"

"No need," Yoongi says, shaking his head. He doesn't want the boss breathing down his neck, asking Yoongi why he didn't guide you back to the station as he should have. It makes Yoongi feel troubled that he doesn't know the answer to that question either. "Maybe it's time I break tradition for once."

Namjoon's eyes widen. "O-Of course, sir! That would be great—I mean, it is completely your choice, sir."

"Yes, yes," Yoongi says in haste. He doesn't want the conversation to drag on longer than it has already become. He's not too comfortable with excessive lying either. "I'll be going now, if you don't mind, Namjoon."

"Yes, sir," Namjoon says, and his voice alone sounds like a salute. "Good day, sir!" he calls as Yoongi starts to walk away, not even bothering to turn around.

He finds his way out of the crowd, which is easy considering that everyone makes a clear-cut path for him to follow, nearly bowing down to pay their respect. Yoongi heads out of the station and into a corridor splashed with a light hue of gray. But the shade deepens the further he walks down the aisle, and finally, the Reaper stops in front of a pitch-black door. He turns the obsidian knob and enters a room that helps him camouflage comfortably in the darkness.

As usual, Yoongi settles in his ancient armchair, crossing his legs and leaning back. He sighs, head lolling to the side to stare at his undecorated wall. "Hmph," he scoffs, shaking his head. "Took my damn coat."

But he stops himself. Technically, he gave you the coat. So really, if anyone were to blame, it was him. Yet... you had no right being so friendly to a stranger. Most people when they see Yoongi, scream, beg, offer to barter with him to save their lives. Most people are frightened of death. But not you. You'd wanted to be his friend.

Or maybe you're too young to understand death. He never really liked taking away Innocents. They're called Innocents for a reason—too young to be able to comprehend such a grim concept. Either way, Yoongi can't stop thinking about you.

He wonders if you were able to get back home. What did you do to his coat? Are you still wearing it? Will you forget him as years go by, never realizing that he had spared your life? Did you really want to be his friend? Or was it a hoax to get him to leave without you?

Yoongi laughs at his own thoughts. Six-year-olds aren't that smart. You probably had no ill-intentions.

The Reaper slowly peels his black gloves off of his hands. Boss would give him hell for this. You're supposed to die; it was supposed to be an easy guidance. Innocents are much more willing to follow their fate, do as they're told.

But you had seen him before he had even gotten to you. You had seen him before you were dead... How strange. Of the hundreds and hundreds of years that he's lived—at least, as an embodiment of death—no one who was alive had ever been able to see him. You're an outlier, an anomaly. And Yoongi can't stop thinking about you.

It's not just because you can see him when no other living thing can. It's also because you'd called him his friend. And not only that but you also need a friend.

Yoongi can't imagine how lonely or desolate you must be—at such a young age too—to be able to see Death himself. His heart had long stopped beating, but it seems to swell a bit for you. A strange feeling, really. He's not sure if he can trust it.

But hours and hours later, the next thing he knows, he's in your backyard. Yoongi looks around, quickly slipping his black gloves back onto his hands. It's going to get dark soon, and the sun is already setting over the horizon. A day must have passed by; Yoongi realizes he'd been lost in thought for several more hours than he had originally thought. He often loses track of time when he's in the station. The Reaper sighs, his eyes sifting through the vicinity with much more wariness. Your backyard consists of a rather large plot of wilting grass and overgrown weeds and a single sandpit. A sandpit in which you sit in and play. Yoongi recognizes your backside immediately—especially when you're still wearing his coat.

You play by yourself silently, mixing the grainy sand with water to make damp mud castles or desert-living snowmen. For a while, it almost seems like you won't ever notice Yoongi at all, and the Reaper relishes in the sudden realization that maybe you can't see him anymore. That would certainly be much easier. He can take you away like he was supposed to yesterday.

Yoongi takes one step forward. But it's as if at that moment you sense someone watching you. Instinctively, you jerk your head around, a large smile blossoming on your face.

"Yoongi!" you shout excitedly, standing up immediately from your sandpit. "You came back!"

He doesn't know what to feel. Seconds ago, he would've been content taking you away like he was supposed to. But seeing you so happy over his presence... He can't seem to do it.

You rush to greet your new friend, arms wide open to grasp him in a hug. Immediately, Yoongi flinches back. You halt mid-run and stare at the strange man. You realize he doesn't exactly enjoy being in contact with you. He keeps his distance.

You don't mind. As long as he keeps you company.

Yoongi notices a few cuts and scrapes on your knees—they're fresh and from what he can read from you, they're still painful. You had been scrambling away from your angry father last night after you had come home late. Your knees had been the result of skidding across broken glass bottles of alcohol.

"You're here to play with me!" you exclaim innocently, scratching at your knees. Your eyes are wide with curiosity and there it is again—hope.

"No," Yoongi answers, a bit more gruffly than he wanted to. "I'm not." Your face falls. "But I can watch you play," he offers. He curses himself for giving in to your desires, being inherently unable to take your disappointment.

Yoongi has dealt with hundreds of people in his time as a Reaper. Many of them have tragic stories. Others have lived fairly normal lives. You're not the person who's had the most tragic past. And you're definitely not the person who's had to undergo severe torture and wars and battles. But you're an Innocent who's dealt with hardships that no child should have to go through. You're a child who offered him friendship. Which is preposterous but amusing at the same time. He just can't help but want you to live. He can't possibly bring forth death in you, not when you haven't truly lived. Yoongi is Death himself. But he is also a man who appreciates life, for death would not have existed without life itself.

You grin at Yoongi. "Yay!" you exclaim, clapping your hands together. "C'mon, I'm building a sandcastle!"

Though Yoongi can see the grand sandcastle that you imagine in your head, he realizes that you're not very skilled with tactile activities. None of what you had vividly imagined is executed in your final sandcastle design. It resembles a lump of wet sand more than a majestic palace.

But he surprisingly enjoys watching you play. You're diligent and silent and immersed. You don't have too many thoughts—only about what you can create next. You build tunnels, anthills, volcanoes (at least in Yoongi's eyes) but they're really princess manors in your mind.

"I like them," you say confidently, breaking the long-held silence. "This one's my favorite!" You point at a particular blob of sand that leans heavily to the right.

Yoongi has no choice but to tell a white lie. "They're nice," he offers. "That one's my favorite too."

You beam brightly, absent-mindedly scratching your injuries. "Thank you!" you giggle politely.

Yoongi wishes he could help you with your cuts, but how can he, when everything he touches, dies? He wouldn't dare lay a finger on you. Not when you have so much potential. Not when you have so much hope.

"I-I should... I should get going," Yoongi says suddenly. He doesn't even know why he came here in the first place. To his utmost surprise, you don't beg him to stay. It's almost as if you know he'll come back.

"Okay," you say, smiling. You wave enthusiastically at him with your sand-ridden hands. "See you soon, Yoongi!"

