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book booth 12/ The Lost Birthday

book booth masterlist

au! min yoongi x fem!reader

there's a book booth in your city. for weeks, you exchange books with who you believe to be one single person - because nowadays barely anybody reads anymore.

how can you fall in love with someone just by the way they write you little messages under the front covers? sooner or later you have got to meet...

word count: 5809

music: masterpieces on repeat

1996

Min Sujin had a difficult labour. Fourteen hours of insidious and painful tugging as if the baby was wrestling inside; all functional muscles went stiff, and she couldn't push; child was like a cork in her, refusing to get out. Profusely bleeding, she finally gave birth to Jungho after the night of collective struggle: four nurses assisted while the OB pulled and pulled him. Jungho came out feet first, and blue like a violet; the only reason they were sure he's alive was his loud, unhappy scream.

Such a scream has never been heard in the Seoul Central by a newborn. He screamed, and screamed, like his lungs were at least four times bigger, the formed "AAAAA" sounded way too sentient. And even the eyes, dark-black-rainy, kept darting around the room, with the pointed, completely mindful focus. Minji the nurse froze in the corner of the room, transfixed and terrified; she was a bit more supersitious than the rest. Looking at this... creature? the bleeding, the broken left hip, the abnormally deep blackout of the mother all slid into place. OB Park was a professional, though; sure, somewhere beneath the scrubs he got the shivers when the little Jungho stared at him with the little, toothless mouth open. But OB proceeded to follow the usual sequence of care. Jungho was washed, weighed, attributed to the Min family, and then laid on the chest of the poor, bloodless woman. She was pumped with painkillers so much that they doubted about letting her feed at first. But even then, Jungho refused the breast. He just kept screaming, tirelessly, so loudly that the morning nurse came to the room thinking something horrible had happened. Father, Jungho Kim senior, finally made it and went absolutely pale upon seeing the state of his wife. The doctors witnessed the swift movie of emotions sliding across his face, and through his brain: horror, empathy, blind rage at first, undirected at anyone; and then finally joy about the baby, and in a second - confusion and worry. He asked if the newborn child is supposed to produce such sounds. Nobody hurt him; the baby was healthy; a bit smaller than they expected, but well within the normal range. Skin was becoming pink; his head was covered with pitch-black hair, and his tiny fingers formed fists. The only eerie things were his endless, uninterrupted, unhappy shrieking. And the gaze, full of terror, staring right into people's eyes.

It went on for the whole first week of his life. Then he suddenly went quiet - and his eyes lost the insidious focus.

From then on he was an agreeable little baby.

1998

Sujin liked calling her son Jung for short, and, as she had been an international journalist before pregnancy, often switched to Jungmann jokingly as it meant "young man" in German which she spoke perfectly.

Jungho Kim senior had a tech business, very often away from home, and he especially appreciated his son named after him. He would often say that at least one Jungho should always keep the mom company. The boy was developing adequately; by his second birthday he could kick the orange ball against the wall very well. Mom was gradually teaching him to clean the room off the toys and say longer phrases. The first word he ever said was "sky", and the parents changed the wallpaper in his room to blue. He seemed to like it a lot. First birthday, of course, was quite uneventful; he still drooled all over his little t-shirt with huge cookies and chocolate chips. A year later, he woke up in a bit of a bad mood and looked around like he did when he wanted something. Mom invited friends of the family, a couple of kids from the nieghbourhood; they had red misty glasses for lemonade, and the cake was passed around on colourful paper plates. Jungho was already capable of understanding that he was being celebrated. When the adults sat in half-circle and took other kids onto their laps, and sang the birthday song, Jungho suddenly went very dark.

He crossed his arms on his chest and at first looked at his mom angrily. Someone laughed; his eyebrows were getting thick, and they looked funny.

"I am Yoongi", he said.

The room went quiet for a second.

"No-o, you are Kim Jungho", his mother chanted softly. But the boy wouldn't have it. It took all the parents a couple of minutes to realise that Jungho did not pick up that name from a movie or off a jar of honey; there were no cartoons with the characters named Yoongi, and in the books he was read, the stories were always about a Fox, an Elephant, a Dog or a Whale.

