word count: just a little over 10k

recommended listening: 'imaginary numbers' (extended play) by the maine

premise: yoongi runs away from love, only to end up in the city that embodies it.

pairing: idol!yoongi x reader (pre-romance)

inspiration: the poem 'in paris with you' by james fenton

── ❝Act I | Scene One | Disparu❞ ──

High ceilings always gave Yoongi a slight sense of anxiety.

There was so much dead, empty space, which served no purpose other than to house air. What was the point?

The room he was currently in could have easily been split in two, he thought to himself as he lay, staring up at the ceiling that seemed so far away from him now. One leg was hanging off the bed, bent at the knee, dangling as if there was a breeze running through the room.

There wasn't.

Not through his choice, mind you, but because the windows simply didn't open. They had been nailed shut seemingly many years ago, preventing anyone from escaping, and Yoongi was sure that must have been a fire safety hazard.

Still, he chose to stay put.

He wouldn't really care right now if the whole entire place went up in flames.

If anything, it might do it some good.

The boxy room was hastily painted beige, stained slightly from cigarette tar and god knows whatever else the walls had been exposed to over the years. He half thought that he'd be in for a treat if the walls could talk. Upon further consideration, he decided that it was probably best that he didn't know the secrets of the room - not if he wanted to have a peaceful night's sleep.

There was a distinct scent in the air, that latched itself onto everything that came into contact with it. Slightly musty and a little bit damp, he was sure that he must have smelt like shit to anyone he walked past. It was mildly embarrassing, but he also figured that they were people he would never see ever again. There was no point in really getting concerned over it.

Concern.

A word that had been dappled in Yoongi's mind for at least a week now since the news got out.

He had never been one for making public statements, or even sharing details of his private life. For the most part, there was nothing to be reported. As a lonesome soul, who found solace in his music and didn't depend on others for his happiness, falling in love wasn't on his to-do list. Sure, he had dreams of a family and a domestic life that would make even the happiest couples green with envy, but he didn't expect it to fall into his lap when it did.

It was tumultuous, like a frantic storm breaking on a summer's day. One moment he was helping a backing vocalist figure out how her vocals would best sound against an acoustic melody, and the next he was listening to her demos whenever he got the chance. Even the songs he wasn't producing, he gave a helpful ear to, just in case she wanted a little extra help. For her, he was always happy to oblige.

The rumours began shortly afterwards. Leaked information from staff, candid pictures of them grabbing coffee, CCTV sold to media outlets of her entering his apartment complex; the evidence was damning. Management wasn't happy, but it could have been worse. At least it was with someone in-house and, should the public reaction be good, it would help to promote her debut single.

Slowly though, as with all good things, it had to come to an end.

She was getting busy and Yoongi, well, Yoongi always was busy. He and his band had a tour cycle to prepare for, and she was debuting earlier than planned due to increased public interest around her.

At least that's what Yoongi had told himself when she expressed her desire to call it quits.

Schedule conflicts were always stated in break up statements. He was just another one of the unfortunate ones. Management opted against a statement, hoping that people would just simply forget it ever happened. No harm, no foul, he thought.

Except there was harm, and it all felt rather foul to Yoongi.

Pictures surfaced a few days later of her in downtown Hongdae, with the singer of some pretentious indie quartet.

It wasn't clear who she was in the images, and the headlines were all about her companion, but Yoongi knew. She had been wearing one of his shirts, oversized, like a dress. A bucket hat was covering her face and her hair was tied back, but when you spend hours of your day tracing someone's silhouette and learning the intimate way in which their bones move beneath their skin, it's not hard to pick out the person you love in a crowd of people.

Nobody dared speak to Yoongi.

Jungkook, the youngest of the band, had tried, but was greeted with a short, sharp "leave."

It remained that way for six days, until Yoongi couldn't bear the sound of his own breathing anymore, cooped up in his studio. He had written twelve songs and every one of them sounded as bitter and sorrowful as the next. There was no substance, no creativity, nothing. Just emptiness. A void of vibrations that conveyed only his desire to cease existing.

It was when he opened up a new tab to create his thirteenth lacklustre composition that he noticed the leather bag in the corner of his room. Large enough to fit a small dog but not so large that it would strain his shoulders to carry, it was the perfect getaway companion. It had been a gift from one of the boys a few months back, unused and frankly going to waste.

Sliding open one of his desk drawers, he rummaged around, until he heard the metallic clanking of an old friend: his lock pick. He'd carried it through childhood and adolescence for all of those 'just in case' moments and had become a dab hand at the art of breaking and entering.

Heading out into the corridor, Yoongi was pleased to see the building was empty, save for lax security and cleaners. A friendly smile here, an inconspicuous look over his shoulder there, and he was at the administration office before he knew it.

