Chapter Text
He wears a different flower every week.
On the left side of his neck, right where the collar ends and the last of his dark vines peeks through. Like a crown, its tip is adorned by rich petals and vibrant colours, hard to miss. The flower pulsates with his heartbeat, drawing attention like a beacon in the ocean of dancing people.
Today it’s a peony in bright pink, stretching wide over his throat, almost reaching his chin. On anyone else, it would appear tacky, overdone. Yet on Kim Seokjin, it enhances his beauty, matching the hue of his lips, his cheeks, elevating his perfect face to an ethereal level.
Peonies, roses, wild flowers, it doesn’t matter which flower he wears, it always seems to be the ideal one for his looks.
Sometimes Yoongi wonders if Seokjin changes flowers like he does his clothes just for the aesthetics.
His eyes stray to the little crowd of man and women trying to get near Seokjin, their bodies rolling, flirting, hiding nothing of their intentions.
He wears a different flower every week – everyone knows.
And he lets every single flower wilt, without care for the hearts attached to them.
Yoongi’s jaw ticks with tension, annoyance growing in him the longer he watches Seokjin’s game. He lets everyone touch him. They tug him closer for a dance, grinding against him, pushing, pulling, talking dirty into his ear, breathing down his enticing neck.
And Seokjin lets them.
Tongue pressed against the insides of his cheek, Yoongi tears his gaze away, his heart thrumming to the bass of the music, heat rising as he makes his way through the thick crowd. He brushes off wandering hands and eyes, silences any proposition with a glower, pushing forward until he reaches the centrepiece of the dance floor.
For a second, he just stands frozen in front of Seokjin, watching a stranger feeling him up, taking in the way Seokjin lets it happen with a smile and flushed cheeks, reciprocating.
Yoongi stares and forgets why he’s here. He forgets the ‘why’, forgets to breathe, and only knows want.
He wants to push those hands off Seokjin, wants to punch the stranger and pull Seokjin away from the mass of groping, leering people. He wants the peony to wilt and leave the last of his vines crownless. He wants Seokjin to stop throwing himself at every person in the world.
He wants Seokjin to stop breaking his fucking heart.
“Seokjin.” It’s barely a whisper in the cacophony of the disco. But Yoongi doesn’t need to yell.
“Yoongi.” Seokjin finds him immediately, smile softening, though the corners of his mouth droop when he sees Yoongi’s look.
In the end, Yoongi doesn’t need to push and pull. It’s Seokjin who takes his hand, tugging him away from the dance floor, the crowd of admirers cast aside without a second glance.
Wordlessly, Yoongi follows him, his hand warm and sweaty in Seokjin’s palm, his heartbeat loud in his ears.
Seokjin makes them sit by the bar, pulling Yoongi’s hand into his lap as he keeps their fingers intertwined.
A cocktail for Seokjin, whiskey for Yoongi.
“So, what’s up?” Seokjin asks him. “You don’t look well.”
Yoongi takes a sip from his glass, lets his insides hurt from the burn of the drink instead of his feelings. But his mind is already swimming, and all he sees is Seokjin Seokjin Seokjin. His voice is rough when he speaks.
“Don’t you have enough, hyung?”
“Enough of what?”
Dropping his gaze to Seokjin’s neck, he reaches out to touch the peony. Slowly, he traces the petals with his fingers, feeling the throb underneath, and the bob of his Adam’s apple.
“Yoongi-“
“This.” He puts a little pressure on the flower, revelling in the sensation of Seokjin’s racing pulse.
“Don’t you have enough of flowers for the rest of your life?”
When he meets Seokjin’s eyes he sees them glistening wetly. Seokjin tightens his hold on him.
“Yoongi,” he says quietly, “You said you didn’t care.”
He swallows. “I lied.”
“What, what do you mean?” Seokjin’s chest heaves with a deep breath, holding it.
Leaning closer, Yoongi cups his face, his thumb stroking his rose cheeks, feeling his silken skin. Petal-soft, he thinks. Prettier than any flower. Seokjin never had a need for these tacky, meaningless marks. They are nothing but distractions from his beautiful face.
For so long, Yoongi has borne witness to Seokjin’s loveless affairs. He doesn’t know if the alcohol is talking, if the peony was simply one too many. But his heart is in his throat, on his tongue, aching to release the truth he cannot hide anymore.
“What I mean is that I can’t give you any flowers. I can’t make you bloom with my touch. But God, do I want you, Seokjin. I want to trace your vines with my hands, my lips. I want to kiss you, bruise you where otherwise flowers would blossom on you. I want to make you mine, for the world to see you’re mine, and I don’t need fucking flowers to show it.” He pauses for breath, for a single tear to escape Seokjin’s lashes. Brushing it away, he continues more calmly, “I can’t give you flowers as a pistil myself, but I’ll give you love, Seokjin, better than any of them.”
“Do you mean it?” Seokjin stares at him, his eyes intense and bright, squeezing Yoongi’s hand further. “Do you really mean it?”
“Yes.”
A beat passes, his heart suspended as Seokjin regards him silently, so close he can almost feel the touch of his breath on his skin.
And then Seokjin smiles, eyes crinkling at the corners, blushing sweetly.
“Then I don’t want you to wear any flowers, either. I’m yours and you’re mine.”
“I’m yours and you’re mine. Fuck flowers.”
Seokjin laughs and Yoongi, with his heart now warm and light, closes the last distance between them and kisses the sweet sound off his lips.