#min yoongi series
Utopia. | V. | Min Yoongi, 2k
Pairing:Yoongi x Reader
Summary:Galtea has risen once again, and Yoongi retreats, allowing it to flourish. He tells you that he wants to take you there, someday.
Warnings/Tags: RATED T for implied/referenced drug use; implied/referenced drug addiction; angst; brief depictions of war; implied/referenced PTSD; minor character death; the tags areheavy, so proceed with caution; I’ve tried to be as vague as possible but still - Alternate Universe Fantasy/Magical Realism ft.Architect!Min Yoongi.
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This is also available onAO3.
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-
Imperial City’s populace trudge on, content in their work until the following year arrives without much ceremony. It’s the eleventh month and Yoongi pulls the scarf that you made for him higher till it covered his mouth and the tip of his nose. His head is down, like his gaze. Snow falls as his feet take him to the steps of the holistic facility, where light is plentiful and the physicians are in civilian clothes, not in clinical, white jackets.
“I’ve set up a room for you since you wanted to visit for longer,” Seokjin informed him.
Yoongi nods, rubbing his hands together to spur warmth. The silence is long, as long as the time he took to gather the items together. He supposes that the small bag he has is merely symbolic than anything.
“Has she improved?” He asked, inwardly startled by the hoarseness in his voice. Seokjin nods, its a subtle and appropriately concealed dissent.
They make it through another set of doors, to a narrowed hallway lined with doors. Seokjin stands in front of a window; Yoongi peers inside and is greeted with a view of your back. There was nothing being fed into your veins. He inhales sharply and audibly. Then, he lets it all out in a breathy huff, the skin of his cheeks ballooning while his lips stretched to accommodate the gust of air.
“It’s not your fault, Yoongi-ah.”
A hand closes over his wrist, a signal of tangible empathy. Yoongi draws it back, feeling undeserving.
“It’s fairly common to get addicted after the first couple of doses.”
A comment meant to make Yoongi feel reassured ends up squeezing his heart at every beat. You probably had been at it for longer than he knew.
“Will she get better?”
It’s the same question he asks, like a habit. It dons different iterations of the same vexation.
Will she get better?
Will she be herself again?
Will she come back to me?
It’s an act of anguish, unabated even though he knows that the answer he receives will never be the one he wanted to hear.
“It’s hard to say but it’s manageable. We try to take it day by day here.”
Seokjin knows it too. It seemed that to Yoongi, plateauing was evermore nefarious than decline. To stay the same is to decay.His silence prompts Seokjin, who twists the doorknob open.
“I’ve signed her up for a trial with a more powerful antidote that is projected to flush the drug out of her system completely.”
Yoongi’s stomach twists at the possibility of using a different method.
”How soon before she will be able to get on it?”
Seokjin pauses, comes to your side and crouches down so he could look up at you. He checks your fingertips; they look like they were dipped in a gold glitter. It’s everywhere on you, burning through your skin like luminescence.
“The waiting list is long but it shouldn’t be longer than a couple of months,” Seokjin confirmed.
Yoongi allows himself a few seconds, choosing to watch the outline of your back, your shoulders, the slope of your neck. There’s not much difference anyway, given that each day is much the same.
-
Afternoons are bearable because Yoongi was able to steal some time for himself.
Leisurely, he re-familiarises himself with the map of the facility, the so-called ‘holistic’ practice meant for recovering addicts.
He hated that word.
Addict.
Like you’re some junkie, defeated by an entity the size of a thimble.
He walks the length of the arboretum, passing maple trees then weeping Spruce trees, coniferous trees, the like. Some patients walks amongst them, chatting as they loped together, their veins peeking through their sleeves, eyes bright and golden. The distance he covers reflects his contemplation, each lap is a moment to revisit his choices, to turn them into mistakes. To berate himself as you are tended to in some compound, glassy-eyed and vapid.
-
Have you tried talking to her, hyung? I’m sure that she’ll be able to hear you.
Yoongi tries again.
Pressed up next to you, arms side by side, he holds a copy of Citiesin his hand. He talks in a hushed voice, reading you the pre-amble, about how cities don’t just spring out of nowhere, they must be built.
Sometimes, you stir or mumble. It’s all intelligible, but it’s the most he’s heard from you ever since you got admitted. He takes what he can and speaks again, his voice more enthused.
“Galtea is nestled between the city of Dorea and Thanazt, a city which was sustained by agriculture from its inception. It was the primary source for crops for its surrounding municipalities…”
Your eyes remained unblinking, fixed to an arbitrary point on the opposite wall. There were no replies, nothing clever coming from your lips, no sound of laughter or teasing. Yoongi’s breath trembles slightly, his eyes begin to sting as the words in front of him cease to become readable.
Beneath the sheets, he reaches for your hand, twining his fingers with yours.
He ignores the slight tremor.
-
Seokjin exits the room after giving you something to calm you down.
Alone together, Yoongi curls up next to you as your breathing evens out. He still worries about your faint heartbeat. But he can’t deny the happiness that greets him when you blink, once, twice, then a third time.
“You’re here.”
He smiles at you, smoothing your hair down. The gold is still there, embedded in you. In times like these, he thinks he has you back.
“I built a city for you. I named it Galtea.”
I build all of my cities for you.
But then you leave him again, your eyes dimming, your body sagging onto the bed as the tremors returned. Your veins pulse through your skin, he grimaces, unsure why he can’t keep his eyes from brimming with tears when you’ve been like this for months.
He presses a kiss to your lips. They’re cold, as cold as they were in that dream he had. You remain inert. He takes your hand, clasps his palm against yours, waiting for a reply that would never arrive.
“I think it’ll be your favourite. The best one yet.”
-
It’s never happened before, Seokjin tells him, but you weren’t a typical patient.
Yoongi looks on as more hands fuss over your body, your head lolling to the side as they try to purge you of the toxicity. It’s an ugly reality that he can’t look away from.
Later, when he has settled his nerves, or at least kept them far enough to have a decent conversation, he gathers the courage to string words together.
“You said she wasn’t getting worse, hyung,” he said.
“She’s not getting better either,” Seokjin replied.
“When is the trial for that new drug? Is there any way you can put her on top of the list?”
Seokjin couldn’t even look at him in the eye.
“Truthfully, she’s not even eligible because she’s too weak. Your name can only get her so far, Yoongi-ah.”
After a few moments, Seokjin places a hand on his shoulder.
“Keep visiting her and keep doing what you’re doing. You don’t know how much this is helping her.”
Yoongi feels something in him slip away. He turns his head towards the long hallway as you thrashed against the soft restraints on your wrists and ankles.
-
The windows are open and the breeze is cold.
“I’m good friends with Hoseok now, I like Urban Planning. I have more time, I can visit you more often.”
Yoongi thinks you were nodding in agreement. He pretends that you do while he supports your head so that you don’t fall too forward. He says your name, swiping the pad of his thumb over your knuckle. He kisses your temple, taste the salt of your sweat, closing his eyes at the memory of you.
“I’m so sorry.”
You make a small noise, a hushed bleat.
He tucks you under his arm, stares out of the window at the snow covered structures of Imperial City. Endless swirls of ice, tiny snowflakes that are responsible for the crunch under his shoes.
“I’m sorry.”
“Mhm.”
Seconds pass, he waits, hopeful.
“Visit… more…”
Yoongi sits up, rigid. He leans back, holding you as gently and as adamantly as he could.
“I will,” he breathed, fingers pushing your hair away as you tilt your head. Sleepy eyes greet him but they stay on his, golden irises and gold dust lips.
“You built me a city… that’s… that’s very nice,” you said, a little drowsy. Yoongi laughed, surprised by how easy that was to come by.
“I did.”
He holds you as close as he could, “I’ll take you there, someday.”
More seconds, followed by the slump of your body.
“Mm.”
-
Yoongi understands that you have good days, now that he has more time to visit.
“How about walking to the arboretum?”
You shake your head, focused on painting an abstract picture. Vermillion coats the bristles of the paintbrush, it makes an arc on the parchment he brought for you.
“Can’t leave,” you muttered, offering him a small smile. He knits his brow, sitting by the foot of the bed as you dip the paintbrush in a different colour. Blue this time.
“How come?”
“There’s someone who told me that they’ll come back for me, so I have to wait for them.”
Yoongi clutches the side of the bed, his knuckles numb as his fingers lock over the material.
“Do you know who they are?”
You shake your head, stopping your painting to blink rapidly.
“So why wait?” He prods, trying to get your attention.
He sees your shrug, mixing the colours on the parchment. The paint is pushed past the lines, blurring into a dark mauve creation. The thick textures at the edge dry up, raked into shape by the hard bristles.
“They said that they’ll be here soon. That I shouldn’t go anywhere.”
Yoongi said that to you the day you entered this place. Again, he looks away, helpless.
-
When he’s apart from you, it takes him long minutes after he wakes to come to terms with the fact that it’s not a terrible dream.
Find someone to hold on to, Yoongi. Find someone you can love until the end.
-
The end of the year is in an hour. Snow falls heavier with each minute. Yoongi wraps a scarf around your neck, the same one he wears when travels to see you.
“Hey,” he whispered, fixing your hair as you made room on the bed.
“Hi.”
With your hands intertwined, he watches as the night descends over Imperial City. The Emperor has ceased work for everyone to see the city into the new year.
“You always come by,” you said softly.
Yoongi could only smile.
“I like the stories you tell me, reminds me of someone I know.”
The snow falls and falls, layering over buildings, pathways, and people. Yoongi opens his body up and you slot yourself where he did so.
“Want to hear about Galtea again?” He asked, bringing the sheets up to ensure that you were warm enough. He sniffed, though he knew that it wasn’t because of the drop in temperature. You nod.
“I built a bridge that connects each side of the city together. It would be nice to cross it after a trip to the theatre, or maybe after dinner.”
“Sounds nice…”
Yoongi wipes his eyes brusquely, his hand coming away wet at the heel of his palm. He couldn’t bring himself to say anything more. Then, he feels your touch, your own fingers over his.
“They always told me that when the year ends, there was a place they’d like to go to… a cottage with a red door.”
Yoongi clears his throat, stifling a particularly aching sob that threatened to come out. You smile at him.
“Would you like to come with us one day?”
He tightens his grip over your hand, his smile trembling at the corners of his lips.
“One day.”
Utopia. | IV. | Min Yoongi, 5.1k
Pairing:Yoongi x Reader
Summary:The city is finally taking shape. Yoongi works diligently to see it through, but memory can be a cruel thing. And so, while he build the perfect city, he hurtles towards a broken reality. Perhaps some things can’t be remedied by hope.
Warnings/Tags: RATED T for implied/referenced drug use; implied/referenced drug addiction; angst; brief depictions of war; implied/referenced PTSD; minor character death; the tags areheavy, so proceed with caution; I’ve tried to be as vague as possible but still - Alternate Universe Fantasy/Magical Realism ft.Architect!Min Yoongi.
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This is also available onAO3.
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Jimin leaves and for the first time in a while, Yoongi was able to draw something without erasing it after a few seconds. Not quite allowing himself to admit it yet, he acknowledges that this will be his legacy. He has overseen the design and construction of countless cities, all different but all with his mark.
But this one, this utopia, is one that will stand for centuries, long after he’s gone.
When he closes his eyes, slowly, the image of you comes together as if he was sketching you,. The graphite of his pencil becomes more deliberate, the delicate components slide along the rough surface of the paper. Dusting off the excess, he discovers lines and curves from his own hand, simple when viewed individually, but together it forms the utopia. An apotheosis of sorts.
A city in borne out of the echoes of your voice, the curve of your smile, and the light in your eyes.
Soon, the parchment is filled, and the new city comes to light.
Only when the final drafts were finalised in the early hours of dawn did Yoongi allow himself to sleep.
-
“You’ve come a long way, Yoongi,” you said, your arms draped over his neck while you sat on his lap. In front, on the kitchen table was an invitation to the Imperial Gala. In cursive, emerald script was his name, his position, and the relevant time and date.
It’s been a few months since your time at the facility. You were back to work, wearing contacts to shield the obvious glow in your irises. You were painting again and Yoongi was able to restart and focus at work.
Happiness didn’t become as fleeting as he feared.
“Would you like to come with me?” He asked, securing you more onto his lap. Gala’s weren’t something he aspired to, preferring to keep pushing and build more and more. But to have you there in support would alleviate every discomfort. It was nice to be able to rely on each other again.
“I’d like that,” you said, tracing the raised font with your finger.
“I’m glad that you’ll be able to come with me,” he adds. You lean back, a small smile gracing your lips.
“I’m glad that you’re taking me. That makes me happy more than anything,” you said, hugging him suddenly.
Taking the invitation, you turn it over and find the map of Imperial City he helped to build. You trace the details, subconsciously thumbing the areas you’ve been to together. Here, you take as many strolls as you could, see as many plays as your energy allowed.