He stares at you for a while before walking away. Once he knows he's out of your sight, he vanishes into thin air, transporting back to his office at the station. Immediately, Yoongi collapses on his armchair, gathering his hands and pressing them against his face. He realizes he still has his gloves on and tears them off, pocketing them in his well-ironed slacks. Usually, he hides out in the dark corners of his office to relax, to think of nothing, to keep his mind blank. The barren room is supposed to be his comfort. But not today. Not when thoughts of you invade his mind.

"You're back."

Yoongi jumps up from his seat, arms at his side as he stares up at his boss' stern face. "Yes, sir."

Jung Hoseok, a man dressed in a neat, green suit, maneuvers around Yoongi, taking his armchair and sitting down. A pretty, orange rose is situated in the decorated pocket of his suit, and he settles in, crossing his legs rather comfortably in Yoongi's chair. The Reaper stares. It's not like his boss to enter his office and sit in his seat. Hoseok usually lets Yoongi do what he wants, which normally doesn't break any laws of the station. Yoongi grimaces a bit when he realizes Hoseok must have come to scold him about you.

"I take it that you've taken a liking to her?"

Yoongi flinches, awkwardly looking at his feet. Just as he suspected. "No, sir. She's just a child." It's not a lie either.

"You had an assignment, Min," Hoseok says, promptly standing up. He towers over Yoongi, somehow casting a dark shadow over the already dark room.

"I did, sir." Yoongi doesn't know what to say, or do, for the matter. He had been stupid to think he could've kept any secret from his boss.

"Something stopped you from taking her, didn't it?" When Yoongi finally looks up, he sees Hoseok smiling at him. He doesn't know what the smile means.

"Sir...?" It's all Yoongi can manage to say.

Hoseok nods thoughtfully, his hands intertwining behind him as he hums. "Try not to do it too often," he says, but the glint in his eyes almost makes it sound like he's teasing Yoongi. "Overpopulation isn't a good look on planet Earth... as you should know." But that seems to be the end of Hoseok's light chastising. Yoongi relaxes as he sees Hoseok beginning to walk towards the door of the room—no doubt to exit. Yet abruptly, Hoseok turns around, staring into Yoongi's dark eyes, a softened look on his face. "Min, they come once in a millennium," he says. "Behave wisely."

Hoseok leaves swiftly, and Yoongi is left in the dark.

There isn't much to do as a Reaper. Life after death is, for the most part, uneventful—mainly because it is so routinely. As soon as Yoongi gets a new assignment (delivered on a black card with the mortal's name etched in red ink), he travels to the Mortal Realm, only to bring back his assignment, now dead, to the station. He simply drops them off at the courtroom, where they'll be waiting for their life trial. Yoongi is uninterested in law and order—never had been when he was alive, never will be, even after his death. So, he does his best not to waste his time guiding his assignment to the courtroom. He does his best—essentially—to keep his assignment well-informed, but there is a stark boundary of professionalism that he maintains. A cold barrier that emanates from his whole being. Not many people—Reapers and mortals alike—dare to approach him or cross that boundary he delineates so clearly. Of course, with the exception of his boss, Hoseok who leads the courtroom trials. And... you, apparently.

You've turned Yoongi's uneventful, monotonous life into something else. Where each day is different. Where Yoongi anticipates going to see you at the end of his day. He's long-accepted that you make a steadfast companion—maybe even better than Namjoon—since you tend not to ask any questions.

It's true that Hoseok hadn't opposed the idea of Yoongi consistently meeting with a mortal and having no intention to bring death upon her. Instead, Yoongi's boss had offered a vague and rather unhelpful commentary, which had flown completely over Yoongi's head. With the knowledge that Hoseok isn't furious at him for disregarding the guidance of an Innocent, it's really all it takes for Yoongi to rationalize that he can continue to see you.

There's just something about you that is fascinating. As a figure who has been dead for years on end—a man who has taken other men from multiple battlefields, civil rights movements, pandemics—it's safe to say, he's well-acquainted with the act of death. In fact, Yoongi is Death himself. Sometimes, he forgets what it's like to be alive. But you're there to remind him.

Today, he arrives past your bedtime, which is a pity, really. He likes it better when you're awake and able to talk to him with such lively energy. Your room is small; there are no toys strewn about, none of anything, really. It's completely bare, save for a small bed that sits solitarily in the corner of the room. The lights are off, which Yoongi likes. He's always found more comfort in the dark. Yoongi is especially quiet as he walks up to you. You've balled up at the top of your bed, hugging your pillow and tightly wrapping his black coat around yourself to keep warm. Yoongi can't help but let a soft smile appear on his lips.

Sleep is really the body's way of imitating death. A calm rest. A peaceful slumber off to a faraway land. Yoongi doesn't need to sleep anymore, and he vaguely remembers what it had been like to be able to do so. But it's like he lives vicariously through your experience. Because when the sun rises, painting the dark sky with bright colors, you awake, and when Yoongi's there, you indulge him about your travels in dreamland. He finds your fantastical tales of dragons and mermaids and princesses to be quite enjoyable. It adds a dash of color to his otherwise monochrome life.

Yoongi's brought back in reality when he notices you're slightly shivering. He quickly realizes that your covers have fallen off your bed. Again. Almost instinctively, he delicately draws up the covers to your chin, careful that even his gloved hands don't touch your skin. This has become something like that of a routine.

He visits you when he can, and when that time happens to be in the middle of the night, he makes sure to tuck you into your covers. Because your father's never around to do it for you.

Yoongi makes it a habit to continually check over your wellbeing. He wants to make sure you're eating well, wants you to excel in school. Sometimes, he helps you with your homework, which only consists of identifying shapes and mixing and matching colors from a palette. He's the sole listener to your stories, your playmate when you need an extra hand to handle your paper dolls. He's your guardian angel, one who wants to so badly hurt your father who comes in drunk every so often and rips apart your paper-made toys in his intoxicated anger. But you forgive your father every time he does something rash. Yoongi isn't as merciful as you are. He's waiting for the day he or some other Reaper gets an assignment to take your father away from you for good.

You have no idea that your closest friend is Death himself. You never ask why his wardrobe only consists of stark black clothing. You never question why he wears his gloves all the time around you. You never inquire why he'll flinch away when you come close to him. It's a common occurrence for someone you know and love to abandon you, leave you. And it's only natural that you've become conditioned to accept things the way they are.

But opposing your past tragedies, Yoongi is willing to remain by your side—something you're beyond grateful for.

Yoongi is the one who celebrates your seventh birthday with you. Your father hadn't come home that day, which Yoongi deems as an excellent factor. Though the Reaper isn't quite sure what to gift a seven-year-old for her birthday, he comes up with something anyway.

"I'll promise to visit more often," he tells you, watching you wolf down a slice of cake he'd borrowed from the local bakery. If Hoseok found out that he had majorly tampered with a small business in the Mortal Realm, he would be beyond furious. But Yoongi has a feeling that there would be no consequences.

"Mmf—really??" you say, your mouth full of cake. Your eyes have lightened up, and they sparkle with sheer happiness and utter delight. You swallow the delicious morsel of cake, and you throw your hands up in the air to celebrate. "That's the best birthday present ever, Yoongi! Yay!"

He lets a small smile slip onto his lips. "Yeah? Well, I'm glad."

