#suga.doc

❪  💜  PROMPT !  ❫ 

things you said in writing

Min Yoongi is a man of few words.  The ones he offers are carefully chosen, cherry-picked and meaningful.  They come quietly, sometimes spoken, often written.  You cherish them all.

I’m sad I’m missing our anniversary.  I would say I’m sorry, but it’s not really something I can fix.  I hope these flowers make your day better.  Hyung will drop off something else for you tonight.  I love you.

It’s handwritten and stuck among the bouquet that arrives at your doorstep, bell rung as you take your first sip of caffeine.  The arrangement is beautiful, understated and lovely.  The centrepiece is entirely white dahlias, full-bloomed and eye-catching.  Your favourite flower.  

You set them up in your kitchen, neatly stored in the vase you’d bought three years ago, when you’d started dating Yoongi and you’d come to realise bouquets were a regular occurrence.  

They last longer than you anticipate, a striking visual in the small apartment.  When they wither, you hang the stems beneath the counter - dry them until you can fold the petals between the pages of your bullet journal.  

I’m running late.  The reservation’s already made.  See you soon, sweetheart.

His contact picture frames the text - a stupid photo you’d snapped of him one afternoon.  It makes you laugh even as you scowl, stepping into the restaurant alone.  He always runs late;  you don’t mind nearly as much as he thinks you do.

When he arrives, he’s windswept and devastatingly handsome.  He’s still in his clothes from this morning - black shirt, black coat, black pants - though everything’s just a little bit worse for wear.  You think he looks as good as ever.

He kisses you before he sits down, drags his thumb over your jaw and leaves a fire in its wake.

You were coughing in your sleep.  Take some medicine and call me when you wake up.

There’s a glass of water alongside the note and two little pills you recognise from your medicine cabinet.  A heart stamps the bottom corner, his usual pretty scrawl gone haywire with the elementary school shape.  (You’ll tease him about that later, ask whether he was too overwhelmed to draw neatly.)

When you call him, speak in a raspy tone that immediately has him worried, you can only go for so long before you’re snickering.  You can hear his disapproval through the phone then, colouring his words when he tells you off.

“You’re so soft, Yoongi,”  you tease, mouthful of laughter.  

“You love me,”  he retorts.  You do.  

Will you marry me?  

Embedded into the cake set down before you, piped white cream a stark contrast to the luxurious valrhona chocolate.  Cheesy, certainly, but so very you.  Your love presented in a simple gesture - one thoughtful and hilarious and special, just like the man across from you. 

He’d asked you once, maybe six months ago, what you thought of over the top marriage proposals.  There’d been one happening not five feet from your table, complete with a violin player and a hysterical girlfriend.  (You’d shared a look over dinner, eyes wide, shoulders shaking with amusement.)

“I want a sheet cake from the supermarket.  Chocolate, with really gross jelly writing on it.”  You’d been joking, of course.  

[ read not your fairytale ]

Despite how far he’s come, he still sometimes struggles to meet you, to not shy away.  It’s hard when he’s found so much comfort in the dark, in the quiet.  You’re like a tropical July, the sun on the hottest day of summer.  There’s nowhere to run when you’ve set your sights on him, coaxing and pleading and so glorious he can’t possibly say no.  (And trust him - he tries.  Grumbles quietly under his breath when you settle into his lap, stamp a kiss against the soft soft skin of his neck and giggle that sweet sound that he’s grown obsessed with through the years.)

“Yoongi,”  you purr.  It’s his favourite sound (not his name, but your voice, a melody that sinks beneath his skin and threads his limbs together, makes everything make sense).  He glares at you in response.  Tries to, anyway, failing miserably when you turn the full force of your affection upon him.

Who is he to deny you when you’re spring showers and bright citrus, tart on his tongue and sunflower yellow?  

“He’ll be home any second.”  He’s not sure what he means when he says it.  Is it a threat?  A warning?  A reminder?  It feels like all three, spoken in a dead language.  Even when he tells himself to stop - to gently remove you from your spot against him, place a careful amount of distance between your bodies - he makes no move to do so.  Simply sinks further into your warmth when you curl into him like a cat, scratch across the tired line of his back in that way he loves best.

[ ask game:  drop a word in my inbox ] 

You’ve worked at the bookshop for every summer since you were sixteen. Eight long years spent among the pristinely kept shelves, memories folded between pages of your favourite books. It’s become a second home to you, possibly your favourite place in the world outside of your bed.

Your mother had once asked why you kept going back, insisting you owed your sajangnim nothing - that he didn’t expect you to return year after year. (She’s right, of course. He’s surprised every first of June when you pop your head into the store with an updated resume. Laughs and shakes his head when you try to drop it across the oak countertop, mumbling something about ‘of course’ before he hands you the name tag he never throws away.)

You suppose you’ve become so used to the routine that it’s just second nature to take up your post, settle yourself back where you love without thought. There’s nowhere that brings you calm like this. No one that makes you as happy.

No one like Min Yoongi, with his feline smile and easygoing warmth, the callouses on his fingers he’s had for the last two years since he’d taken up guitar.

(Because really, he’s the reason you keep coming back. You won’t admit it if anyone asks - would prefer to toss a thousand won note into the I-will-die-with-this-secret jar each time it’s brought up - but it’s true. You’ve known it since you were eighteen and he started at the shop, brought on by some good old-fashioned nepotism. Thank you, sajangnim.)