“I’m glad that you’re happy,” he said, searching your eyes.
Your contacts were elsewhere and the gold shone in vivid pulses. He feels your arms tighten over his shoulders, he welcomes it because it was better than the previous state your were in: barely able to hold onto him while submerged in a state of blankness.
“Promise me something,” you whispered.
His chest constricts, his heart hammering in a heavy thud.
Anything,” he murmurs, he has nothing but fondness for you.
You give him a small smile, your fingers tender along his scalp. The gold runs around your irises like a river of glitter. It’s in your veins too, your body failing to contain its mark. Even if it was poison though, it was eerily beautiful on you.
“Promise me that everything will be alright.”
-
Yoongi resents himself for failing to keep that promise.
Each night he spends alone in the home you shared, each night he sweeps his arm over the empty space where you were meant to be, he wiles away the hours steadfast in his misery.
He asks himself as question that there was no answer to.
Could I have done more?
-
“This looks… amazing, hyung.”
Namjoon said it with enthusiasm, punctuated by an awed exhale. Yoongi blinks. He didn’t realise what he had started. The lines of fine lead slashed the parchment, the smooth charcoal coming out in an easy glide. It produces harsh arcs and sharp points, the finer details were duly incorporated. All together, it looked promising.
“It’s just a draft.”
Namjoon gives him sympathetic smile. Yoongi knows that he looks forlorn, rarely showing a smile these days. He doesn’t bother with eating regularly, he goes home late and comes in early. But it’s been days since this breakthrough and he wasn’t going to waste it. Who knew when he would be this productive again.
“It looks good, hyung.”
“Thanks.”
As soon as Namjoon was out of sight, Yoongi reaches for the roll of parchment on the far corner of his desk.
-
The gala wasn’t so bad when Yoongi had someone to dance with. The elaborate ceilings, the endless food that flowed from the cornucopia in the centre, things that he tried to detach himself from were bearable for the night. He showed you off to everyone he knew, dancing and laughing like you were back in Galtea, where your dreams went only as far as the next day. Even if your eyes were hidden behind artificial lenses to conceal the gold, he didn’t care, you were radiant.
Afterwards, you lay together in bed, buzzed. There’s a worn copy of Cities that Yoongi returns to, rescued from the rubble of his university. Your back is to his chest and you both trace where ancient cities used to be and are now built over. Yoongi appreciates when the banal becomes transcendant, like reading together. In flipping a page or tracing illustrations over and over, there was a sense of possibility. He grasps for moments like these, wanting the seconds to stretch out into hours.
“I heard it’s lovely in Eufemea, always sunny and warm,” you murmured.
“We can go there sometime, when you want to,” he offered, separating your hair with his fingers. You don’t assent, however. Your willingness to stay in a dream almost sends him into anguish; he embraces you, trying to minimise the pain of your silence.
“I wish I was more like you,” you said, changing positions to your arm folded beneath your head, bare skin sticky beneath the sheets. Yoongi’s brows furrowed. Moonlight makes it through the expansive windows, the shafts break on the curve of your body.
“Me? I lack in a lot of ways. I get stuck, I don’t - ”
“But you’re brave. You know how to get unstuck. If you’re talking about someone who’s stuck, you’re really talking about me. In Galtea, I’d probably be working in that club till I died or until the patrons got sick of me. And now… “
You look away because you’re reminded that Yoongi could see the gold in your eyes. The ceiling becomes your focus, and your profile becomes his.
War showed up differently, depending on who you were.
He twists his finger in your hair in quiet appreciation. He senses that you’re still running away in your thoughts and he desperately wanted to follow you.
“But you’re out now, you’re here and far away from anything that could hurt you,” he reassures.
You turn your face, the gold pulses brighter after you blink.
“Because of you.”
-
“What are those structures underground?”
Namjoon slid a steaming mug of coffee towards Yoongi to supplement his question.
“Just something I wanted to add, you know, if the inhabitants wanted to have some fun,” Yoongi answered calmly.
“Never seen that in any of your previous designs, hyung,” Namjoon replied, “but it might be unsafe if you build it too far below,” he mused.
“It shouldn’t be, they’re not that big anyway, like sweaty boxes beneath the floor.”
Yoongi thinks about the fluorescent lights, the way you would traverse the cramped space, the tray lifted high, the liquid in the glasses sloshing but never spilling. Warmth coats those memories, despite the lights being almost always blue.
“You’ve added a lot of bridges,” Namjoon murmured, pointing to several drawings that arch over a river. Yoongi smiles to himself, sketching out a grand theatre.
“Wouldn’t they be nice if you wanted to go for an evening stroll?”
“Or after going to the theatre, you can walk along the length of them,” Yoongi adds.
Namjoon hums, “sounds incredibly romantic.”
Yoongi replies in a light laugh.
It really is.
-
“I’m ready to go back, Yoongi. I can’t be here forever.”
You held his hands, tilting your head slightly so he could look at you.
He hates that he can see gold before the true colour of your eyes.
“Are you sure? It might be too soon…”
It’s been a month since you came back from the facility. Objectively, things were good. You were following the programme faithfully, diverting the urges to more productive things. The apartment is filled with your canvases and new projects. You knitted him a scarf that he uses from time to time.
“Remember what you promised me.”
Yoongi inhaled deeply. It was his job to tell you that things would be alright but here you were, prompting him instead.
“Okay.”
-
As the Chief Architect of this city, Yoongi had privileges. For one, he could control the admission of contraband such as drugs or speakeasies.
He sees the drug that leads to gold irises and comatose.
Another image materialises: you in the chair, pumped full of that liquid concoction in an attempt to trick your body into thinking that it could survive without it.
This was his legacy. A city he forged to preserve what you meant to him.
With a heavy hand, he crosses it out until he could no longer see the words.
-
Yoongi watches, leaning his body against the frame of the door for support. It’s your first day back to work. He observes how you curl your index finger at the back of your shoe, slotting your foot in. On your shoulder was a leather sling bag with the usual art supplies, your apron, and the papers to explain your absence.
“Call me if you need anything, I won’t be able to catch your message on time if you text,” he warns, his eyes darting over your figure.
You turn to him, your eyes in their normal shade, the gold aptly hidden by contacts. When you smiled, he does too.
“Don’t worry. I’ll be fine.”
He chews the inside of his cheek as you round the corner to go to the elevator.
A part of him thinks that it might not be fine.
Another part of him, the part that he clings to, hopes that it would be.
-
Memory is a choice that Yoongi would rather relinquish.
He was doing sogood, getting back to his usual rhythm. It was unhealthy, yes, but the prolonged periods of concentration was what he was used to. Eating, sleeping, and even bathing came secondary. In those moments, he felt like himself: like he had a purpose.
Yoongi runs his finger over the buttons of the phone, it’s late and he’s restless. His home is far too large, far too cavernous to concentrate. He used to love having a space that, upon the first glance, never seemed to end. Back when he was young, he and family all lived on top of each other, privacy was a luxury he never thought he’d be able to afford.
Now, it’s all glass windows coupled with walnut accents to break up the enormity of it all. The lights were switched off and the rain drums endlessly against the window. In the silence, he realises that the glass walls he’s built for himself were the cruelest. He can see through them but there was no way out.
“I don’t think what I’m making will be worthy of anything, much less the Emperor,” he said to the mouthpiece.
Below, he sees the Imperial City become drenched with rain, the sheets of water distorting the neon signage on several buildings into psychedelic whorls.
“Breathe, Yoongi-ah.”
He tries.
In and out.
In…
and…
out.
“I want it to be perfect, I want it to mean something but I can’t see how I can make something like that,” he said.
“It’s alright, Yoongi-ah. It will be fine. When do you leave?”
Yoongi blinks rapidly.
Is it already the end of the month?
At Seokjin’s comment, he gives a cursory glance at the paper calendar that hung near the door to the kitchen. It’s a couple of weeks until the visit.
That was the reason to the disruption of his productivity.
“I still have time,” he said, sitting back down on his desk. The parchment is still blank, his pencil stays sharp and unused. He’s right back where he started.
“Just try. Try to look ahead rather than in the past this time.”
But Yoongi can’t think beyond the past when he ought to dream of the future. He stays in your embrace, in the soft murmur of your voice, the heat of the first city he saw destroyed, the gravel of the cobbled path you both traversed. He remembers his parents, the slums, the starvation that tainted his youth. He remembers the first night at AMBROX, the small squares that dissolved on his tongue, the smiles you couldn’t wipe off as you stumbled through the door of the apartment.
Earlier, he was so sure that he could capture you and make a city based on a feeling.
He grips the phone until his knuckles go numb.
“I’ll try.”
-
Yoongi finds the small, square stickers in your drawer when folding clothes from the laundry. You were still at work and wouldn’t be home until after the day has officially ended. That was no too long from now.
He arranges them on his palm, wonders how something minute and opaque could be so potent.
Yoongi never thought his patience could ever reach a state of finite. Selfishly, he thinks that it was an insult to relinquish control to the unremarkable squares on his palm. Your addiction was vile and robbed you of your own mind. The facility never prepared him for when living in the present was no longer effective, there was no fresh beginnings and in truth, he was tired.
As soon as he hears the front door open, he closes his eyes and sighs at the ceiling. He had been fooled by you, blinded with trust that things could get better. Resentment pierces the fog in his chest, he shouldn’t have chosen that part of him that hoped.
“Yoongi?”
He crushes them in his palm.
“In here.”
You emerged through the doorway. From afar, the contacts faltered in hiding the gold that fought though. He follows your eyes to the open drawer, then to his palm.
“Yoongi…”
“Have you been using again?”
You pressed your lips in a thin line, ashamed. It’s in the way your posture shrinks away from him, anchored by the vice-like grip your hands had on the door frame. It wasn’t quite fear in your eyes, but… relief.
You didn’t care that he knew.
“I need to hear it from you. Have you been using again?”
He breathes life into the thoughts that he fought tooth and nail to stay buried. A part of him knew that it would never work the way he wanted it to. That to be surrounded by everything that insulated you from poverty, destitution, and scarcity didn’t really matter. Not when you were deteriorating before his eyes. So he protects himself by wielding his anger. It was too large, growing from this obtuse feeling to something beyond conscious repression.
“We’ve talked about this, we’ve done every single step, I’ve gone to every single appointment with you, why can’t you just…” His voice is unlike his own, it sounds more authoritative. He thinks this is how the Emperor addresses his adversaries, his chest puffed up, and eyes ablaze.
You shrink back, he could almost see the self-recrimination stirring in your gold irises. Yoongi hated gold, he hated what it represented, he hated what it did to you, to him.
The gap increases, he lets it.
“Fucking talk to me,” he said, his voice ending in a tremor, his chest is tight, and the tips of his fingers are cold.
“Yoongi, it was just once. I wasn’t going to take the rest,” you said, your back hitting the wall. “It was a mistake.”
Something in his jaw ticks, his molars clenching with the force capable of grinding it flat. He was a fool to think that of all things that could awry, he counted you relapsing as an exception.
“It was a mistake,” you said again, more feeble this time, aware of the farcical nature of your admission.
He thought about leaving you then, it came to him in the span of seconds. He would have left you and never looked back.
The mistake wasn’t yours. It was his for thinking that he could trust you.
-
Contrary to his reservations, the proposal that Yoongi’s sends through is approved in less than a day.
In front was the official seal from the Emperor and a well-intentioned hamper of celebratory items. Namjoon pours the bubbling champagne into a spare flute while Jungkook examines the label of the wine near the corner of the stack.
“Congratulations, hyung!” He beamed, his eyes shining.
Yoongi exhales, letting the tensions in his shoulders dissolve. Jungkook hums and helps himself to a glass of whiskey instead. The final plans were laid out neatly in front of them and Yoongi meets Jungkook in the eye soon after he reads the name of the utopia he has built.
Galtea.
Chief Architect: Min Yoongi
Construction commencement date: Expedited.
“This really is beautiful, hyung,” Jungkook said, his eyes scanning the rendered structures.
Yoongi nods, lips in a straight line. But he thinks that if you were here, you’d say the same thing.
-
While you were back in the facility, Yoongi thinks up a city that was meant to prosper like flowers that turn towards the sun. It was the most involved he’s ever been, overseeing its construction at every stage.
On the day when the gates are bolted to their place, he rushes to pick you up. You shield your eyes from the sun, already smiling. Sola was as cheerful as its inhabitants, complete with buildings as tall as they can be, linked together with vines from each point. It’s a city in constant movement, windmills attached to the roofs of houses, stuccoed belvederes at the highest points, and gilded weather vanes twirling in the wind.
Usually, it takes a lot of effort to even think of a city on your own. But Sola materialised in less than a week.
He thinks that the things that saved him would save you too.
So he builds and builds, tireless in the face of looming defeat.
“It’s wonderful, Yoongi.”
He looks at your eyes, now bloodshot with gold. It hurts a little to see you this way so his hand leads you forward.