You daringly scoot closer to Yoongi at your crumbly dinner table, ignoring the way he slightly recoils at the closer proximity. "When's your birthday, Yoongi?"

It's the first question you've ever asked him. One that he can't quite answer. He doesn't seem to remember.

Once you see that Yoongi is struggling to answer, you realize that maybe, maybe adulthood is so restless and bustling that one cannot possibly remember such trivial things as birth dates. But surely, your friend would know his own age. "Then how old are you, Yoongi?"

The Reaper laughs at your obliviousness. "How old am I?" He shrugs his shoulders but doesn't deny your question. "An age you can't comprehend yet, Y/N."

You huff, standing on your chair and pointing accusingly at your friend. "Hey! I'm a big girl! I can count all the way up to 100!"

He laughs at your attitude. "I know," he says. "I helped you learn, didn't I?"

You roll your eyes at his attitude. "Ugh. Grown-ups."

But you can't help but find solace in this man's presence. Though he can give off a distant impression, he is, in reality, warm and thoughtful. He wouldn't have lingered by your side for a whole year if he wasn't.

Another year passes by, unmeddled with, uneventful, but peaceful. You and Yoongi meet almost every day—your father so remote from your life that he never notices another presence in the house. Nothing exciting ever happens in your life. But it's relaxing to go about your daily routines with a person who cares right next to you.

It's been two years since you've known Yoongi, and he's still an enigma to you. Adults are a mystery. They are secretive, do crazy things and then tell you it's for your own good. They drink detestable substances and say mean words without apologizing afterward. But you're used to it. And you accept their strangeness.

Meanwhile, Yoongi watches you grow. He had met you when you were a child. Of course, you're still a child now, but you've matured quickly, far more quickly than the other eight-year-olds he knows. The pain of your early childhood had forced maturity on you. You're able to cook for yourself, take care of yourself—even take care of your pitiful, trash bag of a father. Yoongi thinks your father doesn't deserve you. And he's happy when one day, Namjoon hands him a black card with a familiar name scrawled across the surface in red ink. It's your father's name.

Yoongi's swift when he enters the living room filled with freshly emptied beer cans and vodka bottles. Your father has hauled his body on the couch, stinking up the room and lazily watching television. The room is dark, and you're nowhere to be seen. It's perfect. The perfect timing.

He's not sure how you'll react to the death of your father, but he would rather you not see it happen before your eyes. The Reaper peels off his black gloves, shoving them into his pants pocket. Your father is unsuspecting, unable to see Yoongi. The Reaper walks behind him, his hand steady and face grim. Then, he places his hand on your father's bare shoulder—just as you walk in the room and call his name.

"Yoongi?" you say, eyes wide. "D-Dad?"

But your father's already gone. Already dead. You can't see the spirit of him, but you can see what's left of his body. Though you're young, you're able to process the scene instantly. Your shaking eyes move from Yoongi's pale, white hands to your father's limp body hanging on the couch. "Yoongi!" you shriek.

The Reaper simply grasps your father's hand—the spirit of him.

The dead man is violent, trying to rip himself away from the grip of the dark figure who had taken his life. "Sir, I urge you to stay calm. You have died at precisely 4:24 p.m. on March 4th, 2000. I am a Reaper, here to guide you to the station, where your life will be assessed in a courtroom." Yoongi is calm as he utters this, which was really a practice of habit; but he stays wary, knowing quite well that you can somehow hear every word he says.

Your father is incredulous. "Dead??" he roars. "You killed me!" When he catches sight of you in his peripheral vision, he tries to break apart from Yoongi to grab at you. "Save me, Y/N! Help me!"

"She cannot see nor hear you, sir," Yoongi says, intense aversion building inside of him. "And I did not kill you. You killed yourself." He pauses, choosing his next words wisely. "Did you really think that all of that alcohol wouldn't affect your health?"

And it is in that moment that you realize, Yoongi is Death.

"Please don't take him away!" you shriek, abruptly dropping to your knees. "I'll have no one! Yoongi!"

The Reaper pities you. He'd once spared your life so you can live on—possibly see a better future. But he cannot possibly spare another just for your sake. He gives you an apologetic look but does not heed your pleadings.

Just as swiftly as he came, he disappears, along with the screaming, thrashing spirit of your father. You're left, alone, with the dead body of your father and the blaring television for company.

You don't talk to Yoongi for weeks. Which, Yoongi supposes he deserves.

"I know you can see me," he says, but your back is turned to him and you proceed to work on your school assignments as if the Reaper isn't behind you, pleading for you to talk to him. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you before," he tries.

The anger that had been simmering inside of you begins to boil. "You killed him!" You whirl around in your seat, eyes flashing at the man in front of you. "You're not human. You're a monster!"

Yoongi steps back, your words piercing through his heart. "It was his time to die," he tries to explain. "I'm a Reaper, Y/N. It's my job."

"Go away. You're not my friend anymore."

Instead of feeling guilty, Yoongi feels a surge of anger. "You should be thanking me," he scoffs. "Your father treated you like an animal. Now you live with your mother. Aren't things looking up?"

You huff. "You should've told me!" you protest. But even you can't admit that he's wrong. In retrospect, you realize your father had treated you horribly, and your mother's a much more caring, compassionate person. Your life has taken a turn for the better. But it was cruel for Yoongi to take away your father right in front of your eyes.

"I couldn't tell you," Yoongi says. His tense face softens as he approaches you. He knows you're capable of understanding him. He doesn't know what he would do if you reject his apologies again. "Nobody likes Death..."

"You tried to kill me two years ago."

Yoongi's heart falls. You'd remembered; you'd finally connected the dots. "But I didn't," he says. "I couldn't."

"Go away," you say, trying to muster up enough energy to sound angry, to sound threatening, but you can't seem to do it. "Go away," you repeat yourself, tearing streaming down your cheeks. "Please."

Yoongi disappears without another word. He hopes that with time, you'll forgive him. Nobody likes Death, but when he's with you, he's Min Yoongi, who's the farthest thing from Death there is. Knowing you, you'll be able to offer him a generous pardon. But only with time.

It takes months for you to slowly forgive Yoongi. Your funeral clothes are buried deep in your closet, and you greet your old friend like nothing had happened between you at all. Yoongi senses that you want to conceal your past—start anew—and there's nothing wrong with that.

"Mom bought me a doll!" you exclaim, holding up a pretty plastic Barbie. "Isn't she beautiful?"

Yoongi nods, inwardly relieved that you had finally lifted your silent treatment; yet, outwardly, he is calm just like normal. "She is," he agrees. "So, what do you want to play today?"

You hum, tapping your chin thoughtfully. Yoongi thinks it's endearing that you always try to come up with the most original plot you can muster up in your head to act out for the day. Even if your ideas are... unconventional. "How about we play princesses and Death?"

Yoongi can't help but laugh kindly at your creative attempt. "And how would that go, hm?"

"Well, Princess Rosy meets a man in a black coat," you giggle. You like Yoongi the best when he laughs, smiles. There's a certain warmness that radiates from him once he breaks loose a silly grin. It washes away the otherwise cold façade he puts up for himself.