He was frustrated with Sujin not taking him seriously, and the birthday party quickly turned into a domestic horror. He fell on the floor; with the zeal of a four year old who is starting to discover desires and boundaries, he was banging fists on the carpet, tears spraying out of his eyes in jet streams.

"I am Yoongi! I am Yoongi! I am Yoongi! I am Yoongi!"

He wouldn't stop, just like when he was born. The poor boy has become so exhausted in two hours that he could barely keep his eyes open. His parents were extremely worried. He refused water, cake, hugs. As his father carried him to bed, he kept muttering "I am Yoongi I am Yoongi I am Yoongi" feverishly. He would not say anything else. He was clearly fighting his own body that was submitting to sleep.

A doctor came round and found no fever or poisoning, or inflammation. When Jungho woke up the next morning, he stopped reacting to his name. It was a blood-freezing callback to his state when he just came to the world. The same gaze. Piercing, non-childish, focused. Even vengeful. He wouldn't do anything or answer anything if he was called Jungho, no matter how much his parents pleaded.

Several days later they gave up. They looked at each other; father's eye was twitching. And suddenly thought - well, so what? Whether he is Jungho or Yoongi, what does it matter? He is still our only son. They tried it. Yoongi sounded alien, a bit colder, bluer than Jungho. Jungho senior shrugged; his son wanted to be Yoongi. So they used Yoongi. They gave it some time and tried Jungho over months, but every time the boy ignored that word like it didn't exist to him anymore.

Eventually, a year later, they legally changed his name to Yoongi Min. It didn't sound bad at all.

2006

Yoongi excelled at school but had troubles with his behaviour. By ten, he started displaying signs of conduct disorder, or rather even, behavioural abnormalities that weren't yet alarming enough to call specialists. Distracted and a bit lazy in one class, he would get diabolically focused in another, and there was no pattern to it. One day he loved biology and hated PE, the next, he couldn't stand English but wanted to do more literature. If called upon or disturbed during his focus episodes, he would throw a fit and swing his fists around, so sincerely offended that someone entered his personal space, that the volume reached critical. More and more often Yoongi wasn't able to regulate his emotions; when something upset him, he would scream; when something made him happy, he would scream, too. When angry, he invented new words to curse with, like "unfathomaginable", and his parents quietly suspected he might be a very disturbed genius, or going through some trauma he wasn't talking about. He made friends quickly and forgot about them the next day; in his school backpack he always had at least three books from home that he frantically switched between during the recesses. School psychologist said he was hyperactive and -reactive, and needed more discipline. Yet discipline wasn't necessarily the problem: he liked his bed tucked and made, always woke up at the same time, and listened well to his parents. He did not have attachment issues, loyal and loving to his mom and dad, but sometimes way too independent in his own choices. Peace was what he lacked. As he was growing, it seemed like something inside of him always threatened to burst; it was bubbling just beneath his skin; he had too much energy, or none at all. They took him to basketball, and he liked it. Shortest in the team, with the round head that spun seemingly all 360 degrees, he was actually the fastest. He made his legs work mercilessly, running the whole time. His knees were excellent for jumping, he compensated for his height with the incredible bursts of power that he put into his throws. Dad insisted that Yoongi goes to the public swimming pool too, and learns to swim. He even went with him once and watched as his son makes laps tirelessly, there and back, there and back, and then just suddenly snaps and goes to the bottom like a rock.

He started getting depressed. Yoongi liked doing homework and always did more; he started getting twitches and ticks, his eyes running all over the room as if he wanted to consume more information. He read all the books that he could find in his parents' home library; scanned the pages of economics manuals blindly even though he didn't understand anything. He was getting nightmares that made him shriek in the middle of the night, and often Jungho senior, who weirdly never stopped thinking about himself as such, had to give prolonged explanations of the difference between dream and reality. When Yoongi had one, he would wake up completely glassy eyed, with the expression that no parent wants to see. It was full of suffering, as if he lived each of those nightmares in full, and managed to become old inside that dream, and then was forced to go back. He would insist he saw extinctions, asteroids falling on Earth, people killing each other, the roar of fire. They stopped showing him any movies for a while, suspecting that each impression, each creative idea, Yoongi absorbed like a sponge, and his nervous system wasn't capable of handling it.