Passports were something of a luxury to those who were constantly being watched. They were a little book of freedom, so, naturally, they had to be locked away by management until permission had been granted to escape. Yoongi had always believed that it was far easier to ask for forgiveness than it was permission, which is what led to him silently picking at the locked drawer he knew housed his blue book of liberation. A few small grunts and a lot of metallic scratching later, Yoongi had cracked it.

He was on a plane to Paris by dawn.

Acting recklessly, as you'd expect from someone in the throngs of heartbreak, he had left without security and simply stuck a post-it note on his desk. "Gone fishing" was the phrase he had opted for, knowing that it said everything it needed to, without giving anything else away.

It was just him, an empty bag and a ticket on the first flight leaving the airport when he had arrived at the departures desk.

Half a day later, he landed and roamed the city looking for a room to rent, settling on a run-down establishment on a back road in Palais-Bourbon. He could have afforded the best views in the city - hell, he could have been in a penthouse overlooking the Eiffel Tower - but the Yoongi who had been looking for a place to stay didn't feel like the grand nature of his budget aligned with the poverty he felt in his heart. He didn't want to be surrounded by nice things or pleasant people, only to constantly be reminded of happier times.

Yoongi was the kind of man who revelled in his despair; who thrived on the knowledge that he had to work hard if he wanted to improve his situation.

Secretly, he also knew that if anyone caught wind of his arrival, places with a price tag would be the first place they would look for him.

Frankly, he didn't want to be found. He wanted to stay there, in his musty room, consumed by the city of lights that poured in through his Venetian blinds.

And so he did.

── ❝Act I | Scene Two | Trouvé❞ ──

The streets were temperate at night. It was autumn and the air was cooling, but hadn't quite reached the bitter levels that matched Yoongi's mindset. Overhead, the clouds were grey, promising an outbreak of rain, but he chanced it anyway and wandered aimlessly without an umbrella. He only went out for food, but the luxury of his favourite restaurant wasn't around the corner anymore. He had to hunt.

He found a little shop eventually, in need of some TLC, but it smelt like home and that was good enough for him. A box of hot galbi and appetizers (that he really didn't have the appetite for) later and he was ready to head back to the crusty room in which he had been festering.

Throwing his keys onto the desk just inside the door with a notable thud, he placed the food on his bed. There were few luxuries here, no TV, no table to eat at, no opening window for the stench to escape.

Yoongi traced his fingers along the windowpane, assessing how many screws were keeping the frame in place. He counted three. They all had little crosses dented in their heads, for ease of removal. Typically, Yoongi would have respected that they had been put there for a reason and not tampered with them.

He didn't feel very typical in himself lately.

Reaching into his back pocket for his lock pick, he began to test out which tool fitted best until he discovered that a flat-headed arm did the trick nicely, slowly releasing the screw as Yoongi turned his wrist. They popped up and out, one by one. The sash window was stiff, having not been opened for what must have been years but eventually, he was able to push it upwards and let the air from the outside sink into his little box.

Just below the window ledge was an unused fire escape with a metal chair on it, a relic of the hotel's past. He wondered how many people had sat out on this ledge, overlooking a narrow courtyard that held the bins of the surrounding buildings. Yoongi was notoriously bad at guessing distances but had grown used to comparing everything to Jimin; the smallest of all the boys he had the pleasure of gracing the stage with. He thought that they could have been no more than two Jimin's length away from each other.

It was the first time that Yoongi had casually thought of his friends since he had landed in the foreign country, and he instantly felt his heart twinge with guilt. He knew they would be worried about him. It wasn't like him to go off the rails and yet here he was, using slightly rusty ones to ease himself onto the balcony of a French hotel.

He perched on the seat and took in his surroundings. The close buildings all looked identical. There were three lights on, two on the floor diagonally across from him, the other directly opposite his window. The breeze of the night was causing chiffon curtains to billow slightly into the room and he could hear the sizzle of a frying pan, which reminded him of the food he had left on his bed and so he snuck back in to retrieve it.

As he got himself comfortable on his chair, he couldn't help but feel slightly uneasy, almost as if he was being watched.

He turned his head to check the lit windows and sure enough, there you were, observing him opposite, sat on your windowsill with a plate of pancakes on your lap.

"I wasn't expecting company," was all that you could muster, taking in the sight of the man in front of you. That hotel had been unoccupied since you had moved into your apartment six months ago, so you were just as startled as he looked.

His hair was jet black and hung over his forehead, kept in place by the hood of a sweatshirt. He was layered up, a denim jacket on top of that, yet he still looked cold. His cheeks were slightly flushed, his lips pouty and he had an air of familiarity about him. You were sure you had seen him before, but you couldn't quite place him.

"Uh, I, uh, sorry," he stumbled on his words a little bit, looking unsure as to whether or not he should get up and go back inside. You didn't want to ruin his meal for him, and had also been looking into the hotel room for months now. You knew that nobody should have to subject themselves to eating in there.