"Sounds familiar," Yoongi smiles. "Care to explain more?"

"No, we have to act it out, Yoongi!" you pout. "I'll be the princess!" you say, jutting out your chest quite proudly. "You're the man in the black coat, okay?"

And just like that, the two of you unite again.

It's funny how rapidly the years go by.

Yoongi marvels at how drastically you've changed—it feels like almost yesterday when you were barely at the height of his hips. Seems like just yesterday when you could barely add with carrying. Now, you're not so little anymore. Real maturity has set in in your teenage years. Your growth has changed the silliness in your personality; it's dulled a bit of your creative ambitions. (You'd mostly accepted that you're not the most imaginative person there is.) The hope is still there, and so is the kindness, but you're a lot calmer now, a lot more reserved. A bit like himself, he would like to say. But a lot more merciful.

You and Yoongi like to meet in secret—not that it mattered anyway—you know that you're the only one who can see him. But the privacy makes you feel safe. Being with Yoongi in the secure and isolated confines of your bedroom makes you feel guarded. In a way, you suppose that Yoongi is your guardian angel, considering that technically, he kills everything he touches.

"Seems like yesterday I was teaching you how to count," Yoongi laughs. "Now you're solving incomprehensible equations."

"Too bad you didn't die recently, huh?" you say, dropping your pencil and sliding away your math homework in disdain. "Then you would've been able to help me with this."

"School wasn't exactly a priority back in my days."

"Nothing was a priority in your days," you sigh, flouncing on your bed. "School's no fun."

"You should try to make some friends," Yoongi offers. He's well-aware that the only person you actively talk to other than your mother is him. And something tells him that having a dead man as your best friend isn't very beneficial for development.

You sit yourself up with your elbows. "With my trust issues? Yeah, no."

"Well, maybe at least find something you like to do."

You sit up completely, crossing your legs and looking at Yoongi straight in his eyes. "I like spending time with you."

He scoffs. Yet he can barely hide the small smile peeking from his lips. "I meant something like a hobby."

"Do you count surfing the Internet as a hobby?"

"Back in my days, the Internet—"

"Didn't exist. I know, you've told me before," you say. "But you have to admit the Buzzfeed personality tests are fun."

"Eh."

"You told me you liked taking them!"

"They're an inaccurate, shallow assessment of the self," Yoongi says. "Plus, I lied. So what?"

"So you're an asshole. What's new?"

Yoongi grins. It's not often that anyone dares to call him out—or cuss him out for that matter. But you're unafraid. Almost like you completely ignore the fact that your best friend is Death. Almost as if you forget.

"Anyways, should I even finish this stupid assignment?" you sigh, looking between your unnecessarily heavy math textbook and your half-finished homework.

"Don't, if you don't want to," is Yoongi's reply. "You've got one life. Fill it with things you like to do."

"I wish I could take philosophy," you sigh. "It's the only class that actually sounds fun to me."

"Well, then, why don't you?"

"With my grades, I can't," you say, sheepishly. "They need a 3.5 GPA average or above... And also they want a student in the IB pathway, and I'm not even an AP student."

Yoongi hates to see you sad, or worse, let down. You'd never let any bad news stop you as a younger kid. Nowadays, he sees adult-like cynicism growing on you; it's not a good look.

"Hey, the Internet's on your side though, right? Take as many Buzzfeed personality quizzes as you want. Or, I don't know, don't you have that platform where you watch tutorial videos? YouPipe or whatever?"

"It's YouTube," you say, stifling a laugh. "I guess I can watch uploaded lectures about philo... But do I really want to go that far? Not really." You shrug. "I hate learning." After a pause, you turn to Yoongi with a downcasted head. "I sound pathetic, don't I?"

His brows furrow. "No, not really. Why would you say that?"

"I dunno. You spared my life nearly a decade ago, but I guess I haven't been living my life to the fullest. You should've gone and saved somebody else. Somebody who actually has ambition. Or at least some kind of direction of where they want to end up in the future."

It's disheartening to hear you say such words. Memories of your first time meeting flash through Yoongi's head. He sees a little girl with so many passionate dreams. But looking at you now, he feels lost as well. Yet he knows you'll pick yourself back together. "You're only sixteen, Y/N," Yoongi reasons. "You're young. There are years and years of life ahead of you."

"Funny thing to come out of your mouth," you laugh. "You're literally Death."

The Reaper shrugs. "Just trying to help." He sighs, sensing how empty you feel inside—a feeling that doesn't suit you at all. He hates it, and he wants to help. "How about you get a job?" he suggests, hoping that work could distract you from the bottomless pit in your life. "Maybe you're meant to be a part of the workforce...?"

Yoongi sees you contemplating the idea, and he can tell that you're warming up to it. "Yeah. I guess that could actually work."

"Well, then. Let me know when you find anything."

"Of course." You grin. "You'll be the first person I'll tell."

"I got it!" you shriek the moment you rush into your room and see Yoongi sitting on your bed. "I got the job!"

"That's amazing!" The Reaper smiles at you. He's proud of you. Finally breaking out of your shell and venturing out into the world.

"It's at Chick-fil-A! And I'm gonna get paid!" you squeal excitedly. "I'll be able to buy things with my own money!"

"You're growing up," Yoongi says. "You're not a child anymore."

"That's gross. Don't say that," you scoff, rolling your eyes. "You're acting as if you raised me."

"Didn't I?"

You promptly turn away and pretend to be busy cleaning your desk. "No."

"How grateful you are," Yoongi laughs. "You seriously don't remember all the birthdays we celebrated together?"

"That time you 'borrowed' a piece of cake from the bakery for me?" you say, smiling at the memory. "How could I forget? But you didn't raise me. That just sounds gross. It's like... I don't know, it's like you're implying that you were my parent or something. I don't like it."

Strangely, Yoongi doesn't like the way that sounds either. "You're right," he says, scratching his head of pale blonde hair. "We were just close companions."

"Were??"

"Are," Yoongi corrects himself, smiling. "But really, Y/N. Congrats on your job. Do you have any idea of what your first purchase will be?"

Your eyes light up—the way they do when you often think you have a good idea. "I do, but it's a secret."

"Oh?" It takes all of Yoongi's willpower not to divulge himself in your mind. He's decided to do it less and less these days, to give you the privacy you deserve. In fact, he chastises himself—he should stop doing it completely.

"Mhm. You'll find out soon enough."

"And how soon is soon enough?"

You do the math in your head. "Let's say, two years?"

To Yoongi, two years is the equivalent of two seconds, and just like he predicts, two years elapse in the blink of an eye.

Today's the day of your eighteenth birthday. You'd celebrated with a small cake and a few presents with your mother downstairs, but the real celebration is up in your room with Yoongi. He's waiting there when you walk into your room with a corny party hat on your head and your mother's gifts in hand.

He grins, noting how flustered you look at the moment with your flushed cheeks and frozen smile—he also takes note of how well you fit into his black coat now. What had once been a largely loose fit is now only a little bit longer on the sleeves. The coat makes you look beautiful. The dark, elegant fabric differs starkly from your bright personality; it's really the contrasting juxtaposition that makes the coat such a great fit for you. But Yoongi shakes his distracting thoughts away and speaks. "So, what'd you get?"