After a year of this, they finally took him to a specialist, and the doctor said Yoongi seems too smart for his age, too sensitive, with disregulation of emotions, very acute ADHD and nictophobia. The medication he prescribed didn't work; it only made Yoongi distracted and cranky at school.

He kept telling his parents about the dreams of space, the dangers of pulsars and the irresponsibility of people. Jungho senior frantically searched through his books for one where Yoongi could read about such atrocities. Yoongi got absolutely fixated on pulsars and kept talking about them, knowing little, understanding very vaguely what they are, but talking nevertheless.

He liked birds.

In the most boring classes, when he managed to have a good day, he drew birds in his notebooks. Some teachers collected those pages to complain to his parents. Sujin especially liked it when Yoongi drew hummingbirds.

He was seemingly good at everything, and nothing at the same time; he would read a book and talk about it like he understood the underlying ideas, too mature for a ten year old; and the next day, if mother brought it up again, Yoongi couldn't remember the names of the main characters.

He was a beautiful, forgetful, very passionate child. His parents were in love with him and suffered the most because of the nightmares that absolutely ruined all his nights.

Once he finally managed to distantly articulate what it feels like inside his head, he said,

"It's like something is leaking".

2011

It was always his birthday. Every year, some shit would happen that would completely ruin the day. Yoongi disliked his birthdays for that reason and stopped celebrating when he turned thirteen. On the thirteenth of June in 2011, he just spent all day in his room. Dad said mom has always been too lenient with him, spoiling, making too many exceptions for him. She would, for example, never make him go to school on his birthdays. Since he was born in the early morning, he would always get in a bad mood even before he woke up.

That year was especally weird, and maybe even heavy, though.

The first hour, he was unresponsive.

He lay in bed in the same position as she saw him last night, half-turned on his back, with his eyes open, staring into the ceiling. Mouth slightly open, the breath was coming out, but he ignored all her attempts at talking. Sujin got worried really quick; she was by now very used to springing into action immediately. She yanked his shoulder, and Yoongi thrahsed in bed like a sock doll. He didn't blink. Then she noticed how tense his throat is; she pulled down the blanket and saw his fists clenched. Teeth gritted so hard that jaw went blade-sharp. His thighs were tense, like the whole body went into shock.

She fell on the way to the kitchen, to the phone. Jungho, it's something neurotoxic. Maybe he was bitten by an insect, the window above his bed is open all the time. Maybe it's some gas from the street, she didn't know, but if he is paralyzed, his lungs will stop functioning soon and he will choke.

She called the ambulance. Father left the office and took the taxi home. The city was full of traffic; hot summer made people faint in parks. Trees stood withered along the streets, there was no rain in weeks. Ambulance took thirty minutes to arrive, and Jungho came even later. But what the doctors witnessed was not a paralyptic kid in bed; now he sat on the floor in his room, tugging himself by the hair, with his distressed mother holding him.

He kept whispering "What the fuck what the fuck what the fuck" with the same frequency as he once took up about his name. He was having a mental breakdown. Stood up - and fell. He did not see his own room; he was hospitalized and put to sleep with sedatives. Poor mother. He was such a beautiful child, with so much potential that was incarcerated in his head aimlessly.

He slept for two days now, still refusing to communicate.

When he finally woke up, his bed was surrounded by balloons that his classmates had brought. The word in school was, Yoongi had been bitten by an encephalitis bearing tick and now would either soon become a vegetable, or a superhero.

He became neither. Yoongi demanded a pen and a notebook and was ferociously writing the whole day, snapping every time mom or dad tried to look. He kept writing, sometimes muttering "what the fuck" through his teeth. His girlfriend came round to see how he was doing, and he said he didn't remember dating her. She got very offended and broke up with him, and he looked sincerely surprised that he was dating someone at all.