“C’mon. I’ve got more to show you.”
-
As soon as the location for Galtea was finalised, Namjoon accompanies Yoongi to check the inventory.
“Will you go back to Urban Planning when this is over?”
Yoongi flips the paper over the clipboard, everything was accounted for. He thinks of Hoseok and the office in the lower floors.
“They’re waiting for me,” he replied, “this was just a favour for the Emperor.”
Namjoon clenches his jaw, “you’ve truly outdone yourself with this one, hyung.”
Yoongi fights the urge to bite his nails. They were were behind large slabs of marble in one of the warehouses in Imperial City. Several of the foremen chatter nearby, Yoongi wanted to stay alert for any queries.
“Is it because of her?”
Namjoon sets his eyes on him, showing that he knew more than he cared to impart. The clipboard nearly drops from his grasp. A foreman waves him over, much to Yoongi’s relief.
“Did something happen to her, hyung?”
The tension returns on his shoulders. He walks away, leaving Namjoon’s question suspended in the air.
-
Days after you were released, things regained a semblance of routine. You paint while Yoongi takes as many days off as he can. It’s fine, he’s saved enough for rainy days like these.
Currently, you were staring at him from behind an enormous canvas. He blushes from the attention, turning the page of a book he’s picked up to occupy him. The story was a folklore, about a girl who fell down a crevice and her lover, who discovered her too late.
“Haven’t you done enough portraits of me?”
You shake your head, setting the paintbrush down so you could straddle him, carding your fingers through his hair, always in a determined arc to appear smart. He knew you preferred it mussed so he doesn’t stop you.
“It can never be enough, not when you’re my muse.”
A blush blooms in his cheeks, his mouth daring him to smile.
“Ah, I preferred it when we weren’t talking,” he confessed.
You laughed, kissing him enthusiastically.
During these times, Yoongi allowed himself to pretend.
-
The building of Galtea takes less than two months. Yoongi stands above a parapet as workers fashioned its parameters precisely.
It’s a glorious city borne from a treacherous past. Yoongi revived it, pulling out its structures from the ashes of war. It overflows with abundance. New buildings made from new materials, new and improved landmarks, and new faces to inhabit it. In a way, this utopia had no connection to the former Galtea other than through its name. Yoongi tried to preserve the fragments of what gave it its splendor: the theatre, the town hall, and the bridge.
But it means something different now. The city carries your essence in every corner, like a trace of perfume.
It results in enchantment and a grin on Yoongi’s face that he couldn’t quite wipe off.
He finds himself sitting in a café by the gates, cupping his chin with his hand. Streams of people walk through, their eyes filled with wonder. He knows that it’s better than anything else he’s created, leaps and bounds from Palatia, Arora, or Sola. It’s a city that shall never be plundered nor deserted. More surprisingly, having it in front of him was something that thaws him. A feeling that evaded him until now.
“You did it, hyung,” Jungkook said, smiling at a couple who ambled along a bridge, stopping to point at the kaleidoscope river.
Yoongi licks his lips, finally allowing himself to breath a sigh he had been holding back.
-
The final city that Yoongi builds before leaving for the Urban Planning department was Juria. It’s inhabitants are frugal, meek, and morally righteous. The Emperor was annoyed and wanted to spend less. Yoongi delivers by building a city made up of steel and concrete.
At home, things were bleak. Your irises shine gold and all you could do was remain at home. Yoongi makes enough for the both of you but he was in the office for most of the day. He wishes that he was able to split himself in half, to spare you the eerie silence of the apartment for hours on end.
Demoting himself to Urban Planning meant that he only needed to be in the office three times a week. He tried to trick himself into thinking that it was a permanent solution to a temporary problem. Namjoon doesn’t cart his desk into storage, keeps his instruments clean and dusted. Yoongi feels nothing, consumed by this need to guard you.
Each day, he sweeps the apartment for anything you would hide.
Yet each night, he comes back he finds you in the corner of the bedroom, staring out into the window. Your eyes are unresponsive but they glow, golden rings in a sea of bloodshot veins.
You don’t even talk to each other, adversaries in your own home.
-
Hoseok’s eyebrows shoot up at the article.
Galtea has proved to be a beloved city. The Emperor lauds Chief Architect, Min Yoongi: “This is a true Utopia.”
Yoongi couldn’t even look at him in the eye, his face burning from embarrassment.
“This is huge, hyung. Your city made it on the headlines! Are you sure you want to stay with us here?” Hoseok said, jokingly.
It’s a few days before Yoongi intends to visit you and his nerves have prevented him from sleeping properly. He wears the dark circles under his eyes in heavy-lidded blinks, his lips parched of moisture.
Everyone knew about Galtea apart from you.
“It’s just a favour for Emperor,” he said, chewing his bottom lip. The skin splits and blood rushes out, he keeps it tucked under his teeth, tasting the copper.
“Still hyung, it would be a waste your talent on making barracks or concrete structures.”
Urban Planning was responsible for making lacklustre buildings for cities that still have impoverished streets. The sole criteria was whether it was good enough to sleep in. Once that was satisfied, the Emperor was free of his conscience and neglected certain populace. There was no thought or art put into it.
This was a consequence of greed. There was no need to drive people from their homes, lest it should signal an uprising. Such chances were low, if not, zero. Perhaps the Emperor realised this far too late, bowing under the pressure of the cities he’s conquered. In the end, this boundless exertion to conquer ended up being less than what it was.
“They’ll be fine without me,” Yoongi said, pushing the article away. Hoseok shook his head, firm in his belief.
“You’re different, hyung. You have talent, you can create.”
Yoongi thinks of Jungkook, how he would suit his desk instead after his apprenticeship was finished.
“I’m not so different if I can be easily replaced.”
-
It’s the eleventh month and snow covers the whole of Imperial City.
After a gruelling shift at Urban Planning, Yoongi sees you, curled up small by the piano. Not fast enough, he drops to his knees, hauling you up. Your eyes are glazed over, gold dust in the corner of your lips.
It was hard to come back and find you like this. You don’t even hide anymore. But it was even harder for him to not be able to do anything about it.
He says your name, forcing his worried tone in the back of his throat so it can come out in a soothing whisper. He caresses your cheek, pretending that he’s not touching clammy skin. You mumble something incoherent, twitching again, your veins blazing like golden roots under your skin. He hated to think that this was the only time you’d feel peace.
“Mmh… Yoongi,” you slurred, twisting away from him.
He holds on to you, sitting you up properly, cradling your head to prevent it from dropping forward. Your clothes were just about soaked with sweat, so he lifts the hem and leaves you in your underwear.
It’s like this nowadays.
“I’m here. It’s okay. I’m here.”
With your bare skin on show, he sees more of the gold that made your veins glow. It pulses in the same rhythm as your heartbeat.
Your addiction has gotten worse but he pretends.
It was just a passing fever and not as a result of a crippling obsession wreaking havoc in your body.
Some part of him nags that it was his fault.
So all he ever did was pretend.
-
Namjoon finds Yoongi filling out a form to request for time off. It’s longer than what he would previously request, but he thinks he needs more time.
“Hyung?”
“Hm?”
“Where do you go at the end of every month?”
Yoongi halts his writing, sits so upright that he seemed instantly rigid. Namjoon cleared his throat, not understanding that he unknowingly crossed a boundary.
“Not very far,” he said.
“I’m sure it’s not your fault, hyung.”
Yoongi’s inhaled sharply.
“What do you know?”
Taken aback, Namjoon hands him a pencil that managed to roll of the surface of his desk. Yoongi resumes his task, content that he wasn’t going to be asked further questions.
-
The final night, Yoongi is cradling you, murmuring hollow words in your ear.
It’s fine. It’s alright. I’ll help you, you’ll get better. I promise.
You’re unresponsive in his arms and all he could do was hold you, whispering empty promises as the flashing lights pierce the gloom of the apartment.
-
Yoongi thinks that he’s a person left alone rather than being alone.
In preparation, Yoongi packs a bag with items that were familiar to you. A small sketchbook, a couple of your favourite brushes and paints, a few pencils. On top, he places a photo album of all of your captured memories together. The gilded frame on the cover carried the picture of you and him in front of Arora. He takes his time, meticulous in the way he arranges them so when you were able to seek out personal items, your delight would grow.
Later, to pass the time, he reads articles about Galtea .
Its people are happy. They walk along its bridges, attend the plays in the elaborate theatres he’s incorporated. The underground clubs thrive nightly, its town hall hosts festivals where everyone can take part. In this Galtea, the sun shines just enough to ensure that the crops are plentiful. There is no such things as outskirts and its people aren’t starving.
He curls up, somewhat nauseous in the large bed, with its dark walnut frame, drowning in the space of it all. He embraces a pillow that isn’t you, hear the creak on the floorboards that weren’t yours, and track the shadows that fall on him knowing that they were from the outside.
It frightened him that he has to conjure you in this way, as if he is embracing the thought of you since the real version was always going to be out of reach.
Two days before, he visits Galtea again. He wanders along the streets with a cloak hiding his face. Each step sounds the same, he got every detail down to the bricks on the floor, the slant of the buildings, the vibrant tapestries that hang on bronze poles. He reaches the place were you first spoke to each other, but now, instead of lines for food, there are cafés, restaurants, and bistros.
Incidentally, it’s a city for everything left that’s important to him.
It’s a utopia that will outlast any war, any threat, or strife.
A city for you.
Past its walls, in a vantage point that only he knows, was the view of a humble cottage. It’s the same one in his dream. He had to bargain with the foremen with ordering completely different materials for its construction but it got built, down to the red, lacquered door. For now, it stays empty.
One day, he wants to take you there and start over.
One day, he’d liked to sit across from you as you painted him. He would never complain anymore when you would tell him to sit still.
One day, he hopes to watch Galtea with you from the best point, where you could see the city glow under the stars.
previously. / next.
Utopia. | III. | Min Yoongi, 5k
Pairing:Yoongi x Reader
Summary:Yoongi wants to build a utopia based on how he feels.But he fears that all that is left is ugly, festering emotions. In spite of that, he remembers that he had hope, once.
Warnings/Tags: RATED T for implied/referenced drug use; implied/referenced drug addiction; angst; brief depictions of war; implied/referenced PTSD; minor character death; the tags areheavy, so proceed with caution; I’ve tried to be as vague as possible but still - Alternate Universe Fantasy/Magical Realism ft.Architect!Min Yoongi.
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This is also available onAO3.
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-
There are benefits to withholding information.
For one, Yoongi was able to work through his emotions alone. Mostly keeping to himself, it was an unspoken rule to those around him that he preferred to have his head down, hard at work. Solitary as he was in his habits, he liked being an island. Besides, those he worked with didn’t carry the same burden he did. The claws of guilt breaking the grooves of his brain becomes as easy as drawing breath in the quiet of the night. He didn’t need grating small talk to add to the fatigue.
But there are also drawbacks. Like the obvious sympathy conveyed in concerned stares. Namjoon was always helpless at the face of Yoongi’s torment. Then came the overwhelming emotion of ineptness that followed the lack of inspiration he feels. To miss you was to miss himself as a person and as a creator of cities.
“Hyung, it’s past three, you should go home and rest.”
Yoongi shakes his head even though they’re conversing over the phone.
“I have to get over this, whatever this is. I’ve been thinking a lot about what happened before,” he said after a while.
The glass in front of him is empty, the ice cubes diluting the whiskey collected at the bottom.
“Is it hard to revisit those memories, hyung?”
Yoongi surprises himself with his answer.
“No. Those times were the happiest I ever was.”
Namjoon inhales sharply and Yoongi senses that there were questions at the tip of his tongue.
“You always work hard and I don’t think the Emperor wouldn’t trust you this much if you didn’t make good cities.”
Just then, it began to rain, blurring the outside scenery into a cascade of watery colours. Yoongi rubs his temple with his index and middle finger, tugging the skin against his skull. All he ever did was live in a cycle of pain these days.
“I don’t think working hard can always guarantee success,” he replied.
“All of the magnificent cities you built were as a result of your hard work, hyung. You poured everything into constructing those new homes,” Namjoon continued.
But Yoongi didn’t want to remember.
Remembering conjures not only the images of the cities he made, but also of images of you. He rocked the crystalline tumbler to and fro. The amber liquid tipped to the side, rendered pale under the moonlight.
“Try to get some sleep. Tomorrow is another day, hyung.”
The line goes dead and Yoongi’s alone.
He’s alone as he traverses the apartment. Everything remains more or less the same and he tries to erode the memories he’s attached to the place and its items. If he can’t find happiness, the least he could do is accept the face of his own misery.
A mug was just a mug. Not something special that he kept because you told him you found the chipped rim unique. The easel leaning against the wall of his office, which used to be belong to you, he used to hang random things. There was no paint left in the house and the finished work you had hanging on the wall, he stored elsewhere. Conscious forgetting helps the raw ache in his chest, a Pavlovian conditioning he fashioned against the abyss that awaited him in his thoughts.