"A wallet," you reply, holding it up to admire it. "And some school supplies that I can take with me when I go to college next year."

"Practical gifts, huh?"

"My favorite kinds of gifts."

Yoongi smiles. "You'll like what I got you, then."

"It's not an 'I'll spend more time with you' coupon, is it?" You're laughing as you sit on your bed with Yoongi settling down right next to you. "You've been giving me one of those every year."

"But eighteen's a special age for you humans."

"So you're going to give me a special present?"

"If you ignore the fact that I borrowed it, then yes."

You shake your head, grinning so wildly you can't say anything else. Yoongi pulls out his gift, unwrapped, but it saves you the struggle of ripping apart wrapping paper to get to the goods.

"You didn't..." you gasp, hands flying to your mouth. "Yoongi..."

"You talked about wanting to watch it a couple of times, so I just thought it was a good investment."

You hold the DVD to your heart. "Thank you. Really."

"We can watch the movie together," Yoongi suggests. "I heard it's a bit sad, though."

"Really?" You cock your head to the side with a teasing grin on your face. "Didn't pin you as the type to like romance, Yoongi."

"I make an exception for certain films," he says without hesitation. "Besides, Remember Me's all you teenagers talk about these days."

"And how would you do that?"

"I did my research."

You laugh. "I'd hug you for giving me such a wonderful gift... but I don't really want to die either. Not on my birthday at least."

"The only downside of befriending a Reaper," Yoongi smiles.

The two of you sit in comfortable silence on your bed, with you hugging Yoongi's gift to your chest and Yoongi stealing glances at you from the corner of his eyes.

"Hey, I hope you remember what I told you two years ago," you say. "When you asked me about what I'd first purchase with the money from my first job."

"I remember it almost like it happened yesterday."

"Well, I finally bought it."

Yoongi turns to look at you, curiosity filling him to the brim. "What is it?"

"It's for you, actually." You get down from your bed, reaching under it to pull out a pretty, black box, tied with a golden ribbon. "For all of your birthdays that we neglected to celebrate."

"A gift??"

"Mhm. Open it," you encourage him. "I hope you like it."

Yoongi carefully unwraps his present, afraid of tearing something that you had taken the time to beautifully arrange. When he opens the box, his heart nearly stops for the second time.

"It's something a little new," you say, sheepishly. "If you don't like it, I can always return it."

"No, no..." Yoongi breathes. He holds up the coat, hard eyes softening as his vision runs over all of its entirety. The fabric is soft, thick. And the color is a dark beige, the same shade as damp sand. A gigantic hood hangs from the peak of the warm coat, topping it with a fashionable finish. Yoongi can't help but run his gloved fingers across the cloth, admiring the white clasps that adorn the jacket.

"I thought it would complement your hair color," you say. "And I felt really bad about stealing your coat and never returning it." You wrap Yoongi's black coat around yourself, clutching the fabric and awaiting your friend's reaction.

"I love it."

"Really??"

"I normally don't wear clothes that aren't black..."

"I can tell."

"...but this will be an exception." He looks at you, eyes sparkling and mouth pulled up in a happy smile. 

"You really love it?" you giggle, face heating at his undivided attention.

"I'll wear it all the time."

Yoongi stands up, and you watch as he slips the coat on. It looks a bit strange with his black turtleneck and even darker slacks, but you knew that would happen. "Here, wait, I bought this white sweater that you can wear underneath, too."

"You were prepared, weren't you?" Yoongi laughs as you hand him the sweater.

You give him some space, turning your head away as he changes into his white sweater. He calls you to look at him once he'd put back on his new coat.

"You look..." For a moment, you struggle to come up with words to describe the man's ethereal beauty. "You look great," you manage in the end. "Just great."

Yoongi stands in front of your mirror, staring at his reflection in awe. "Thank you..." He can't lie—your compliment makes him feel like he's glowing. Yoongi turns to stare at you, worry evident on his face. "I really hope I still look menacing enough to be a grim reaper."

You laugh at his words. "Oh, Yoongi, you're so soft-hearted that you'd never be intimidating. Not to me at least," you tease.

Yoongi grins, shaking his head. "Good to know."

From that day forth, you never see your friend without his pretty beige coat; and he rarely sees you without your black coat. The Reaper keeps to his word.

You and Yoongi make time to watch Remember Me the moment you commit to going to your community college just a five-minute walk from your mother's house. Coincidentally, your mother is out for the weekend on a conference trip, which leaves the whole place to you and Yoongi.

The two of you settle on the floor in front of the television with a bowl of popcorn between you, although Yoongi can't necessarily consume food. The movie is intense, but romantic, eliciting warm feelings in your chest and stomach. Every time you steal a couple of glances Yoongi's way though, you see that his expressions are guarded and stoic. Just as you suspected. Maybe being dead kills the ability to sense love.

You're a crying mess by the time the movie ends, and Yoongi sits next to you, unscathed and having shed not a single tear.

"I don't get how you don't find the ending sad at all," you sniffle, dabbing at your eyes with a tissue.

"Death is a natural cycle of life," he replies, shrugging. "I don't think it's sad. It's my job."

"Fine. That's a valid point. But the romance! You didn't react to it at all."

The Reaper shrugs again. "It's been a long time since I've felt something."

"I've never felt love in my whole life but I can still feel the romance."

Yoongi suddenly stands up, grabbing the finished popcorn bowl. "Are you done with this?" he asks.

"Yes?"

Without another word, he turns his back toward you and saunters into the kitchen, returning back to the living room with empty hands. You scoff at the way he'd tried to avoid a serious conversation. "I'm starting to think you don't feel anything at all. I know you're dead. I know you're Death. But you look human. For the most part, you act human. I sure hope you can feel emotions."

"Of course I do."

"Prove it."

Yoongi frowns, crossing his arms over your chest. You've never been difficult with him before. Maybe finally turning into an adult makes you think you can challenge everybody. He doesn't like this new attitude of yours. "I'm peeved right now, does that count?"

You stand up, and though you're significantly shorter than the man, your aura seems to tower over him. "Peeved that I'm right? That you can barely comprehend others' emotions, much less your own? Maybe there's a reason other people can't see you. Life and Death can't be friends, can they?"

"You're being difficult. All this because of a damn romance movie?"

You can't even understand why you're so mad at him right now. Something inside you wonders why you're so pissed off that he isn't able to understand romance—not the way you understand it, anyway. But you push your curiosities down like you always do.

"I'm being difficult?" your voice rises an octave. "You can't possibly say that I'm being difficult. Not when you're the one who keeps all of your secrets hidden away. Not when I'm the one who has to be left in the dark, knowing next to nothing about your life, while you can write a whole dissertation about mine!"

"So what?" Yoongi scoffs. "Need I remind you that I saved your life?"

They're the wrong words to say and he regrets it. Things had escalated too quickly; now things are too far down South.

