#nyf.doc

“Do you want me to stop?”  It’s innocent enough, paired with big glossy eyes and a smile that makes his heart stop, tripping over itself in its haste to return to normal.

Did he?  Of course not.  He’s wanted this for much too long, dreamt about you for years and years until you’d finally become a reality, fully-formed and beautiful.  You’re undeniable and he knows you know that.  There’s no one that could do to him what you do to him - drawing him from his shell, wiping that painted scowl away as easily as chalk on a broken sidewalk.  It’s you, because it’s always been you.

(But then again, it’s always been him, too.  Your brother.  His best friend.)

(He wishes it meant something, that it held any weight when put up beside you.)

(Sometimes, Yoongi feels like a bad friend.  Like he’s crossed some invisible line and now he’s all but thrown himself off the cliff it led to, treading water, trying not to drown.  You’re holding his hand though - always are, whenever you can get away with it, whether it’s under the table or in the few hours your brother’s away - and it’s not that scary.  He’s never tired.  You keep him going.)

“You’re the worst,”  he hums, terribly tender.  Defenseless, as if every layer has been stripped from his shoulders, as if you’d reduced him to nothing but a heart that beats with you, for you.

“Can you blame me?”

Frankly, he can’t.  He wants all of these moments just as bad, if not worse.  Craves them like he does cake - layers of it, syrup-drenched and saccharine.  (Something to soothe his cravings, though nothing’s quite as sweet as you.)  He just needs to be careful, doesn’t know how to turn that side of his brain off.  It whines and whirs all through the night, keeping him awake even when he should be focused on only one thing.  (You.)

A sigh comes in tandem with his surrender, a white flag held aloft as he takes you as wholly as he wants, cages you against his chest and buries his face into the silk of your hair.  “Five more minutes.”

“Ten,”  you argue, because you’re infuriating and endearing and—

It turns out to be one.  Less than one.  Less than zero.  

Because your brother’s standing in the doorway, sneakers half-off and the strangest expression on his face.  A blend of gobsmacked and horrified, not a single sound breaking the sudden silence.  Yoongi swears he could hear a pin drop;  he feels the way you practically jump out of your skin when Namjoon’s bag hits the tile.

“What—”

“We can explain—”

In true sibling nature, your words run into each other.  Your brother’s get lost in the hysteria of your own, a sharp laugh tripping off your tongue and cracking into a thousand little pieces.  For a moment, Yoongi thinks you might scramble out of his arms, form together a handful of excuses.  You’ve always had a terrible poker face.

(Did it matter though, when your hands were laid out, clear as day?  Probably not.)