"Aren't your schools intense as hell", he asked his mom, "how did I have time for a girlfriend?"

The only good thing that came out of that event was that Yoongi seemingly finally grew out of his episodes.

He became overall more closed-up and less sociable, but at least nightmares did not make him scream anymore.

He would come to the breakfast table and observe his parents like they were respected fellow colleagues, and talk about space. Space was his favourite, right after birds and basketball.

At sixteen, after years of unimaginable mental anguish, he finally managed to streamline his attention towards the things he wanted to do: science. Sports. And writing. In one year, he has written thousands of pages of something he never let anybody see under the fear of volcanic rage. He muttered to himself. From under the door, the parents could hear he was talking to himself. About career. And about planes. About pulsars. And somebody named Jimin.

2016

He called his mom every day. Yoongi clung to his parents, sometimes with such urgency as if something bad had happened. If he hadn't got the scholarship in America, he would have stayed living with them until the end of times. Sometimes he struggled to make his own breakfast. At eighteen, on his birthday, naturally, he started having migraines. So sometimes he was half-blind all day. The only reason he managed to cope with his studies in MIT was that he seemed to orient naturally in sciences like he invented and discovered them all. Did tests asleep. Knew all the answers to all the tricky questions. Breezed through the first year, getting piles of extracurricular work from teachers who noticed his spark and now wanted to milk a pioneer out of him.

Nobody knew what's going on inside the warzone of his brain, and the only hook he had to peace was calling home. He would tell her about every bird he met that day. What colour were the wings, and the length of the tail, and how it soared above and how jealous he was. He said he was scared of the coming birthday. She asked why.

"I am turning twenty", he replied. Sujin kindly chuckled. Maturity, adulthood, it's always scary.

"No", he cut her off, "it's the fifth year again".

She long gave up trying to pull the clear answers out of him. With time, she has worked out the wisdom to be grateful that Yoongi is so attached to her and Jungho. That he still trusts them enough to tell them about the incoherent dreams, and pains, and fears that have no basis in reality.

"You can always come home", she reminded him, "America shall wait. Nobody will expel you even if you skip a week".

He said it doesn't matter whether he lies comatose at home or at the dorms in Illinois. Then he started rambling that everything is going not according to the plan, and that he needs to find some Taehyung; no, scratch that, actually he isn't interested in Taehyung. But he needs to find something, and after he finds that something, he will find the guilty party who will answer for all this mess, and when that party is found, he will... he will...

"What will you do?" Sujin asked, just playing along.

"I will write them a very long letter!"

He gasped into the phone.

"And maybe tear their heads off. Because I know the conversation was about fours. Fours", he grumbled.

Yoongi did not know that his parents had become somewhat of a head unit in expertise on schizophrenia. He did not know that some of the methods they used to regulate his moods, were schizophrenia-adjacent therapy. That the vitamins they tried giving im when he was sixteen, was the antipsychosis medication. That only made him throw up for three days. As the years passed, Sujin had less and less confidence that it was schizophrenia. Yoongi did not suffer from constant voices in his head; or hallucinations; the katatonic states only happened on his birthdays, every year, like a clock. Birthday syndrome. He never drank; never tried doing drugs; all the drugs in his body were always the meds his concerned parents tried on him, that always failed. It was like he had an inherent aversion to substances, never tried alcohol at parties and wasn't interested in weed until he moved to America and met the local students.

He confessed to his mother that weed actually helped with migraines and even calmed down his brain a little at times.

"Why is the fifth year important?" she asked. "You have hard time every birthday".

"It gets progressively worse", he complained.

"But usually?"

Interrogating him about it was like wandering in the darkness.

"Usually it's just noise and a lot, a lot of... complicated thougths".

"Like what?"

Yoongi sighed deeply. The bedsheets whispered into the phone.

"Why did I do this to myself..."

"It's not your fault, Yoongi, never was. You are very different from the others".

That warranted a colourful chuckle.

"You have no idea. I miss you".

Sujin always started sobbing when he said stuff like that.

"I miss you too, and I love you very much".