You slowly sink into the couch, maintaining eye contact with Yoongi. He hates how he's silenced you—he knows you stop talking when you're especially angry, something he's seen you do to your mother several times, but not him. Never him. Not until now.

You don't tell Yoongi to leave. You don't yell at him. You don't even cuss him out. Instead, you look him dead in the eye and whisper, "If you regret sparing my life, then take it now."

Yoongi scoffs. He hates how you have the audacity to say such dramatized words. He knows that he could never kill you; he'd refused to do it once, and he'll continue to refuse to do it.

"I never said I regret sparing your life."

"You might as well have said it."

The Reaper sighs, shoving his hands in the pockets of his coat—the coat that you had bought for him months ago. Although he tells himself to refrain from sensing your thoughts, he can't help himself. He needs to know what you're thinking to get the two of you out of this ridiculous fight.

But when he enters your mind, he is surprised. Your thoughts are jumbled, emotions a complete mess. He sees fear, regret, worry, and deep down, almost buried under your other feelings is love. He sees fondness, adoration, affection. Things that you don't dare admit out loud—not when you don't know if Yoongi feels the same. He understands you now. Why you're so infuriated that he might not understand love.

Yet he does. Yoongi does know love. He's just not willing to admit it.

Your soft, hesitant voice breaks him out of his thoughts. "I-I'm sorry," you say. "I didn't mean any of that."

Yoongi nods. "I know."

"I'm just worked up from the movie, I guess."

"It's okay," your friend soothes.

How funny mortals are. They rush to make resolutions, to end difficult predicaments; if they lived any longer, they would've let the anger run on, the sadness to overflow. But alas, Yoongi is very aware that your life is finite, and he knows that your worst fear is dying without truly living.

"I'm going to bed," you sigh, picking yourself up from the couch. "You probably have a lot of work to do, anyways."

He hates to watch you go. Not on such a tenuous note. "Wait."

You pause, mid-way from taking your first step up the stairs. Before a simple 'What?' can fall from your lips, Yoongi takes his gloved hand and slowly, ever so carefully places it in yours. The smooth action elicits a small gasp out of you; Yoongi had never dared to make contact with you—even with the safety of his gloves. He'd always insisted on being extra vigilant. But today, he felt like proving a point.

Your eyes flit to his darkened ones, watching the way they sparkle in the dim, yellow light of your home. He squeezes your intertwined hands together, and you're left wondering how it would feel to hold his hand without the barrier of his gloves. The feeling is addicting. You want to know more, feel more, but quickly, Yoongi retracts his hand.

"Good night," he croaks, awkwardly clearing his throat afterward. "Sweet dreams, all right?"

You nod wordlessly, giving the Reaper one last bewildered look before heading upstairs. He watches you go, wondering why the hell he chose to hold your hand. It was almost like instinct. A burning instinct that guided him through it. But he doesn't regret it one bit. Not when you liked it so much.

The little quarrel on movie night is long forgotten, yet again buried in your past. Once you begin to attend college, things are starting to look up. You leave your major as undecided, promising yourself to explore your studious side for the better. Except studying was never your strong suit.

Instead, you opt to spend your time with Yoongi. Movie nights become a weekly habit reserved solely for Sundays. You check out books from your local library to read to Yoongi as well. The two of you have a bond stronger than ever before. Yet neither of you dare to mention that night that Yoongi had first touched you. It's an unspoken agreement to keep that memory hidden within the both of you. But neither of you mind.

" 'There's a large red maple tree that sits on an empty hill just a few miles away from his home. It becomes his new abode,' " you read from your latest novel. Yoongi lies on your bed, his body turned to gaze at you sitting on your desk chair, facing him. He loves listening to you read to him—it's peaceful, enjoyable too. You have a natural talent for narrating; it seems like your voice alone can soothe his troubles, caress his face and drift him off to a faraway world where all things are better. If any voice could sound like vitality itself, it would be yours. " 'Because he doesn't feel, the ghost spends the winters, autumn, springs and summers there, leaning against the broad trunk of the tree and watching the grass sway in the breeze.' "

"Must be awful to be a ghost, huh?" Yoongi interrupts your reading.

You smile. "I hope things get better for him."

"Me too."

"Want me to continue?"

Yoongi nods so fervently, you can't help but let a giggle escape your lips. "Okay. 'When it snows, he always reaches out to catch a snowflake even though he knows it'll fall right through him,' " you read. " 'It's habitual. What he used to do when he was alive.' Hm..." With that, you close the library book and look up at Yoongi. "That kind of reminds me... Sometimes I wonder what you were like when you were alive."

He lazily stretches out on your bed, drowning in the scent of your fresh linen soap. "I can't quite remember," he says. "I was probably the same, don't you think?"

"Cold but warm?"

"Is that what you think of me?" Yoongi laughs, sitting up to stare at you.

You turn your face away, not liking the sudden attention he puts on you. "Well, yes?"

He laughs again, shrugging. "I guess that makes sense. It was all too long ago for me to remember, honestly. I do recall being recruited to be a Reaper, however."

Your eyes widen and you scoot your chair closer to Yoongi. "Tell me more." Yoongi rarely opens up to you—even after all these years—and you find a sliver of hope in his contemplative state at the moment.

"A Reaper only becomes a Reaper, skipping their life trial, if they do one thing," he says.

"Really?" You're unable to hide the astonishment in your voice.

"When they take control of their own death," he says. "That's the only thing I remember about my life. When it ended."

You grimace, huffing as you whirl away from Yoongi, busying yourself by rearranging your school supplies on your desk. "That's depressing." His answer is much more anticlimactic, much more miserable than you could have imagined. You'd rather he'd not told you at all.

"That's death for you."

You roll your eyes. "Is every Reaper like you?" Impassive, you want to say. Grim.

Yoongi laughs out loud. "No, but I wish they were."

"Why, are they too happy-go-lucky for you?"

"You could say that," Yoongi says, smiling. "But really, everyone gets on my nerves. Except you," he quickly adds.

"Thanks. I feel special," you mutter sarcastically, still refusing to look at your friend.

"Well, I was walking around your neighborhood today," Yoongi starts, hoping to regain your attention. "And I was thinking you can start a small garden by yourself."

To his delight, you spin around in your chair, giving him a meaningful look. "A garden?"

"Well, something that you can take care of every day. I heard it's pretty cathartic." Yoongi just wants you to find happiness in life. If growing life itself in your room will help you find purpose, then maybe that's what it'll have to come down to.

"Let's do it together," you say, decidedly.

The Reaper tilts his head, a look of surprise morphing on his face. "I kill everything I touch, Y/N," Yoongi says.

"It was your idea. Own up to it," you say, grinning. "Wear your gloves then. It'll be our little garden. Not just mine."

Yoongi likes the way you put it. Our garden. Something the two of you can raise together. Maybe he can learn a thing or two about life. And plants, of course. Besides, he can't resist your charm—or maybe he's too far in deep to refuse you of anything. "Fine. That's what we'll do then."

And it's exactly what transpires in the next few days. You and Yoongi run around town, looking for pretty flowers, comparing the costs of the seeds and buying the best deal. The two of you come home with a small supply of pots and fertilizer, along with the flower seeds. Sitting together in your backyard, the two of you commence your journey as resident plant parents.