Yoongi is honest but never with himself.
There was nothing he could do to bring you back, so he stays where he was, remembering to forget.
-
With a couple of cities under his portfolio, Yoongi begins to make serious money.
Imperial City had a notorious night life and it was unavoidable to live in its walls without getting your hands a little dirty. Those hard to get places were scarcely advertised but you and Yoongi were at the wrong place at the right time.
AMBROX was a known and exclusive club catering for those at the upper echelons of society. Yoongi was eligible because of the status in his ID. The Imperial Seal could get you almost anywhere. Inside was a basement space, cushioned in crushed velvet walls where the patrons were ushered into smaller rooms hidden by thick curtains. It smelled sweet, like bursts of vanilla were injected in the air every second or two.
“Is this really how the other half live?” You whispered, rubbing your arm.
Yoongi’s eyes darted along the main reception area. He saw employees gathering coats and jackets, others were talking with patrons, their smiles a little to wide, implicitly asking for a tip. He passes someone heading out, their irises were like gold rings, burning bright in the dim interior.
“It might be how some spend their free time,” he guessed, distracted by an usher who gently took his jacket from him.
You stuck close, your fingers curling over his as you were taken to an even darker booth. Few words were exchanged between you and the server as a silver tray appears on the small table. The sofa’s were comfortable, moulding to the contours of his back.
The lid is lifted and you look at the server.
“First time?” They asked, their tone hinting boredom.
In front were two shot glasses, two pills, and a small container with two square stickers, small enough to be discrete.
“How do you want it?” They asked, setting the lid down next to the tray.
Yoongi doesn’t even get a chance to speak before you reached forward, taking the small container. The server nods, waving his fingers over the rejected options. The shot glasses and pills disappear in a plume of vanilla scented smoke. Soon after, they leave, overlapping the curtains for privacy.
“Yoongi, look,” you said, placing an opaque square sticker on his palm.
You don’t wait before placing it on the wet surface of your tongue, humming as it dissolves in no time. He swallowed thickly as your eyes become flecked with gold, your pupils blowing to an impossibly wide size. You laughed, no, giggledas you folded into yourself, the side your head hitting the back of the couch in a muffled thump.
“Try it,” you coaxed, pushing his palm up near his mouth. You were always the one willing to try things, willing to go a step further than him with anything.
At your suggestion, he places it at the tip of his tongue, shivering slightly at the saccharine taste. He smiles like you did, feeling like he was wading through honey. A sickly and syrupy weight descended upon his bones, if he moved, it was in slow motion. When he closed his eyes, he saw visions of cities he had yet to build.
Yoongi laughed with you, threading your fingers together. You were so beautiful under the light, aglow in his gaze. He grins, tracing the line of your jaw, wanting to say something.
What did I want to say again?
You come closer, kissing him artificially. It was more of a peck than anything but he feels his heart swell within his ribcage.
“‘Am meant to say something,” he mumbled, lost in your touch. You nod, bumping your forehead against his.
“Feels good, right?” You asked, brushing your thumb on the high point of his cheekbone.
Yeah. It does.
Inexplicably so.
Later, when caught his reflection on the way out, he sees his own eyes have a bright ring of gold against the brown. You stumble out, laughing like a pair of fools, hands outstretched to the sky in wonder.
In the taxi, you sighed in bliss, your nose pressed against the crook of his neck.
“Yoongi?”
“Mn?”
“That was nice,” you murmured, your breath so soft on his skin. He squeezes your hand in his, clammy from being pressed together at the palms, your fingertips come up cold. He meets the driver’s eyes through the mirror, they dart back on the road as quickly as they landed on him.
“Think you could you get used to it?” He asked, searching your face. The gold is fainter now, but you still had an expression of bliss through your half-lidded eyes and easy smile.
“Your promotion or being high?”
He shrugs, the view from the window outside is a blur of colours. Imperial City shines in the night as it does in the day.
“Everything.”
-
A knock at the door startles Yoongi from his uncomfortable sleep. He stretches, taking his time given that the visitor arrived at an ungodly hour. He leaves the couch, pushing his hair back with a damp palm.
“Hyung, it’s been a while.”
Jimin greets him with a shock of pink hair, his irises aglow in a bright, metallic gold.
“Come in.”
He waves the younger man inside, unashamed of the clutter that decorated the hallway. Jimin side-steps the mountain of shoes that spilled from the alcoves, then pretends not to notice the growing amount of dishes stacked like a tower on the sink. The apartment is submerged in darkness but even that couldn’t drive away the oppressive atmosphere of decay.
“Hyung…”
Yoongi sighed and dragged the chair back, waving for Jimin to take a seat.
“How come you’re here?”
Jimin takes a moment to reply. He looks at the multiple drafts of unfinished cities that buried the mahogany table.
“You called me, hyung.”
Yoongi blinks at the younger man’s reply.
“I did?”
Jimin nods, watching Yoongi’s face pinch at something that slipped his mind.
“You said you wanted to talk about something.”
Yoongi cleared his throat. He wasn’t sure if it was worth being embarrassed over. Everyone knew he was having a harder time than most. Jimin lowered his gaze, thumbing the abandoned designs. The rain stopped and the buildings glisten on all sides.
I wanted to talk about her.
“It’s for work.”
-
When Yoongi had some time off, he liked to stay at home. Thinking drained his energy and spending time with you recharged him. Though he would never be explicit in that, some things he liked to keep to himself.
But he knew it showed, especially in moments like these.
“Don’t laugh. This is harder than it looks, okay?” You said, dropping a pencil, then wincing as it rolled on the floor.
You were in front of his drafting table, the angle being too steep. Yoongi is reclined on the sofa opposite, a smile creeping up his lips as you made a preliminary sketch.
“I’m not laughing,” he retorted, dragging his hand over his face to hide the twitch in the corner of his mouth.
“I heard you.”
Yoongi coughed and inhaled deeply, “I was going to fall asleep so what you heard was a yawn.”
You sighed, and he allowed himself to smile.
“Wow, you’re so supportive and romantic. I don’t build cities for a living you know. I just teach kids how to paint.”
Yoongi turns his head to the side, sees you with a concentrated look on your face. In this new life you paint and teach at a prestigious high school even without much qualifications. Both of you live with more than what you had envisioned for yourselves.
“Want me to be supportive and romantic? Like that old film you always talked about? Ghost, was it?”
Before Galtea was reduced to rubble, you would talk to him about a film you saw once at the theatre. You would tell him that they had salvaged some copies of films from the past, films that were at least hundreds of years old. The one scene you would always go back to was the characters shaping some clay. To him, it sounded bothersome as creating things tended to be solitary, at least in the beginning. He deemed that the previous inhabitants of the world seemed more romantic then, at least in their scripts.
“You want me to recreate something like that and be romantic? Like sit behind you and guide the pencil with my hand on yours?”
He could envision you smiling behind the drafting table, rubbing your nose out of habit.
“No…” you trailed off, your eyes practically beckoning him to do the opposite.
The pencil glides over the parchment, he thinks you might on the cusp of creating something but there was no harm in helping you out. He gets up, crossing the distance and settles behind you. With his legs flanking yours, he layers his grip on your hand, pinching your fingertips to control the pencil.
Comfortable, you leant back, resting on his chest, letting him guide the lines over the imaginary city you’ve constructed. There were details you incorporated, columns that ended in stars, what looked like an observatory in the centre, houses that floated above the ground. He feels an idea flower in his mind. You hold his wrist with your free hand, adding another point to a different star.
“You’ve been thinking about your own city?”
You hummed.
“When I was at the orphanage, I spent a lot of time on the roof. I was tired of looking down, I wanted to be part of something infinite.”
And Yoongi understood.
It’s not quite Galtea, but something else altogether.
“I can make this real if you like.”
You shift your hold so that you were holding his hand. He couldn’t see your expression with your back turned to him.
“You drawing it is enough.”
-
“How are things back in your home?” Yoongi asked, pushing a crystalline tumbler towards Jimin.
The pink haired boy shrugs, chewing his bottom lip after he tipped his head back, the whiskey draining from the glass.
“Same old thing, hyung. My parents don’t let me out of their sight, I can’t work for more than three hours at a time.”
Yoongi remembers Jimin’s affluent upbringing, the palatial homes of Eriteria spanned acres, complete with copious orangeries. The sun always shone in Eriteria and Jimin was a golden child of prosperity and wealth.
“Do you miss it?”
The whiskey gets refilled to a third of the glass.
“Miss what?”
Jimin tips his head back in an almost violent snap, widening his mouth so that the amber liquid is deposited in an effortless cascade. His irises pulse in a glittery ring of gold, his rose hair falling back into place in a deliberate curve over his brow. Yoongi thinks he should choose his words carefully but abandons that task. He was never was one to pry but he was tired of pondering.
“Being high.”
Jimin frowns, pinching his eyebrows together. The gold in his irises flash with every blink. Yoongi can’t change things so seeks out answers that drip venom to his conscience.
“I don’t know. Sometimes, I miss feeling like… nothing.”
Yoongi thinks about the time when you began hiding the square stickers, your averted gaze when you knew your irises would shine unnaturally. Those became permanent if you were getting a steady supply and your eyes lit up like the stars.
“Why did you get into it?”
Jimin adjusts himself on his seat, his posture loosening like a puppet with its strings cut. The whiskey Yoongi had was imported, aged and sublime. It also sank in your blood easily, another high. Yoongi watches as Jimin picks at the skin on his thumb, pinching it with his teeth then pulls.
“I dunno, it felt good for a start -”
Yoongi remembers.
“And I thought I was in control. I didn’t go looking for it or anything, it just fell on my lap. Before, it was hard for me to stop thinking. When I got high, it was like everything stopped and I was just… floating.”
Jimin’s tone takes on a dreamy cadence, as if he was back in that drug-addled headspace.
“Do you think it was the same for her?” He asked, meeting Jimin in the eye.
“Could be. I’ve spoken to others who had our problem, they said that things slowed. The drug was great for people who couldn’t get out of their head, ironically enough.”
Yoongi sighed, taking another swig because he was extrapolating again. There weren’t any answers he could gleam and those that he could always left a bitter taste on his tongue.
“I think it’s because of the war. We didn’t see each other for a long time after Galtea fell, she never told me what happened to her during that time either.”
Jimin rubbed his thumb along his bottom lip, toying with the tumbler in his hand. Yoongi knew that the addiction won over him, as steady as the vines that crept along the walls of abandoned buildings in the cities that were pillaged.
“Who knows why people actually do things, hyung.”
Yoongi thought he knew you. He thought that you could never hide from each other after what you went through. Even when Galtea fell and you were driven out of your homes by the person that he now serves, you had each other. That’s what Yoongi tells himself when he feels like there’s a tourniquet to his chest.
“Is she in the same facility now?”
Yoongi shakes his head, tipping the glass back and wincing. The whiskey wasn’t as painful on his throat, but he could feel his chest spasm. Jimin was the only person he could talk to about you freely, like the three of you exist in this level of understanding.
A nexus of things that involve saccharine stickers and golden irises.
“She’s being cared for near here. Somewhere more advanced.”
-
War showed up differently, depending on who you were.
For Yoongi, it was a muted playback. A reel of shrapnel piercing the earth, vivid images of it obliterating his home. It was constant, endless. Building cities drowned them out. Creating something out of nothing compensated for all the destruction that he saw. In that sense, he could forgive himself when it became his turn to pillage in his own way.
But it wasn’t like that with you.
You held it in like you were a vessel.
He chastises himself, thinking about how he could miss something this integral. But he forgets how hard you tried to hide it. During the times you thought he wasn’t looking, your hands would tremble or your voice would sound far away. Perhaps, due to his own private limitations, he hung onto the hope of it passing like it did for him.
All things passed; such was the principle that he subscribed to.
Yet even in the peace of your slumber, he could tell of your hidden tumult through your fitful pulse, the cold sweat absorbed by the sheets at the crack of dawn.
One time on accident, he dropped some of his drafting instruments. The clatter of metal on hardwood had you collapsing on the floor, your hands covering your ears as you rocked yourself backwards and forwards. He came near you, apologising through the soothing motion of his hand up and down your back but to no avail. You were no longer in the room with him, muttering intelligibly, eyes wide and breath heaving.
In that moment, he was reminded the when you fled Galtea, you had to find your own bearings. What happened in the two years you didn’t see each other was information he wasn’t privy to. You had said a comment in to him in passing, during a time when the threat of uprising against the Emperor gained traction.
You can’t beat a gun, Yoongi. You just can’t.
Sometimes, you painted him a picture and he wasn’t sure if it was out of choice. Your eyes couldn’t meet his and he understood. Ugly things have a habit of taking root and even the dregs of war had the potential to shred you from the inside out.
He knows because he catches you staring into space, paintbrush coated in bright vermillion dripping messily on the canvas.