He's been getting very mature, very serious lately. His voice, it was acquiring depth and calmness that you usually hear in people who are preparing to die. Sujin didn't think anything like that would happen, but her heart hasn't been peaceful in at least ten years.

"You and Jungho, you are very patient people, you know".

She frowned.

"It's dad".

"Yea, I mean. Yeah. You and dad".

On his birthday, he went no contact and only called after seven days. He couldn't stop laughing into the phone, hysterically, exclaiming something about balloons, fucking balloons, star-crossed enemies.

2024

"Accuracy. Ten out of ten", he muttered, "even all the hobbies. Even the books".

The phone recording him, lying on the table, reflected the lamp standing above his head.

"But assholes, we made an error in the clamp in neurotransmitter number..." he laughed in an evil way, leafing through his notebook. "Wa-ait, I will find it. I will fucking find it. You think it was necessary to upload even the names and numbers of neurotransmitters? You think I wouldn't have survived without this fucking information? If you wanted me to open the hole, Yoongi, maybe you should've come here yourself".

He paused, staring at his pages, realising the fallacy of his anger.

"Anyway, for the future reference, it's the NHG neurotransmitter number eighteen. It just. Shot through, and instead of four parts, all memories got broken down into yearly pieces. Thanks for that".

He was getting awful blisters on his index finger from writing like a madman every day, and for some reason, never learnt to enjoy typing shit on the computer. Working on it was perfectly fine - but he didn't like writing reports, memories or messages with the keyboard. It scared him irrationally, as if he was losing a part of himself. And having himself - that was vital.

The night before his birthday he broke up with his situationship who was unhappy anyway. He was unfit for dating. Couldn't give that devotion that women need. Or men. Everybody needs commitment, it's what humans find comfort in. Yoongi has always been all over the place, and for the first time in his life, he was excited to find out why. He knew by now that tomorrow, there will be the last upload ever.

In fact he was incredibly happy, even if scared a little. He did not know what that last chip was. Maybe that his mission on this planet was to start a genocide. Maybe that he was actually a spawn of the devil. But after tomorrow - no more noise. No more nightmares. No more paralysis. Just one more stamp to tear off, - and he is free one way or another. Free to finally do what he had sent himself to do here: work with plasma. Solve equations. Open the door. Perfect the M-theory. Make history. And marry?

He went to sleep fully knowing that the next week will be hell for him. He tried to get enough sleep before eight o'clock in the morning, ready for the last dash. He kept the alien faces of his friends in his mind, wondering if the coming morning will finally fill the void in his chest.

He was itching to love something, or somebody; he had a good suspicion, with everything he has recalled now, that it all came down to something very simple.

──────── · · · ────────

When you were little, you and Jungkook, you gathered an impressive collection of stones from the beach. It was just one hour away from the city, and parents took you often. At some point, maybe after you left for university, it went missing. Most likely mom got rid of it. But it was a bit harrowing how a large collection of beach stones, pink, milky, bluish, yellow, grey, red and black, just disappeared one day. Poof. Gone. Years of work collecting, picking, fighting over, drying them with your shirts and wetting them again.

Strange how, when a disaster happens, everything just instantaneously vanishes. This is how Jungkook's first girlfriend died. Standing on the pavement, then, a mass of metal and drunkenness swept her away in less than a second, and she was nowhere to be found.

He didn't speak to mom for weeks when the stones disappeared, and he never spoke about Ryu at all after her death.

He was finely attuned to grief. And didn't make fun of you when you couldn't stop crying.

He just loaded you into the car and took you to the sea again. The weather was now better, stable. When you didn't want to leave as the night came, you just slept in his black KIA and had breakfast from the nearest fast-food place.

Your ass hurt sitting on the stones, then went numb.

You wished your confusion would do the same. Slide into numbness, turn into incredulousness, and in the end, dissipate like an awkward misunderstanding.

You told him several times he can't do skipping stones in these waves, but Jungkook didn't back down. One by one, he picked just about every more or less flat stone and threw it into the water, and you watched. He was crawling closer to you again, rubbing his elbow.