"See?" you say, wiping the sweat off your brow and flexing your garden-gloved hands. "You didn't kill anything."

"Yet," Yoongi adds. "We won't know the seeds are dead until they refuse to grow a few weeks later."

"I doubt it," you say. "Come on. Help me carry these to my room."

The pots are situated on your desk, facing your window where the sunlight streams in every morning. Every day when Yoongi visits you, he catches you staring at the dirt-filled pots, wondering how well your seeds are coping, whether they'll blossom into beautiful flowers.

At first, Yoongi watches the plants from afar, too afraid to go near them—in case his presence itself is poisonous. But as the weeks pass and the plants begin to sprout, Yoongi feels much safer near them. As the vivid green stems peek out shyly from the dirt, Yoongi pays closer attention to the plants, noting that they grow just a tiny bit taller every time he visits you. It's fascinating how life works. Especially when his had been so stagnant for hundreds of years.

By the time your first midterms roll around, Yoongi's comfortable enough to water the plants and even sing to them softly under his breath (something he read with you online that would help plant growth). While you study furiously, forcing useless bits of information in your head in time for your exams, Yoongi takes care of your plants for you.

The flowers start to blossom when the air grows warmer. The petals are an array of soft pastel colors—pretty pink, lilac purple, soft yellow. You and Yoongi crouch together, watching your shared handiwork with a sense of conjoined pride.

"I told you that you wouldn't kill them," you whisper—almost as if you would interrupt your plants' sleep.

"I know," Yoongi says smiling. "I'm glad we did this."

Watching the growth and maturation of the gorgeous flowers almost reminds Yoongi of you. But he could never say that out loud.

"Me too." You sigh, sitting down on your floor, cradling your face in your hand. "It's like we can see all the hard work we put in to grow these."

There's something in your voice that Yoongi notices—sadness? Regret? "Is there something wrong?" he asks.

"No, it's really nothing," you say with a stiff laugh. "I was just thinking of dropping out."

"Of college, you mean?"

"Yeah... I just don't find the point in it anymore. It's not fun. It's expensive. And most of all, it feels like a chore."

"Well..." Yoongi isn't sure what he can tell you with the limited school experience he had. But he hates seeing you unhappy like this. "Maybe mull over it a bit more? Maybe you haven't found what you want to study yet. Or maybe you need friends."

"I have you, though."

"Friends your age," Yoongi clarifies with a small laugh.

"You look like my age at least," you argue.

"Friends who are alive."

You sigh. "It's not as easy as you put it, Yoongi."

You're probably right. Yoongi knows little to nothing about friendship—especially friendship between mortals. As quickly as he brought the topic up, he drops it, and the two of you continue on with your lives. As if the conversation had never happened.

The books you pick from the library are quite interesting; Yoongi likes to wait for you to come back from a long day of classes on your bed, reading whatever books you had checked out for that week. He has a feeling that you don't quite like to read, but you continue to bring books home for him.

Yoongi's just about to flip the page of the gut-wrenching mystery novel when you burst into your room with a silly grin on your face. "Hey!" you say, setting down your backpack and making your way over to your closet.

"Hey?" Yoongi sets down his book, watching as you begin to flip through your clothes hanging on a rack. "You're in a weirdly chipper mood coming back from classes. Anything happen?"

You pause, turning around with flustered cheeks to stare at Yoongi. "I um, I got invited to a party."

"You're gonna go?"

"I dunno. Maybe? The girl who invited me seems nice though."

"When's the party?"

"Tonight, actually. It was sort of a last-minute invite, I think."

"Hm," Yoongi hums. "She invited you for a reason. Aren't you getting sick of me being your only friend? You should go. You're already searching for something to wear anyway."

You laugh, looking at Yoongi with endearment sparkling in your eyes. "I could never get sick of you, Yoongi. But maybe I will go. Help me find something to wear?"

"Of course."

But it turns out you and Yoongi have quite different tastes in terms of party clothes.

"I've been dead for hundreds and hundreds of years, Y/N. Even I know that's not what you wear to a party," Yoongi deadpans.

"Oh, shut up," you sigh, looking at yourself in the mirror. Your long-sleeve, elegant black dress hugs your figure perfectly but Yoongi might just be right. It seems too formal for a college party.

"As long as you don't wear my black coat over it though," Yoongi teases. "You'll be passable."

"What do you suggest I wear?" you say, whirling around.

"I dunno, some cute jeans and those tops you have with strings for sleeves?"

"A spaghetti strap tank top?"

"Yeah, the pasta top."

"And how do you know that this will work?"

"I did my research."

Strangely enough, when Yoongi does his research, he is always thorough and most definitely right. You follow his advice and end up looking quite attractive—even to yourself. Yoongi watches you leave, wondering if this will be the start of your life. When things start to get good.

With no assignments and nothing to do, he waits for you to come home, which isn't until about 3 o'clock in the morning.

You stumble barefoot into your room, gasping when you notice Yoongi's still there. "Hey!"

"Hey," Yoongi greets you. "So? Did you have fun?"

"Yeah!" you exclaim almost breathlessly. "It was... refreshing... I liked it. Loved it, really." There's a certain glow to your skin—a happy glow—that makes Yoongi glad to see. You look positively radiant, though your hair is a bit of a mess and your clothes are slightly wrinkled.

"That's great, Y/N. Did you make new fri—" Before Yoongi can finish, your phone dings, interrupting him. It dings again. Then it continues to ding. You quickly fish your phone out of your pocket to silence it, an embarrassed look on your face.

"Sorry..."

"Was that your mom?" Yoongi asks. "Maybe she ran into a problem on her work trip. It must be urgent."

You shake your head. "Um, no... Well um, I gave my number to a couple of friends that I met at the party."

"You did make friends!" Yoongi's genuinely happy for you. "You should text them back."

"You sure? I mean, you were waiting for me... So I thought you'd want to hang out...?"

"I was just um, waiting for you to get home safely," Yoongi says, cheeks heating up when he admits it out loud. "I should go. I have some Reaper stuff to do, anyway. Text them, it's fine."

You look beyond happy, and Yoongi thinks it's a good look on you. "Thanks. See you tomorrow? Er, I mean, later today?"

Yoongi nods, giving you one last, meaningful look before disappearing into thin air.

It's come to Yoongi's attention that the happier you are, the longer it takes for you to realize his presence. When you're giggling, texting your new friends, you don't necessarily notice Yoongi waiting for you to patiently talk to you, to spend time with you. Sometimes, it's almost as if you see right through him. But always, you eventually end up noticing Yoongi and greet him with (figurative) open arms.

To see you happy, hopeful and always delighted is something that takes Yoongi back to the early days. Your image now reminds him of how you had used to be. The light that had dimmed down all these years is shining brighter than ever. He likes to see you enthused and enjoying your life. Even if it means that he'll be pushed to the side.

But Yoongi doesn't mind at all. Because ultimately, at the end of his waiting, you always notice him.