Concerned, he says your name and you laugh it off, resuming a dramatic arc. Surmising that that was meant to be deliberate, it somehow ended up looking like a bloody smile on pure white cotton. But you couldn’t hide the shattered handful of mugs as a result of that phantom tremor in your hands.
War never left you and Yoongi couldn’t do anything about it.
He thought of all of this, drowning out the explanation of the physician who led him to the hallway lined with observation pods. Similar facilities dot the area of Imperial City. There were some excesses that grew unmanageable, and you fell prey to the drug that turned your eyes into the sun. With the windows clear, he recognised the children of some of the officials he knew, all with vapid stares and gold-flecked irises.
“She’s doing well. We’re administering our first-rate programme to wean her off the drug.”
In front of a discrete window, Yoongi forces himself to watch as they pump a bag with liquid gold. The dose seemed more than what he was used to seeing, attached to a slim wire that ended in a needle feeding into your veins.
“Can she feel anything?” He asked, his mouth twisting as your head dropped to the side.
The physician pushes their glasses up, their nose pointed down at your chart on the clipboard. It was your first visit and Yoongi hoped that it would be your last.
“Not usually.”
Yoongi didn’t need to hear more. It was too late and money was no use if it couldn’t bring you back.
On the way out, someone bumps into him. A boy with rose pink hair and a smile far too bright for the environment.
“What were you doing that far into the facility?” He asked, cocking his head to the side.
Yoongi bargained with himself whether he should talk to this presumptuous individual. As a form of caution, he doesn’t answer, walking along the stretch of the hallway, heading for the exit.
“Hello?”
“I’m here to visit,” he replied, curt.
“Hmph. You must be fucking rich for them to allow you to see the procedures.”
Yoongi clenched his jaw.
No amount of money could buy what I want.
He keeps walking while the kid follows.
“Are they important to you? The person you visited?”
He halts in the rhythm of his walk, glancing at him. One look should determine it all, one look that he never could keep in for too long. It made him appear as dejected as he felt.
“She is,” he replied.
A hand comes out, waiting for him to take it.
“Jimin.”
Yoongi stares at it, sees the plastic tag with an iron-clad seal of Imperial City Rehab on the his wrist. A discrete, plastic rectangle showed more information.
Park Jimin. Third visit. Patient no. 1310
He takes the handshake, wraps his fingers over Jimin’s palm. His touch is cold like yours.
“Yoongi.”
-
“I’m building a new city for the Emperor,” Yoongi divulges.
“Ah.”
It’s deep into the night, all of the blinds were drawn and Jimin had taken to tidy up the place. Yoongi allowed him since Jimin wanted to help. Tasks like these gave the illusion of normalcy, of order. After a while, his apartment became noticeably cleaner, the items previously scattered were now in their respective homes. Yoongi wish he could be placed like that, he often felt destitute nowadays.
“It’s been… difficult,” he added, clearing his throat.
Jimin nods, this time from the couch, his gaze to scenery outside. Yoongi’s apartment was well above ground, his view being the surrounding sky scrapers and luxury apartments that this area was famed for. It was funny to think that he had spent much of his early life avoiding the idea of looking down when that was the only thing he was doing lately.
“Were you given any further instructions, hyung?”
The Emperor wrote him a letter that he destroyed when he thought he wasn’t the person for the job. But the words were etched in his mind all the same.
I want you to build me a utopia.
“I think he wants me to build something perfect, something important. A utopia was what he said.”
Jimin turned, searching Yoongi’s face and finding uncertainty.
“She reminds you of all of those things.”
Yoongi nods, honest for once. Jimin lifts his legs, folding them close to his chest so he could embrace them.
“Have you tried talking to her, hyung? I’m sure that she’ll be able to hear you.”
Shame breeds itself in the pit of Yoongi’s stomach. When he talked to you, all that came out were apologies.
I’m sorry I didn’t help you in time.
I’m sorry for ignoring your unhappiness.
I’m sorry.
“I thought we were happy,” he said, after a while. Jimin looks at him with sympathy, his golden irises are muted.
“It could happen to anyone, hyung.”
The silence that followed was telling. Both he and Jimin knew the futility of those words. It happened to Jimin and he got out. He now lives a normal life, and even though he wears his addiction in a visible marker, he can rejoin society, making something of himself again. Yoongi doesn’t know if your fate was riddled with rotten luck but he blames himself for even taking you to that part of Imperial City.
-
The first time you are checked in, Yoongi is allowed to visit twice a week and he stays overnight when he can. He’s always thankful that when he is over you are lucid, or at least trying your hardest to be.
Together on the single bed, too rickety for the amount he’s paid for, and when the moonlight is the sole source of clarity, the quiet becomes inviting rather than insidious. He ignores the tag on your wrist that labels you as ‘Patient,’ he ignores the intermittent shivers you couldn’t conceal and keeps you close.
“When I was back in the orphanage, they told me that my ancestors came from the North, that they were people of the sea sold to owners for hard labour and very little pay,” you murmured, running your fingertip over a prominent vein on your wrist. The slightest pressure pushes the gold close to the surface, it glows and reminds both of you of your malaise.
Yoongi knows that you were brought to the orphanage at the age of seven.
“They told me that they were people of the stars, they always looked up, finding safety in the constellations,” you said as he listened.
“Galtea must have been disappointing,” he joked. You turn to him, shaking your head.
“I don’t think I would have had a better time if I stayed where I was. I met you in Galtea by chance and it was the best thing that ever happened to me,” you replied, draping your leg over his.
He blinked. You think that you met by chance for the first time on the way to get food rations but he thinks about the nights he spent gawking at you in that club. He realises that he never told you about the very first moment he saw you. Instead, he pushes his palm against yours, the steady thrum of your pulse radiates. He adjusts the narrative to appease.
“You think that chances are trustworthy, then,” he said.
You lean up and kiss his cheek, your lips are warm and inviting.
“Of course. It’s how we met.”
-
Jimin gets up and walks towards a bookshelf. He takes out a leather bound tome, flipping through it with curiosity. Yoongi has memorised those pages, an album of sorts. Still frame images of his glittering career, his accolades in two-dimensional snap shots. Architects were revered in Imperial City, though outside its limits, it might be a different story. Jimin stops flipping the pages, the tome perfectly halved in the middle. Yoongi meets him, staring down at the picture.
It stands out because it was a small picture in the middle of an empty space.
In the neat square, your smiles were radiant. It was taken by the gates of Arora, soon after it was opened.
The stars were in the backdrop, bright in spite of the sun above.
“Hyung?”
“Hm?”
“Where was this taken?
Yoongi traces your figures, grateful that the camera was able to preserve your contentment.
“Arora.”
-
Weeks after you were brought home from the facility, Yoongi intends to build the drawing that took root at the back of his mind, itching to materialise from the drafting table in his office. A city of infinite capacity, a city of stars.
One evening, when he was sure that you were asleep, he sits up. Feverish with excitement, he leaps from the bed, his fingers itching for anything to draw with.
The entire city came to him in a dream: a proliferation of constellations borne from the stories you told him.
If you were to build me a city, build one like the one we drew together.
Which one? He joked, feigning ignorance.
You know the one.
Hours pass by while he works like a madman, mapping out the parameters, white lines thick against a gridded background. The parchment he used was the best he could find, the materials the finest he could afford.
The label above is blank but he already had a name for a city made up of stars.
Arora.
No less than six weeks later, the city is built. It stands, imposing at the gates, the stars that top the walls are solar. He walks with you in a luxuriating page, hand in hand. Pausing by the entrance, he waves his ID, allowing entry. The skies are clear and the stars outnumber the incoming populace. They were coming from the North, whimsical and in need of hope.
Yoongi built Arora for you, though.
The effect on its people were incidental. It was you who he wanted to look up.
It was you who he wanted to hope.
“Would you like a picture?”
There was already a camera with the lens pointed at you and him. Shirking away, you fuss over your hair, eyes downcast because the gold was noticeable now. The glittery rings of addiction, bright wherever you went. Yoongi holds your hand tightly, nodding at the photographer.
“Yoongi…” you whispered, hesitant.
A smile spreads on his lips. He wanted to remember this, a moment where you were both happy.
“It’ll be okay.”
He wasn’t sure if he was talking about the picture in the end.
Utopia. | II. | Min Yoongi, 3.8k
Pairing:Yoongi x Reader
Summary:The creative process is difficult, if not elusive. Yoongi grapples with this reality, frustrated at his lack of productivity. Building cities was second nature to him, like breathing. But of course, there are reasons for this and he knows that he must take the time to ride it out, and in that, he remembers.
Warnings/Tags: RATED T for implied/referenced drug use; implied/referenced drug addiction; angst; brief depictions of war; implied/referenced PTSD; minor character death; the tags areheavy, so proceed with caution; I’ve tried to be as vague as possible but still - Alternate Universe Fantasy/Magical Realism ft.Architect!Min Yoongi.
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This is also available onAO3.
=====
-
Sunk below the flat line, the sun is halved in a bright, orange semi-circle. The trees cast long shadows across parched fields and in scattered groups, the animals, mostly horses and goats, graze on the cracked surface, their ribs visible through their shaggy fur.
Yoongi’s father grunts as he sits on a tree stump, hiking his leg up to rest his elbow on his knee. It was setting up to be another season of drought. Yoongi could see it in the slump of his father’s shoulders and hears it in the way the tips of the grass cracked from even the slightest push of the breeze.
“I don’t mind tending to the fields after I graduate,” Yoongi said, as if it could remedy the scarcity ahead. His father takes a moment to answer, flicking a fly that settled on the leathery skin of his thigh.
“You have more talent that me, your mother, and the rest of your siblings combined. Use it.”
Yoongi didn’t usually aspire to hear this from his father. He was one of three (soon to be four), and was the only one in university. Architecture landed on his lap like some primordial present. Perhaps because of his background, he didn’t feel beholden to such a gift. The people whom he owed his life to were meant to sustain the fields for generations to come and he didn’t expect to be an exception. It did nothing but make him feel like an outcast among his family. It displeased him at the best of times that he found more comfort in numbers and lines rather than the rough texture of the earth.
“Create something good, something that lasts,” his father said, rubbing the palms of his hands together. They were so dry that it sounded like he was scraping sandpaper together.
You could build legacies from the Earth too, he thought.
“I really don’t mind, father. I can take over, I am the oldest,” Yoongi reasoned, risking a quick glance. His father scowled at the sight ahead. One of the horses had taken to sit and it would be their job to haul it back to its pen.
“I didn’t want to plow fields for the rest of my days but sometimes, life hands you something before you can make a choice.”
Yoongi couldn’t look at his father so he fixed his gaze on the reddish sky. The pointed fir trees were upright, stiff from being exposed to scorching rays all afternoon. The air is dry and caused the chapped surface of his bottom lip to split when he curled it over his teeth. Blood spreads on his tongue, a distinct, coppery taste.
“You have a choice, Yoongi.”
At that, Yoongi chews the inside of his cheek. He didn’t like that his choices forced him to watch his family starve as they paid for his tuition. He disliked it even more that every time he came home, his siblings looked at him as if he was scum.
Mother told me that you were too busy studying and I had to pick up your shift in the morning.
Father told me to give you an extra helping of soup because you had exams.
Oh, you came home?
None of these were said in kind. Yoongi thought that he deserved it, a burden in exchange for this gift to create.
Before he could protest, the voice of his mother pierces through their conversation. Far out at the bottom of the hill, she waves up at them, one hand on her lower back making the swell of her belly jut out. For once, he is grateful for the interruption even though he knows that the food awaiting him will hardly fill his stomach. His father gets up, sighing long and low. He extends his hand to Yoongi, who takes it gratefully. When he thought that it would be the last of their conversation, his father gives him a small smile. The lines at the side of his eyes are as deep as the fissures in the desiccated landscape.
“And find someone to hold on to, Yoongi. Find someone you can love until the end.”
Yoongi didn’t need to see how his father looks lovingly at his mother, as if she hung the stars and the moon.
Oddly though, while they worked together to push the lazy mare to the pen, Yoongi finds himself thinking about flashing strobe lights, multi-coloured hair, and stolen apples in the open market.
-
“Wouldn’t they be miserable if it rains all the time?”
Jungkook pushes the end of his pencil on the mole below his lip. Yoongi just so happened to catch the discussion he was having with Namjoon. The profile of these displaced inhabitants hailed from somewhere similar to Galtea.
“That doesn’t matter if it helps them thrive,” Yoongi said after a few moments in contemplation. The location of the pending city would have all seasons, a guaranteed break from the summer heat.
“Thrive?” Jungkook asked, to which Yoongi nodded.
“If they need to rely on the land for anything, they need it to be exposed to all kinds of different elements.”
Namjoon swipes his pencil over the numerous options for the location.