"I have to go to work tomorrow..." he said, showing his teeth against the wind. Mauve hour gave his skin pleasant tan. There were a lot of milky stones around.

"And you, too. Unless you've decided to live on this beach like a homeless person?"

He crash-landed next to you on his ass and regretted it immediately.

"Let's go home".

"We can watch sunset".

"What are you chewing?"

He drew a plastic pack from his trousers pocket. It was sour jellies, and you shook your head no.

After a while, you began again, like a broken record, the thing you've said a thousand times over these two days.

"I just don't get it, I don't... who would blow it up? What has happened?"

"I think it was to do with that burned encyclopedia", Jungkook said seriously, "it was a premonition of sorts. A warning".

"From who?"

"Physics".

He picked up a stone and licked it. Then threw it in the water.

"You think the wormhole was volatile?"

"Their air?"

"Someone did it?"

He shrugged.

"Could be anything".

His eyes were scanning the unobservable vastness of the sea in front.

"You're thinking something", you nudged him angrily.

"What I'm thinking is too out there".

"Oh man, but the wormhole leading into another fucking dimension where futuristic alien people live, isn't?"

He pursed his lips, finally annoyed with you. The wind lovingly moved the curls on his forehead.

"What is it, what, you think something reacted with something? Like in Fly?"

"You know Standard Model, right?"

"More or less", you squirmed, trying to remember the details. Also, it was too fresh. Yoongi must know everything about it. He knows about the developed version of it. It's too raw.

"How there are protons, and positrons, and then if there's an electron, there's also a selectron".

You employed all your brain, but all it could do now was scream. Tear itself apart. You went back to the holding mode.

"Maybe their whole universe is made of antimatter", Jungkook said. "Maybe Yoongi sent something that he wasn't supposed to".

"In that case the very first book would've destroyed everything, since it's antimatter".

Your brother shrugged.

"Life field theory. Only living cells react".

"That's not anti-antimatter then".

You saw he was just as heartbroken as you. Something very precious was taken away from him. He was looking at the sea with his lower lip protruding, with a slight pout, like he was waiting for a ship to show up, and it wasn't coming.

You watched the sunset that seemed unusually beautiful, like it was a compensation. The clouds softly blended, letting the sun radiation slide around them, changing colours.

Driving away from the beach felt like you both gave something up, like you lost and came to terms with it and retreated tucking the tails under.

And the worst thing was, the pictures of Tang and smeraldo flowers were still on your kitchen table, against the flower vase.

In the morning of the next day, you were getting dressed for work, and your eye kept falling back on them like they were a gravestone.

It was stupid. Stupid, right, to cry yourself to sleep over this. Over the electric :) you'll never see again.

You got off the bus on the Pacho-ro to walk to the office past the place of explosion.

Three days later, it was still cordoned off with the yellow barriers, and the crater itself was covered with some fucking - you didn't know, you were tired of constantly thinking, analyzing, building theories, you were tired. It was fucking covered. Because a girl died in that booth, they said it blew up when she entered.

You slowed down around the barriers without noticing, your eyes on the ugly grey bulge on the ground. They haven't even brought the scaffolding for the tall glass building to fix the windows.

The mix of variegated people slid in and out of your vision field. The sun was hidden away behind thin clouds on top of the guardian trees. In between the moving bodies, somebody waved at you.

We always think that someone is waving at us if they are located on the direct line of view. You looked behind your shoulder, expecting to see someone waving back.

They stood there, while other people floated around, busy and a little faster in the morning, before the office hour started.

You craved coffee, and this person was half way to the coffeeshop on the other side of the street. The tropical-banana-palm place closed down for now, because all the glass was blown up inside it.

He waved again and then started moving towards you, and you took out an earbud to make absolutely sure there is no one else engaged around.

This guy beelined towards you, simple black t-shirt and jeans. Your female brain started profiling him immediately. Dark long hair tucked away behind his ears, and with a pair of eyes that seemed to shine even from ten steps away. He suddenly looked happy, incredibly happy, and it infected you before you could decide for yourself.

