ā summary:Ā for whenever you are feeling low, always remember that there is a boy you know who would lift the sky for you.
{or alternatively: Min Yoongi loves you, though he never says it. Heās always been a firm believer in that actions speak louder than any words ever could.}
ā genre: coworker!au, f2l, fluff
ā warnings: an overabundance of shy!yoongi to the point where youāll want to squish his cheeks; kinda ooc but it is what it is
ā words: 11.5K
ā a/n:Ā whaddup kids itās ya girlā¦ back from the dead after months of not writing shit, and whatās this owoā¦ itās a fluff fic?? miracles do happenā¦ anyway i wrote this bc i just thot āman, wouldnāt it be super epic if i wrote a super self-indulgent fic where yoongi fulfills every single one of my deepest desires?ā wellā¦ here is THIS!! pls feel free to scream into a pillow bc i certainly did!! enjoy!!
There is a boy you know who likes to show his kindness quietly. It would go something like this:
The air is thick with static; your hair stands up on end: a warning. The scent of raindrops hitting hot pavement graces your nostrils as a waterfall drops from the sky. You see the sea of heads begin to disappear under a canopy of multi-colored umbrellas. You, the lone ranger, rush back into the building from whence you came, dragging puddles and annoyance with you.
You should have anticipated it, should have thought to check the weather app before scrolling through dull social media posts when you left your house that morning. Instead, your fingers are left cold and umbrella-less.
You tilt your head upwards, watching as gallon upon gallon fell from the sky in an endless cycle. The watch on your wrist reads 5 PM, but the sky says it is 9 PM. The dark, swirling mass of clouds above you will continue on its thunderous parade, pausing for no one, especially not for you.
Your work bag is practically weightless, devoid of anything that might protect you from the onslaught of rain. The only thing inside is a small wallet that holds nothing more than dust and a loose promise of a paycheck. There is no way you can call a taxi like this, and the nearest bus stop is at least two blocks away. You are starting to think that your childhood dreams of becoming a mermaid hadnāt been so ridiculous after all.
Then comes the hand of God. It touches your shoulder gently, hesitantly. You turn around to face a stranger, a boy with shaggy black hair and pale moonlight skin. It is not God, but he comes close.
In his other hand is your salvation wrapped in Kumamon print nylon. It is proffered to you with a silent nod, his gaze fixed somewhere behind you as he waits for you to take it. The tips of his ears begin to redden the longer it takes for you to respond. Eventually, your brain connects with your muscles as you robotically pluck the umbrella from his grasp, a stuttered āthanksā leaving your lips.
He nods stiffly once more, removing his palm from your shoulder as though he had been burned. He shuffles for a moment, mouth opening and closing as he struggles to find the words to say. You wait, patience never waning for the strange boy that you have come to know as your salvation.
He doesnāt find the words after all. You arenāt too offended by his silence, but he appears to be mortified. And so, he leaves just as quickly as he had appeared, like a whirlwind dressed in an oversized blazer flapping behind him like wings. He runs through the rain without another thought, an arm raised above his head in a futile attempt to avoid getting wet.
You try calling out to him, wanting to thank him once more and maybe to ask how you can return his umbrella, but he is long gone. A speck of black dashing through the gray.
You clutch the umbrella closer to you, a feeling of something new growing inside of you. It is too small to call anything, but it is warm.
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