“It won’t rain all of the time, just most of the time. These people were mainly farmers, it would be familiar to them to live in an places where they can grow crops,” Namjoon reassured, shortlisting land where the sun may not have an overwhelming effect. If Yoongi had more concern, he would advise against building a city that was too familiar. Some things others would rather leave behind, after all.
Jungkook hums, indicating his understanding. Yoongi leaves then, mourning a loss that he couldn’t quite give a name to.
-
It turns out that the Emperor had no mercy.
Everything that Yoongi feared came true in the final months of his education.
The war against the Emperor’s forces began and never seemed to end. His father dies weeks before he was due to graduate and his mother and siblings, crestfallen and forlorn, were separated from him. Each week, he makes sure to post letters, none of which were replied to. With his nerves shot, he forces himself to accept that his family is torn and the fact that his father didn’t even have a grave. All that was left of his father was what Yoongi could remember and that was his feeble attempt to keep their family alive and healthy.
The final moments led to the haunting image of red-rimmed eyes, a weakened grip, and the words ending in the rattle of his last breath.
I’m proud of you, Yoongi. Make sure to never live like me.
Galtea continues to be submerged in flames from bombs crashing down like torrential rain, exploding into splinters and shaking the earth. Giant flying vehicles patrol the sky, their layered wings groaning in their articulation as its rusted doors descended to allow rockets to pelt the mountains in a continuous hurl. Yoongi’s ears would ring from the impact and the table on which he hid under was showered with rubble, his lungs fill with smoke. The university was the final stronghold and as Galtea was brought to its knees, Yoongi swallowed his vitriol and applied for the position of architect for the Imperial City.
When his acceptance rolled in, all he had to his name was a diploma and the few belongings he could gather from what was left of his home. His father’s watch remained clasped to his wrist even after the batteries faltered. His mother dies during childbirth and his siblings abandoned him, severing contact.
Once through the gates of Imperial City, along with the numerous displaced scholars, he commenced his apprenticeship alone and in a dream-like trance.
-
The Imperial City likes to leave room for the past. Yoongi can still remember what the Emperor used to say to him as they surveyed the down-trodden land below.
We must remember the past, Yoongi. It’s the only way to forge a path forward.
He walks along the marbled hall of the Great Museum, chronicling all of the Emperor’s conquests. His favourite section is all about rebuilding the torn cities showcased in an open room with an enormous map. The grooves of the land were constructed from the finest minerals: black opal, jadeite, then tanzanite. He stops by a oft forgotten corner in the South-West, leaning forward while he clasped his hands behind his back.
Since it’s late, the crowd had waned and it’s like he has the place to himself. His eyes try to pinpoint where Galtea used to be, nestled in the mountains and flanked by Dorea and Thanazt. Instead, he finds an empty space of flattened tanzanite, made dull against the muted lights above.
When he began, he aimed to create as many cities as he could to surpass all that he saw destroyed. Years passed and he had many places that had his name at the foot of the gates, an author of new homes and new pastures. By the time he was in his seventh year, his reputation preceded him.
Back then, he couldn’t understand why conquests needed to involve destruction. Even now, he still didn’t understand. In the vast hall, he knew that the reason for him dragging his feet was exhaustion. He was tired of all the loss, tired of watching countless become destitute, forced to flee their homes because of one man’s greed.
Having lived to survive in the early part of his career, it was a deliberate decision to suppress his hand in the destruction. He slept aware of the fact that for new cities to rise, the old ones must fall.
He lightly traces growth rings meant to be the parameters of where Galtea should be on the cool mineral. Its absence incites a sharp pain in his chest, each beat of his heart becoming more and more strenuous with each second passing by. The excited murmur of a family nearby makes him retract his hand. In the quiet of the grand hall, he clenches his jaw, breathing steadily through his nose.
The destruction is going to continue and Galtea is gone. He squints at the marbled texture, his reflection barely formed yet distinct. He sees his father in his features as he hears his voice filter past his lips.
Are you still proud of me?
-
In the third year of his apprenticeship, Yoongi sees you again, but instead of apples, you were hidden travel papers to flee. As part of his assignment, he was surveying the surrounding land that fell after the Emperor conquered much of the South. That day, he was at a small fishing village, Pexia. Its harbours heaved with crowds wanting to sail away before it was destroyed. In its place would be a new city, and if Yoongi was fortunate enough, he could be part of the team that would build it.
You were attempting to push your way to the top of the line as he jogs towards you, renewed by a familiar face. When he makes a grab for your arm, you were quick to flinch.
“I’m sorry.”
Your eyes grow wide, a smile tugging your lips wide as you embrace him, throwing your whole weight in the momentum. He allows himself to cradle your head, to breathe in your scent, to feel your body against his. A part of him latched onto the fact that the ache in his chest dulled at the sight of you.
“How are you?” he asked, right in your hair since you were still tangled in each other, as if letting go would make you disappear. Your answer first comes as a nod, the movement of your head pushing against the cradle of his hand.
“I’m good - I was going to leave.”
He feels your embrace loosen, he hears the crackle of the parchment in your hands as the documents peel themselves away from your hold.
“It’s so good to see you.”
Your eyes shone despite it all.
Galtea was gone and it showed in the hollows of your cheeks and the muted colour of your hair. You were lost, without a home again. With a gentle brush of his knuckle along the side of your face, he wills himself to anchor you both. The words come out since he doesn’t have the heart to stop them.
“I have a job.”
You stare at him, your features contracting at the prospect of hope. Yoongi feels you crumple the paper in your hand. Then, you are jostled by those lining up to leave the city limits, their faces obscured by hoods. Nearby, the boats bump against the stone walls, crusted with barnacles and battered by countless waves. Salt stains the air intermingled with the desperation for a place to sail away.
“It won’t be like this anymore. I promise.”
He sees you visibly relax, his words affecting you hugely, even if he wasn’t sure himself. Yet in his mind, he was going to build cities that you both dreamed of: free from war and strife.
“Alright.”
-
Jungkook had been circling Yoongi’s area for the past thirty minutes with no particular goal in mind. It was lunch and the junior architect hovered under the pretence of productivity. Yoongi slides a draft across Jungkook’s way.
“Has Namjoon showed you these?”
In front of them was an archived map of the Imperial City in the first phase of its construction. Jungkook shakes his head, his attention snagged by the foreign metrics no longer taught in modern schools. By that time, Yoongi was climbing the ranks, eager to survive and get into the superior’s good graces.
Jungkook surveyed the early plans which incorporated tall, aluminum spires, golden gates and bridges. The Emperor’s was luxurious by nature and nothing was spared.
Gold from Zantyr.
Minerals from Artacyte.
Marble from Siettan.
Yoongi could only remember the heavy footfalls of the soldiers, the groan of the wood as blocks of stone, bars of gold, and slabs of marble were transferred into multiple ferries. He couldn’t even look at the people below, knowing that he’d be faced with emaciated arms extended upwards for a morsel of anything from above. Instead, he clutched the papers with designs meant to replace each of the raided metropolises, watching with suppressed horror as the Emperor trailed his hungry gaze on the ramps that bowed from the weight of his plunder.
In the end, Yoongi hoped that turning a blind eye would keep him from the recurring nightmares of chipped nails scraping against the rusted metal of the ships hull. But as the day ended, even in the comfort of his bed and in the apparent safety of your arms, the screams were there. They haunted the halls of his mind, these manic echoes accusing his hands of blood wherever he went. He stood witness as the Imperial forces took and took until a city was fashioned to the Emperor’s liking.
During his expeditions as primary Architect, he stood near the bow of the boat, or the foremost chamber on the flying vehicles. Throughout, he found that the view was the same regardless of the contraption he was on.
The Emperor not only advances, he tramples.
Jungkook ran his fingertips over the lines of the Great Museum, stopping at the skylight dome. His furrowed brow worried Yoongi but he understood from Namjoon that Jungkook was too young. He knew nothing of the screams of the displaced or the hollowed stares of the destitute. Anything Jungkooks knew was taught to him in two-dimensional pictures meant to simplify a grave period in history.
As Yoongi attempted to show him another map, Jungkook slipped a different one from beneath the sheets of archival parchment. Galtea reveals itself on the parchment.
“Was Galtea spared, hyung?”
The name of his home drew a sharp breath from him. Jungkook watched him, innocuous in his interrogation. Yoongi shakes his head, mustering a forlorn smile. The junior architect pressed his lips together, scrunching his nose so that his glasses stayed perched on its bridge.
“What’s left of Galtea now?”
Yoongi licks his lips, his eyes on the growth rings that made up Galtea’s structure. Two-dimensional evidence of his own history, gathering dust in the Imperial archives.
Jungkook waits, patient in the face of his memories unravelling.
Galtea exists on the surface of his mind in its soot-covered infrastructure, with its shattered structures of gutted buildings and homes, the murky water of the river and the gnarled divide of the bridge that he once crossed to get to the Town Hall.
Yet beneath that all, in the very depths, Galtea is in your smile and the warmth of your hand over his. Galtea is tucked in the echoes of simpler times when all he needed to do was laugh with you as the sun set over the horizon. It’s in the humble bungalow he shared with his family, where his worries were limited to their next meal rather than staying alive after shrapnel ravages the land. Later, when he finally allowed himself to accept his situation, when he realised that he was the one who survived.He concluded that it was better to help than be helped.
Jungkook was waiting, setting his teeth against his bottom lip while Yoongi gathered himself.
“Galtea is just mountains and hills now, Jungkook-ah.”
-
Things start to look up when Yoongi builds his first city.
You were holding onto the handlebars of the hovercraft, steering the contained vehicle past the flower-twined gates of Palatia.Yoongi clutches at the seatbelt strapped across his chest, laughing heartily at your enthusiasm. Parking it above a vantage point, you gasped at the abundance of lilies, hydrangeas, and freesias lining the streets.
“You did this?” You asked, whipping back as he unbuckled to take a closer look.
“Not just me.”
“But it was your idea, right?”
He pinches a space at the back of his neck while a blush bloomed in his cheeks.
“Yeah.”
“You’re so fucking cool!” You yelled at the sky, prompting the widest smile from him. Yoongi knew he was good, so compliments rolled off his like water on a duck’s back. But it was different with you. Yours was an opinion he could trust, no matter how frivolous in its execution. Nearby, those entering the gates were startled by your exclamation. They squinted at the discrete hovercraft you were aboard, seeing only your hands gesticulating wildly, pointing at every landmark.
“I’ll build you one, someday.”
Yoongi said it before he could even stop himself. There were no regrets on his part, though. Not when he saw that smile that lit up your eyes.
“I want to have an input.”
Yoongi didn’t realise that it was love then.
But it showed in the cities he built thereafter.
“Okay.”
-
The Urban Planning department is in the lower floors. Yoongi scans his ID and the doors to the elevator slide open. Striding across the common area, Yoongi finds himself inside in an airless room without windows and lined with felt. Hoseok is visible because of his platinum blonde hair and gold-framed glasses, and mostly because he was in the middle of reprimanding a subordinate. Yoongi hangs back, trying to not appear as a witness to this scolding. Afterwards, when they slinked out of Hoseok’s office, Yoongi lets out a low whistle. He forgot how serious Hoseok could be.
“Hyung. What brings you here?”
Yoongi’s shrugs, his mouth pulling down in turn.
“I forgot how suffocating the Imperial Offices were.”
Hoseok shoves a box with neatly arranged files inside an alcove. It gets swallowed into the wall and deposited elsewhere via conveyor belt. He then gives Yoongi a once over, a direct response to his observation. Urban Planning was the size of a match box in comparison, and poorly ventilated at that.
“How’s the new city coming along?”
Yoongi sniffed, picking at the skin of his nail to stall, it catches and peels dramatically upwards, drawing blood. Hoseok stares but says nothing.
“It’s not going that well. I’m meant to build something perfect but I haven’t been able to come up with a single design.”
What Yoongi leaves out was the fact that he was also angry at himself. Angry because he cannot even do what he used to be good at doing. He feels like he’s at the bottom of a deep, dark well, bound at the hands and feet, blindfolded, utterly despairing.
Hoseok examines him with a neutral expression, his wiry arms folded tight over his chest. Yoongi slumps against his desk, as he often did when he was working down here. The atmosphere made you slump at all times. He supposed that producing the same design over and over without much thought was like successive weights on your body. There was no need to think much, he just had to do.
“Is there anything that means something to you? Anything important?”
Yoongi blinks at the reel of memories that were evoked by Hoseok’s question. He smiles instead, trying to mask the obvious discomfort that threatened to reveal itself in a frown. Later, with his back against the wall of the elevator, some part of him can still hear your laugh and the phantom warmth of your touch.
-
Yoongi can’t quite recall when his feelings tipped the scale to something concrete.
Being with you began with the intention of convenience. Having someone from Galtea navigate the enormity of Imperial City was like pairing a new frontier with the warm embrace of someone familiar. Years pass and while you never professed your love for each other, his hand lingers on yours automatically, and you smile brighter than most when you found him waiting outside of the school you worked at.
