Yoongi couldn’t place this girl’s face more than someone he has idly seen in the crowd during sermons and the occasional time he’s given Jeongyeon enough attention out of the corner of his eyes.
But he’s still a holy man above all else, and a holy man is a guidance and welcome ear to any, so when she meets him in the center isle, searching question on the tip of her tongue, he does not shoo her away.
Instead, Yoongi folds his hands in front of himself and gives a soft sigh of thought.
In truth, he has never thought much of his home, where he comes from. It’s filled with trickery and lost opportunities and nasty princesses who don’t know better.
But then again, for others– perhaps this girl, it’s filled with sweet memories and dare he say it– a home. “That is not a question I’m sure I can answer…”
Reaching to rest a hand on her shoulder, he gives her a sympathetic look. “Tell me, what is your name. I have seen you around my Jeongyeon quite often. You are a familiar with my church?”
she wants to hear the old father from her childhood in this man, so that’s what she sees, despite the countless differences between the two men -- father min was skinnier, younger, healthier; he had energy, while father hollance had experience, an ancient charisma and a never dying gluttony. but yoongi also doesn’t seem to lack on amiability from what she can see on the details of his face as it contorts lightly in thought.
that until she feels the warmth of his palm on her shoulder. she wants to smell the cinnamon and seafood, father hollance’s favorite foods and the ones that smelled so much like comfort, but there’s no delicacy or pleasant memory that would stop her stomach from turning. chaeyeon doesn’t remember eating, but all she wants is to throw up and run, and breathe again and escape, but he is holding her in place and--
“no,” she tells herself firmly, twisting the fabric of her shirt’s hem and blinking at the floor. the nausea is there, her lungs burn, but she’s safe. she’s safe. he is a man of god, he holds no harm. “jeongyeon and i are friends,” she doesn’t notice the possessive pronoun mentioned by him, nor its implications or meanings when she’s struggling with her own ghosts. “i’ve been coming here for...decades.”
“just...never spoke until now,” she purses her lips, feeling her nails through the soft textile. “chaeyeon, i’m chaeyeon. my father knows me by a different name, though. he...never got to know any of this. he’d have despised it,” a dry laugh escapes her pink tinted lips, recalling how her old papa was prone to naps on his latest days -- the loud noises of new york city might have equaled hell torture to the man.
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