Today, you're ferociously texting your friends in an Instant Messenger group chat, giggling at their texts and taking the time to type your own jokes. Yoongi had been waiting on your bed when you'd first entered your room, but you hadn't seen him. No matter, though. You always see him in the end.

You've stopped checking out library books for Yoongi a while back, but he doesn't really mind. At least you don't forget to water your plants—they're as healthy and verdant as ever. They flourish and grow just like you, and Yoongi doesn't mind watching either of you from afar.

When the doorbell rings, you jolt up from your seat, about to rush downstairs.

That's when Yoongi realizes you hadn't seen him at all. "Wait, Y/N!" He sits up from your bed, brows furrowing. Why aren't you noticing him?

You pause, looking back at your bed. But your eyes are glossy, and you look straight through the Reaper as if he were not there at all. He feels his heart sink. He watches you go, to meet up with your new friends, leaving him, Death, behind.

Yoongi shoves his gloved hands in the pockets of his coat—the one you had gifted him on your birthday. The one where you had told him complements his hair color. Though he wants to mourn the loss of you in his life, he can't help but feel glad. You can't see him anymore. It means you have moved on from the lonely slumps of your life, that you have better things to do than be friends with Death himself.

He should've known that a mortal could not possibly befriend someone like him—an eternal, brooding figure that's supposed to bring death and mourning to everything he touched. It seems as if you've already let go of him. So why can't he do the same?

For years after that, Yoongi watches you from afar. It sounds pathetic, yes, but he wants to know how your life has changed for the better without him. Yoongi comes to terms with the fact that he had been the one who had been holding you back. Though he had saved your life, he hadn't let you truly live. Not until he disappeared from your sight.

But it makes Yoongi happy to see you living out the fiery potential he had seen in you when you were younger. It makes Yoongi happy to see that you'd let go of your past—including him—and finally found something worth living for. He watches you fall in love with your classes. He watches you form a special bond with philosophy. He watches you proudly switching your undecided major status and beginning to aim for a humanities degree.

Not once does he ever notice you yearning for him. It's as if you've erased him completely from your mind. Just as his black coat becomes shoved to the back of your closet. Still, Yoongi never minds at all.

Death is stagnant. Eternal, even. But life—what you have—yields change, metamorphosis.

He hopes you can never see him again.

Twenty-two is an interesting age to be. It's the age where you've finished off your studies, the age of freedom, really. But it's also the age of realization. The realization that life is so vast yet you're so small in comparison. The realization that your humanities degree won't land you a job so easily. The realization that you're unemployed and need money to pay the bills. The realization that your friends—no matter how much you love them—don't know you at all. The realization that you'd been projecting a façade of yourself in college, and now everyone near you likes the you that was self-engineered by the real you.

Loneliness begins to seep into your life once more. Sadness follows suit. Soon, you're bogged down by your own negative emotions, finding it hard to get up from the bed. Your happiness had been so fleeting, but if you had to fake yourself to be happy, did you deserve it at all?

Your days become repetitive and dull, and you isolate yourself from the rest of the world, hiding away in the darkness of your room. And one faithful day, you turn around in your bed to see Yoongi sitting on your desk chair.

You gasp, sitting up completely and staring at the man with a look of sheer incredulity. "Y-Yoongi!" Sudden tears prick your eyes; you think he has no idea how relieved you are to see him, but he does. He does know. "H-How long...? How long have you been there?"

The Reaper shakes his head, refusing to answer your question. He too has glossy eyes, unable to believe that after all these years you can finally see him again. Yoongi gestures toward the half-dying, withering plants on your desk. "I guess that's what's left of our little garden."

"Y-Yeah..." You're sorry. You're sorry that you'd stopped caring about the plants that had once brightened up your and Yoongi's lives. You're sorry that Yoongi has to see you like this. You're even sorry that there's so much to say but you don't know how to say it.

Yoongi slowly, carefully, peels his gloves off of his hands. Then, he lightly touches the suffering plants; they crumble to the ground as if something had sucked the water straight out of them. "To end their apparent suffering," the Reaper mutters.

You allow your tears to fall down your face. "I missed you."

"I was always here with you, you know," is his reply. Yoongi refuses to put his gloves back on; instead, staring straight into your eyes, wanting to reach out and wipe your tears away.

"Really?" A sad laugh befalls from your lips. "I didn't know..."

"You know now."

Another sad laugh escapes from you, and you wipe away the remnants of your tears on your sleeve. Your eyes trail from the Reaper's pale but handsome face to the milky whites of his hands. Of the near sixteen years that you've known Yoongi, you've only seen his bare hands twice—three times now. You wish he hadn't hidden them away from you.

Ungracefully, you stumble out of your bed, balancing yourself before stepping closer to Yoongi. Almost by instinct, he flinches away from you, but he has nowhere to go, his back flush against the seat of your desk chair.

He looks up at you, dark eyes sparkling with damp tears. His pink, thin lips disappear for half a second as he wets them with his tongue. "What are you..." He trails off, gasping when you carefully lower yourself in his lap. Your bare legs chafe against his black slacks, and your hands grip at his beige coat.

"You don't look intimidating at all," you whisper, straightening out the weathered material, hands resting against his chest when you're done.

Yoongi almost leans in, cherishing the warmth of your body against his. But he's careful. One wrong move would take away your life. He wants you to leave, to stay away from him. But he can't tell you to.

His hands hover around your clothed waist, unsure whether to touch you. "Y/N?" he breathes your name.

You don't answer. Instead, he feels your arms wrap around his neck but over the thick cloth of his hood. He isn't ready when you suddenly lean in. He isn't ready when your grip around him tightens. He isn't ready when your lips fall onto his.

Yoongi gasps into the kiss, his hovering hands now steadying your waist. When he closes his eyes, he lets his tears fall, able to taste them just seconds later. Once you pull away from him, you feel light-headed and free.

Your limp corpse splays across the floor, and you step over it with a new sense of grace and light-stepped movement. "Yoongi." You grasp the Reaper's hands. His gloveless hands.

The man looks between you and your dead body in horror. "No..." he whispers, shaking his head in shock. "Y/N, no." He rises from his seat, towering over you but keeping your intertwined hands close to his chest. "Why did you do that?"

You pull Yoongi closer to you, relishing in the close proximity that he had never granted you after all these years. His skin is cold but now so is yours. "I wanted to be with you," you say. You squeeze your intertwined hands together, keeping eye contact with the man in front of you. "I've always wanted to do this. You know, hold your bare hand." You can't help but smile—and there's not an ounce of sadness interlaced with it. Not even an ounce of regret. The smile is genuine. For the first time, there's no heavy weight on your shoulders. You've liberated yourself. Finally taken the lead of your own life.

Yoongi can't help but smile along with you. He admits that it hurts that you had grabbed the reins of your fate into your own hands, but you're also right. Now, you can be with him—without excessive barriers of gloves and differing realms.

"Can you take me away?" you ask, eyes glistening—wet with tears and fascination alike.

Yoongi nods, too lost in the unfathomable depths of your eyes to say anything more. And with that, hand in hand, Death leads you away to eternity.