It’s in the mundane.
Love flourishes in ordinary conversation.
“Did you have a good day today?”
Love came and stayed in your touch.
He takes your hand when asked this since it seemed to slot perfectly against his. In turn, you swing your arms, backwards and forwards in a gentle rocking motion. Imperial City shines under the afternoon light. Its people thrive far from the blistering heat of flying automatons made for destruction. Galtea is gone but Yoongi is content to see it in your eyes and in the way your hair is healthy again.
“I did, but I could have met you at home,” you replied, bumping your shoulder to him. It brings out a halfhearted shrug from him.
“Your work is on the way anyway,” he said.
“Want to grab something to eat outside?”
He thinks of nothing better than that.
“Yeah.”
And while you’re distracted, he takes note of your profile as you surveyed the towering buildings, leagues away from the orphanage you hailed from in the peripheries. He basks in the fact that he was able to afford a better place, closer to the sky rather than the ground. In moments like these, he thinks he could hear his father’s words.
Make sure to never live like me.
As you round the corner, pulling him towards a place you frequented together, he thinks he’s far from who he was but closer to who he should be.
Utopia. | I. | Min Yoongi, 4.6k
Pairing:Yoongi x Reader
Summary:The Emperor requests a favour of Yoongi. It involves building a utopia, a perfect city. He’s done this countless times and succeeded in most, so why was it so hard for him this time around?
Warnings/Tags: RATED T for implied/referenced drug use; implied/referenced drug addiction; angst; brief depictions of war; implied/referenced PTSD; minor character death; the tags areheavy, so proceed with caution; I’ve tried to be as vague as possible but still - Alternate Universe Fantasy/Magical Realism ft.Architect!Min Yoongi.
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Here’s the playlist for it, if you want to listen! :]
This is my first ‘major’ fic for the new year and I’m trying something a little different for this series. Firstly, this is my attempt at magical realism and it’s a particular universe that I’ve grown to love Secondly, I guess that I’ve tried to be more economical with words.
This is also available onAO3.
As always, thank you for reading
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-
In this dream, the snow falls over Galtea.
It blankets the hills that flank the walls of the city in an even layer of frost. The green gets covered in white, footprints become visible, like punctuation over the powdery surface. Yoongi finds himself walking towards that place, far away from where he was now.
A cottage juts out on the outskirts, perhaps near his home. A small, humble structure with a thatched roof and square windows. The chimney blows puffs of smoke, misting in the air.
He heads towards the red lacquered door, dragging his feet so it cut lines on the snowy path. Inside is warm and you’re sitting by the fire, undisturbed by his presence. Slipping off his shoes, he lines them up next to yours, its soles shiny from the melted ice. Closer he goes, until he’s finally in your view but you don’t see him.
Your eyes are clouded over and you’re slumped in your seat, mouth slightly parted to complete the catatonic expression you had. Yoongi drops to his knees so he looks up at you, reaching with his hand to cradle your face.
Even his touch does nothing to rouse you.
Yet he tries, rising while still on his knees, pressing a kiss on your lips.
It’s chapped, lifeless and cold. He’s not sure if he could even feel a whisper of your breath or whether you’re actually alive or not. The thought fills him with dread.
When he pulls away, he wakes up with a jolt.
The grey ceiling of his bedroom greets him, the window is open and the curtain billows ceaselessly. It’s dawn, there is something wet by his thigh. His body takes time to thaw, his fingers and toes tingling like static. He runs his touch over the wet cotton nearby, recalling his state the previous evening.
I was designing.
I received a letter from the Emperor. A request for a favour.
I have to build a new city.
His heart has slowed as he cranes his neck to see. The wet patch was spilled ink, the pitch black ichor of his thoughts are now staining the sheets. He lifts his hand, the ones with soaked fingertips, up to his lips. They come up cold at the memory of that dream.
Getting up was actually painful nowadays and if he stays in bed for too long, he would never get up. In a quick, forceful launch, he sits up, feet planted firmly on the hardwood floor.
It’s another day and he’s alone.
-
Yoongi observes the blueprints meant for a new city, envisioning the structure and the parameters of something that will once again have his mark. He’s done this before, countless times even. It should be like second nature by now, yet there is nothing on the page apart from the grooves of heavy pressure from his pencil now erased and surrounded by rubber shavings. Bordering his non-existent design were the various tools to aid him, and in his frustration, were in cluttered disarray.
The communal working space was bathed in light, the windows were recently cleaned allowing for the view of bright, white clouds. Yoongi was at the highest point of Imperial City. The illusion was that there was nothing beneath him, but in truth, he was tired of looking up.
“How’s it going?”
Namjoon wanders over to his desk, pushing his glasses further up his nose. Yoongi sighed, shoving the worn parchment away from him.
“I’ve been the same for the past three days. Nothing is coming to me.”
Taking it as a signal to introduce a break, Namjoon settles his hand on Yoongi’s shoulder.
“We can have some food, maybe you need a break.”
Yoongi takes his attention away from the task on his desk and back onto the window ahead. The clouds were rolling in a misty haze. He is meant to be inspired but he finds himself stuck in the well of his mind.
“Hyung.”
“Hm?”
Namjoon’s hand has left him, the absence of the firm pressure made Yoongi sag onto his seat.
“Let’s eat.”
-
Namjoon chews carefully, his brows pinching together.
The cafeteria was bustling during this time of the day. Food was in abundance in Imperial City, nothing was spared for its inhabitants. Yoongi was grateful to be surrounded by constant noise. He hates his thoughts running amok in his skull. They always leave grating echoes that made him irritable.
“How were things while I was gone?”
Namjoon takes a cloth and wipes his front. The crumbs trickle down, disappearing to his lap.
“Much of the same things. We weren’t tasked to build cities that were too elaborate. I have a junior architect to mentor, you’d like him. He reminds me of you.”
Yoongi chews the inside of his cheek. He can’t remember the time when he started nor could he picture himself at that age, young and impressionable. Someone who still believed in the world he lived in.
The food in front of him was steadily being devoured, even in his state of indifference. To eat is another form of distraction, a method to keep him sustained whilst his mind was rotting, stagnant in his ideas. Namjoon gets distracted by the files he brought to review.
“What do you think about adding spires to this, hyung?”
The design presented before him was meant for a city without linear structures. Everything will either be curved or coiled: a city in the the shape of springs. Namjoon was pointing to a cathedral, Yoongi set his teeth on his bottom lip. At the corner of the document was the number of people meant to populate the new city.
10,000.
A memory gets introduced to him. That was how it was like when he started. Yoongi made his first city for exactly ten-thousand inhabitants. Yet each time after, the population multiplied and his designs grew more and more complex. It seemed that the Emperor managed to take over more land, in turn, demanding more cities to house them. Old cities burned and Yoongi built over them, gradually and in time.
“Maybe you can incorporate it in every structure. They should be able to feel comfortable in their new home.”
Namjoon nods, producing a pen from his pocket and sketching in Yoongi’s suggestions. He knew that those ten-thousand were coming from war. Recently, the Emperor returned from a three-year long plunder in the East. The displaced needed something magnificent, something to make them feel important. Structures that showed them that surviving wasn’t in vain. Yoongi knew that it was difficult to leave things behind, especially if you had no choice.
“What is this one called?”
Pushing the bowl aside, Namjoon draws a steady and careful arc, signifying a dome over the new city. He smiled at Yoongi, the small indents flanked his mouth.
“Paxus.”
-
‘Galtea’s economy is primarily dependent on agriculture.’
Yoongi felt his ears burn, self-conscious in the classroom. He sits near the middle, not quite out of radar but far enough to blend in. Most of his classmates were from newer cities, ones that were dependent on technology, not the land.
The board showed a profile of his home, the factions split by clear demarcations. Further out were the peripheries, he thinks he can see where his home would be, gauging which fields that his father would tend to, then see his mother sorting crops with his siblings.
He’s in university, learning how to build cities. Full of ideas and passion, his dream is to construct cities that would last.
The professor changes the slide to the neighbouring metropolis, Dorea.
With his head down, he scribbles notes on his notebook, his handwriting is scratchy and barely legible. It didn’t matter; he was the only one who needed to understand it. After, he notices that the spine is weakened from being jostled in his threadbare bag. He adds another string to hold all the knowledge he’s accumulated.
At the end of the day, he has to travel back home and take the earliest train if he was to make it for supper. Though sometimes, he wishes he could afford to stay in university accommodation.
-
It’s the evening and the other employees have headed home.
Yoongi chews the end of his pencil as the page stays empty. He reaches for the phone and dials a number he knows off by heart.
“Yoongi-hyung, it’s late, are you doing okay?”
Hoseok’s voice at the end sounds the same at any time of day.
Yoongi lets himself absorb the view outside the panoramic windows. Another day had passed without progress. The city he was tasked to build remains buried in the recess of his mind and the frustration he felt always peaked in the evenings, more so in the quiet. He likens it to climbing an endless, each foothold was deeper but he can’t seem to hold onto anything.
“I’m meant to build a city.”
Perhaps if he details the task, he would be able to start afresh. Outside, the clouds are a deep shade of navy, the stars are scattered like luminescent freckles in the sky. He doesn’t know why he undertook that favour from the Emperor; he wasn’t even part of the Architecture Department anymore.
“Try and think back to the beginning, hyung. The very first city you built was magnificent. You’re talented and Palatia was a beautiful city - still is.”
Yoongi leaned back on the chair, cricking his neck as he did so.
Palatia was a city for lovers. Pleasant to live in, it had intricate ivy vines crept along the columns, flowers blooming at the window sills of every home, and yellow brick facades with burgundy slanted roofs. Simply, Yoongi thought that anything stemming from a labour of love would turn out like that.
“I don’t know. This has to be something different. I need it to mean something.”
“Don’t all of your cities mean something to you?”
There was a time when they were the most important thing to him. There was a time where he was responsible for building all of these cities from scratch, conjuring entire structures from his imagination. He can still remember the firm handshake from the Emperor after Palatia was opened.
This is good work, Yoongi. I’m glad that you’re helping me rebuild the world.
It was so easy then, so why was he having so much trouble now?
“What’s interesting to you at the minute?” Hoseok asked.
“I don’t know,” he replied, defeated.
“What are you looking at now?”
Yoongi stared at the clouds, watching as each one rolled by unhurriedly. Nature was interesting, he had taken inspiration from it a while ago. It resulted in Falia, a city surrounded by green foliage where homes were bungalows with banana leaves for roofs. The city is so embedded in nature that at first glance, you can’t even tell that it’s a city. The walls are made of bamboo and it’s common to travel along the river to get where you want to be. Its inhabitants lived without fear for their next meal, something that Yoongi aimed for himself once.
“I’m staring out of the window of my office, but I’ve already made something inspired by nature a couple of years ago.”
There was a pause; Yoongi hears the creak of a chair over the line.
“What do you want this city to be?”
Yoongi recalls the Emperor’s request.
I want you to build me a city that is perfect. I want you to make me a utopia. I trust your abilities, Yoongi.
“The Emperor wants a utopian city. But I don’t think I have it in me to come up with something like that.”
“Well, what do you define as your own utopia?”
Yoongi’s eyes were back on the blank parchment; it was the fourth sheet he’s taken on the fourth day, and it was the fourth he’s crinkled from countless revisions only to end up with nothing.
I want it to be perfect. I want it to be beautiful. I want -
He tries to picture something akin to that: an ideal city with ideal proportions, everything made just right. Seconds pass as Hoseok waits on the other side of the line, patient with these drawn out pauses that so often punctuate their phone calls. When he thinks he’s onto to something, he winces reflexively.
It’s too close.
He can still hear your voice, feel your touch on his skin, the way your hand closed over his when you led him past the gates into Palatia, as if you were showing him your home.
This is so beautiful, Yoongi.
Yoongi wants that. He wants this city to feel just like that.
-
Yoongi didn’t have any money in his pockets but he knew the man at the entrance of the underground club. Before the throb of the walls became prominent, he would encounter the burly man with a permanent downturned scowl. Incidentally, Yoongi saved his brother from being clipped by a trash truck and that singular event has granted him free entry ever since.
Through the narrowed passage, he descended down sticky steps that clung to the soles of his shoes. The music was loud enough to get under his skin, causing every bone in his body to thrum to the beat. Above, Yoongi lived with his head down, eyes to the cobbled floor, striving to be as less of a nuisance as possible. Here, he could look up, shielded by the ever changing strobe lights, pushed up against random bodies until he was covered in sweat.
It’s a release.
It was somewhere he goes to in the gap between university and his home.
But there were other reasons to come apart from boredom. He first sees you swan out from one of the entrances, your gaze concentrated at the tables you were assigned to. It became a fascination of his to watch you serve drinks, your hand splayed underneath an uneven plastic tray, undulating it like a wave when necessary to avoid spillage.