You knew, you knew this wasn't the end. This was all a lie, a performance, and by now you couldn't be sure if it's good, bad, neutral, embarrassing. He just ambushed you, and you were too caught off guard to react.

The last thing you saw were his soft features. Trustworthy, smart face with a childish grin that exposed his square teeth. Then he crashed on you, grabbing you in a hug, and then you knew.

Not how, or what the fuck, or where from, or by what means - he smelt like Yoongi. He moaned into your ear like Yoongi. His hand grabbing you by the shoulder looked like the hand that could produce incredibly organised, straight lines of text. He called your name several times with the joy which you thought had been locked away forever.

The sheer whiplash made you press yourself into him, your mouth agape, and the collar of his shirt got in between your teeth. He even tasted like Yoongi.

"How", you gasped, "how... how..."

Like an owl.

His face was hopping in front of you, and he was so much more good-looking than you imagined that it was infuriating. The pulsation in your head screamed, and all feelings streamlined, like colours, into one ray of white confusion, albeit pleasant.

"You... through the blast..."

"No, I waited", he chuckled, almost tearfully, "I waited for a while", and he laughed again, and then the mouth closed up on you and kissed.

It was like soaring and drowning at the same time; your head went dizzy.

"Where-Have-You-Been?!" he yelled then, holding your head in his hands like in a pillory. Your lips burned. "I thought you were fucking dead!"

You batted your eyes. Your brain was working ashamedly slowly.

"We went away to sea with Jungkook", you uttered. You were consumed completely by studying him. His strong neck. His full cheeks. He couldn't be older than thirty, at the very worst. His eyes in the shape of a smile. His mouth was so full, panting, curved elegantly.

"What the hell", you whispered.

"Oh, okay, I've been looking for you for a week, I tried to prevent the explosion, but guess it's destiny? It happened at a different time now..."

Oh, he yapped a lot, too. His mouth was comparatively smaller on his face, and the more he grimaced, the cuter he got, with two absolutely round nostrils, like a big, begrudged cat.

You touched his hair, tugged on a strand, trying it in between your fingers.

"Are all people in your dimension so handsome?" you asked, feeling incredibly stupid.

"Oh, no", his palm wrapped around yours. It was warm. You finally started listening to him.

"I'm a local. I live in San Francisco".

"I don't get it", you mumbled.

"That's alright", his arm wrapped firmly around your shoulder, and he guided you into the completely different direction from your office.

In different circumstances such vapid affection wouldn't be allowed even from your brother. Even from Hanadi. But you were completely mesmerized by him, by the part of you that would not adhere to any physical, logical, rational description; you were instantly in love with him, gaping up at his face with your lower jaw completely unhinged.

"I will tell you, alright?" he placed a kiss on your temple, long, wet, maybe leaving a hickey.

"I can't believe we did it", he hopped as he walked, his hips moving too much, so you had to adjust to his stride. Your fingers clutched onto his pale narrow wrist, but looked comically small compared to his large palm, relaxed but closed over your collarbone.

"Yoongi?" you tried his name out loud. He looked at you with those dark, intensely focused eyes that betrayed something uncontrollable in him.

"You got a book for me today?" he asked.

You both stopped, because you pulled on your bag. He refused to let go of you, hooking his finger around the ears of the tote bag, as if he was afraid something would yank you away.

You never took out the book, couldn't bring yourself to take it out, and then forgot. You showed him the Lost Birthday.

He finally broke contact to take it with both hands, like it was something completely sacred. As he lowered his head to stare at the beige cover with a green dragon, his black bangs were let loose over his face.

"This book has one story about a princess who went crazy about the moon and was crying every night because her father couldn't get it for her birthday", you said quietly.

He looked again at you, milky smooth face, his two eyes - each a half of the moon.

"Didn't want it bad enough", he smiled.

You finally caught up, registering that this is, in fact, Mr. Physics with the electric handwriting, only, in flesh - so you touched his throat, warm and with tiny, soft hairs on the back, and he didn't pull away. He blinked slowly, shut up and stared at you. Then you pulled him again, placing the book flat in between you.

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