All you ever did was work and all Yoongi ever did was stare.
He didn’t know why dyed hair seemed more compelling to him now than it did before. Above, everyone could have different coloured hair if they liked. When he was hanging out with his classmates, they would dye strips of their hair for fun during recess, the hues would catch the rays of sun and sometimes lighten over time. Though he supposes that under the flashing lights, you didn’t really have a singular hair colour. It seemed to always change depending on which part of the club you were in.
The music continued to pound while bodies moved in a blurry distortions. You were meters away from him, untouchable. He didn’t know your name, nor had he ever spoken to you, but he knew that you would almost always swat unsolicited hands that crept along your back, and swore brazenly at those who wanted more than a drink. One time, you kneed a customer between his legs for slipping his fingers through the hem of your shorts. Yoongi laughed so hard then, heading home with a spring in his step.
Not old enough to order a drink, he hung back, face up, towards the artificial lights. The beat continued to shake the structure of the club, a contained box underneath the solid stone of the city. Here, he was a nobody. Much like he was above ground.
But it was different here.
Sometimes, he would get the feeling that he was boneless, ready to float off at a moment’s notice because he was being pushed in different directions at once.
He feels someone elbow him in the ribs, the dull pain made him reorient himself. Just then, you were nowhere to be seen. Craning his head, he looked for the two doors, one leading to another bar and the other leading to the exit. After a few seconds, you emerged, the lights above making your hair appear a cherry red. He’s not sure if your eyes met, he was still a little buzzed from the atmosphere.
All he knew was that there was something that bloomed in his chest every time he set his eyes on you. It only took one look at you while you busied yourself with handing drinks to anchor him. To keep coming back to this hole in the wall.
Yes.
It was different here.
-
Despite running on three hours of sleep, Yoongi ends up in the office as if it was a morning shift. By his desk, Namjoon was talking to someone animatedly. Once Yoongi was near enough, Namjoon opens up the floor for introductions.
“Jungkook, this is Min Yoongi. Chief Architect to the Emperor,” Namjoon said, scraping the chair back so Yoongi could sit.
“I’m just here for a temporary project, I’m actually at Urban Planning now,” he said, offering Jungkook a small smile.
“TheMin Yoongi?” Jungkook asked, his eyes bright and wide. Yoongi shoots Namjoon a look, aware of Jungkook’s ‘Junior Architect’ badge. It reflected the natural light that filtered past the windows.
“What did you tell him?”
Namjoon shrugged, “nothing incriminating.”
Jungkook promptly shut his mouth but his gaze stayed fixed on Yoongi, who became shifty from the attention.
“Hyung told me that you made Palatia.”
“And Arora,” Namjoon supplied.
Yoongi feel himself going red at the tips of his ears while Namjoon only beams proudly. Those cities were near the start of his career as an architect. Palatia got him the Emperor’s attention but Arora cemented his reputation. Jungkook fiddles with his badge.
“How comes you’re at Urban Planning, hyung?” Jungkook asked rather boldly. Yoongi couldn’t school his surprised expression as Namjoon pressed his lips together in a line.
It was then that Yoongi felt the fatigue that visited him almost daily. In the spacious home he had built for you and himself, he tosses and turns, restless at the face of his ambition to sleep. The moonlight broke on the surface of his bed, he lays awake confronting the ghosts of the past. Memories of a life he’d rather forget.
“I needed a change in scenery.”
Jungkook’s mouth twists, clearly dissatisfied with Yoongi’s answer. He couldn’t blame the younger man. Architecture was a profession that had longevity and along with it, came respect. To build something out of nothing was an art and the cities that Yoongi built were incredible, if not ethereal.
But he couldn’t seem to identify with those creations anymore. Not when he couldn’t even remember the reason whyhe started.
Namjoon ushers Jungkook away politely, bowing to Yoongi in apology. On his desk were the blueprints of Palatia and Arora that Namjoon must have retrieved from the archives. The lines were strong and deliberate, each shape and drawing were all measured according to Yoongi’s vision. He traced the parchment, preserved dutifully under the lamination. Somewhere, those cities were thriving in peace. He could hear you so clearly in front of these blueprints.
Thank you for bringing Arora to life, Yoongi.
Yoongi built these cities when he was happier; when times were simpler and smiling didn’t seem like a chore.
He misses that more than he cared to admit.
-
It’s a few days before Yoongi has to resume classes for the final year.
Living at home reminded him that he was in the peripheries Galtea. A city that ignored the cracks in its veneer. There are those that live among him that do not lie awake at night, wondering if their temporary homes would be raided because they don’t have the right papers. And, like him, there are those who live wondering whether they’ll even had a meal to tide them over the next day.
“Get as much as you can with these.”
Yoongi’s father extends three dog-eared food stamps, his hand shaking slightly.
The sun scorched the fields to the point of drought and the clouds offered no mercy in the form of rain. The city is starving and its people are too. Yoongi delicately folds them and slips them in his pocket. For every meal he can scrimmage together, there is something unspoken that rings louder when the shadows extend as the night covers the city. The prospect of war seemed so far away months ago, yet Galtea and its people know that its walls weren’t strong enough to keep the sharp prongs of invasion at bay. News came from the harbour a few days back: The Emperor seeks more land to conquer.
“I’ll try, but there’s shortages right now,” he said, unable to look at his father in the eye.
They were a humble farming family and his father bore the brunt of the scarcity. It showed up in his gaunt frame and the bones are visible through his paper-thin skin. Yoongi noted his own sallow complexion as he passed his reflection earlier, but it was incomparable. His father was always a ghastly shade of grey, and each time he looked at his family, it was with red-rimmed eyes that couldn’t be remedied with a smile from his chapped lips.
Yoongi knew that no matter how much food he brought home, his father wouldn’t eat. He had two other siblings and his mother was pregnant. Things were dire and helpless.
“I know, but still try. I want you to be able to eat so you can be strong. Your exams are soon.”
Yoongi also knew that his father might not see him graduate.
“I’ll try.”
While waiting in line, Yoongi sees you slip three apples in your pocket, right under the vendor’s nose.
This was the first time he saw you above ground. Under the blazing sun, your hair was plain, and you moved quickly, like you had a destination in mind. His brows pinched together, the food stamps he was clutching in his pocket weighed heavy in his hand. You weave past others who were too busy with their own hunger to notice.
“You shouldn’t be stealing,” he said, right as you passed by. You stopped walking, looking at him up and down.
“Those won’t get you anything.”
Yoongi was about to ask but he realises that you were staring at his pocket. The line moves incrementally and before you could escape, he grabs you by your elbow. You stumble back, startled by the contact.
“There’s a vendor in the next street who sells pastries and other cakes,” he divulged, unsure why he was so open.
“Those are harder to slip into my pocket,” you replied, tugging your arm with force.
In response, Yoongi grips you harder, almost dragging you forward as the line shortens. You sighed audibly, eyes darting to the side. He feels his reserve wane not knowing if he’d have time to go to the club now that exams were approaching. A part of him is curious as to why you hadn’t fled yet.
“If you wait for me, I could show you.”
“I don’t have any money for pastries or cakes.”
“Doesn’t matter,” he said.
At that, he doesn’t feel you resist him as much.
“Why?”
“Because he’s a gimp and is partially blind.”
A smile spreads your lips wide, bursting into a quiet laugh. Then, he hears you introduce yourself, which prompts him to do the same.
“I’m Yoongi.”
You extend your free hand.
“Nice to meet you.”
The wait wasn’t long and unlike your estimation, Yoongi was able to get something that could feed his family for at least three days.
Overhead, sirens blared and you hurried to the direction of the next street. The conversation was endless. He learned that you were an orphan but were too old to be adopted. The club was your main gig, but the pay was meagre given that you were technically underaged. He realised that you were as desperate as him, which didn’t invite shame, rather he was able to be himself. It was nice to show that life was hard, to share this perspective with someone who knows what it’s like at the peripheries.
“You’re studying?”
Yoongi finishes the pastry and swallows thickly. You were looking at the lanyard he was wearing.
Galtea School of Architecture.
“Yeah. I’ll graduate next year, if there isn’t a war.”
You puffed out your cheeks, eyebrows raising in response.
“Never met anyone who got past elementary school,” you said, leaning on your arms.
“I want to build cities, I want to make a difference in people’s lives,” he said, sheepish in his admission but liked that you listened nonetheless. It feels like he could be himself, without reservations. Feelings like that, he wanted to hold on to as much as possible. You smiled at him with a certain fondness that he never saw in all the time he’s observed you.
“I’m sure you’ll be great. Remember me when you make it, okay?”
Yoongi thinks he could never forget you but he agrees anyway.
-
Jungkook was unsure as he fiddled with the adjustments on the draft table. It suddenly flips upwards, like a whiplash. He jumps back, startled, his hands flying up as if he was arrested. Yoongi smiled, recalling his own experiences. Their colleagues notice but pay them no mind.
“I thought that this was how you were meant to place it,” the younger one said, his cheeks colouring a light pink.
Yoongi shook his head, reaching down to press a button, hidden in the bolts. The hydraulic mechanism hissed and the table descends without complaint.
“They don’t reveal this during the orientation, I had a senior teach me the same thing.”
Jungkook nods, searching for the button himself. Yoongi looks on, paying attention to a part of him that misses his old job. He wonders what kind of cities that Jungkook would build one day.
“Thanks hyung.”
-
“Do you think the Emperor will spare Galtea?”
It was a question that you would occasionally ask Yoongi while you sat atop a grassy hill. Friendship seemed to thrive between you while war was right at your doorstep. The papers were riddled with articles heralding that, mainly to announce that the Emperor advances, day by day.
From your vantage point, you could see how Galtea was organised in factions. The further away from the centre, the more impoverished you were. You and Yoongi resided on the penultimate faction, nearer to the fields. Although limited, it was still a pocket of civilisation.
“I’ve heard that the Emperor is merciful,” Yoongi replied.
He offers you part of an apple that he’s carved into quarters.
“I wish I could afford to travel. I’d go as far away from here as possible, somewhere where I can start over and not have to work shitty jobs just to make ends meet.”
Yoongi thinks that it doesn’t matter where you go, poverty didn’t care who you were and unless you were born with money-ladened pockets from your ancestry, you were a nobody. While you talked aimlessly, he thinks of his parents, salt of the earth, already in their late sixties and unable to retire or even feed their children a full meal. They have never crossed the walls of Galtea not by choice but because they couldn’t afford to.
All of this, Yoongi keeps to himself.
“Maybe one day. I had some friends say that the lands in the West are warm and their soldiers are strong. The Emperor hasn’t been able to conquer those lands yet.”
You crunch on the apple pieces audibly, sniffing as the breeze picked up.
“I think I’d want to visit the city, go to the theatre once, then take a stroll along the bridge, you know the one by the Town Hall?”
Yoongi knows the one. Galtea had many places of interest but the bridge was consistently flocked to by visitors from the city and throughout. It was a simple design, the highest point allowing for a perfect central view of the multi-coloured houses that flanked the river. Yoongi had been there once on a field trip during his first year.
“Sounds like the perfect day, maybe throw in a dinner by the river,” he replied, mirroring your grin.
“One day,” you said.
“Yeah, one day.”
• MIN YOONGI FIC RECS •
• Here are some of my favourite Yoongi fics. Go through these recs and find something to nourish yourself with. Show your support for these talented authors by leaving a comment and sharing feedback on their works. For posting their fics on the internet, each and every author listed here deserves a big warm hug. Thank you to each and every one of these authors for their efforts, we really appreciate your content •
[ Fluff | Angst | Smut ( minors dni.) ]
- one shots:
➵Not Aroundby@aquagustd | S/A/F
➵golden hour by@alpacaparkaseok | F
➵cockwarmingby@rmverse | S
➵misfit toysby@whatifyoulivelikethat
➵yoongi fucking you with his suga rings on by@sourkoo | S
➵backburner christmas drabble by@yoonpobs | F/S
- series :
➵ set me freeby@myooniverse | F/S/A
➵ you, among the othersbyinkofyoongi | F/S/A (on wattpad)
➵ the singularity theoryby@dovechim | S ft. Taehyung
➵ does that make sense?by@floralseokjin | S/A
➵aquiverby@floralseokjin | F/S/A
➵ need to knowby@aquagustd | F/S/A
➵ playing with fireby@houseofdemi-blog | F/S/A
➵ kiss it betterby@jeojahari | F/A
➵ somebody elseby@jeonqukie | S/A ft. Taehyung
➵ playing with fireby@hollyxqx | S/A
➵ scary loveby@lysjeon | S/A
➵ the equation of loveby@kookingtae | F/S/A
➵ all too wellby@cupofteaguk | S/A
➵MicroWaveby@btsmakesmehappy | F/S/A
➵ First loveby@clouditae | F/S/A
➵ sugar and spiceby@agustdjoon | F/S/A
➵stuckby@joonscypher | A