"No, no, it's fine," you tried to sound warm, not wanting him to feel obliged to leave. Truthfully, you hadn't left your flat for the last two days and were in dire need of some sort of social interaction - no matter how small or fleeting that interaction may be.

He smiled slightly and nodded, to which you reciprocated.

You both ate, in near silence, taking in the sounds of the city around you.

Small sirens here, cackling laughter there. You wondered what was happening in the buildings around you; Who was eating with their families? Who was already in bed? Who was getting ready for a hot date? Or were they all doing the same as you and your dining partner?

So caught up in your own thoughts, you didn't notice when he finished his dinner or when he retreated back into his room. His Venetian blinds were still open, but the light was off. You couldn't help feel a twinge of disappointment in the pit of your stomach when you realised.

You didn't really know what you had expected. When you had moved to Paris, you had thought about things like this, fleeting moments with handsome strangers that had the potential to blossom into more than what they were.

You had lived there long enough now to know that all the directors and scriptwriters in Hollywood were dirty liars, who had clearly never stepped foot in the city.

The most romance you had experienced since being there was when you and a man brushed hands, both reaching for the same loaf of bread in the bakery down the street. Any chance of love was quickly dissolved by the wedding band on his ring finger and the fact he was old enough to be your father.

Then again, you had run away to escape love. Perhaps it was best that you hadn't found it again.

Still, it didn't stop you spending the next day thinking about dinner again.

You wondered if he would still be at the hotel, or if he would be eating dinner at the same time, or if it would be weird to strike up an actual conversation with him this time.

By the time you had got home from your mundane office job, you had forgotten about the boy in the building across from you.

Instead, you flicked on the radio and rummaged in your cupboards, looking for something easy to cook. You'd skipped lunch to finish a project, and had been starving, surviving on black coffee alone throughout the day.

A quick boil and grating of parmesan later, you had a bowl of pasta and were sat at your window, content.

"Hey, stranger."

You almost choked on your penne as a voice called out to you.

"Shit, sorry, didn't mean to make you jump," they apologised, as you looked over to the source of the voice; balcony boy.

"No, no, it's fine," you flustered. "Just wasn't expecting company... again."

The evening dusk had already set in, but you could see him smiling at you and it felt as if there was a sense of togetherness between the two of you, despite being entirely separate.

"I'm actually headed out now," he let you know, perching on his windowsill, holding up an empty take out box to show you know he had already eaten. "Have a good one."

"Yeah you too," you smiled back, ignoring the familiar disappointment in the pit of your stomach. And so, you were left, again, alone. Disconnected and perfectly out of key.

── ❝Act I | Scene Three | Contrôle❞ ──

Wednesday evenings called for wine.

You had just poured yourself a glass when you heard a small tap echo through your kitchen.

Almost like a dripping tap, it had sounded hallow, and you couldn't quite work out where it was coming from. You heard it again when you took your first sip and your eyes instinctively darted to where it was coming from: the window.

Your mother had always told you to never open the door to strangers, so opening a window to one? Well, that just seemed irresponsible. But your mother had also been the one to tell you to always, always, trust your instincts.

With that in mind, you put your glass down on the stone counter and slid your sash window up.

"Can I help?" You quizzed the boy standing on the balcony opposite you, who had a small handful of pebbles, stolen from the planter on the balcony beside his own. He had been poised to throw another, and quickly adjusted himself to look a little less chaotic. He realised that what he was doing wasn't really the social norm, but he also didn't care.

"Hi, sorry, random question - have you got a lighter?" His voice a hushed whisper that he was somehow managing to shout.

"A lighter?" You questioned, bemused.

"Yeah, for like candles and shit. Matches would work too."

He was perched on the ledge of his window, feet firmly on the fire escape, just as he had been when you saw him the night before. He'd swapped his hoodie for an oversized flannel shirt that came to midway down his thighs, covered by dark skin-tight jeans.

"Starting a fire?" There was a playful tone to your voice, and he seemed to pick up on it, his facial expression flickering from pleasant neutral to a smirk.

"Maybe. I haven't decided yet."

You held your index finger up to indicate for him to give you a second as you rummaged through a drawer which housed junk. You must have lost a thousand lighters in your lifetime, but always kept a box of matches for your candles. There was something about the way sparks could rip through the tiny wooden sticks that fascinated you.

It didn't take you long to find them, and balcony boy was still in the same position as he had been when you went on the hunt.

"I've only got matches, that okay? Shall I just throw them over?"

He nodded to let you know that the matches were fine.

"Don't throw them, the box will open and you'll lose them all, idiot," he bantered with you. "I'm in room C on the third floor. The lobby will be open."

For a reason that you couldn't explain, you didn't argue. You simply nodded, just as he had done a minute ago. Taking a sip of your wine, you grabbed the matches, and set off into the evening to deliver his request like his very own Hermes.

Yoongi didn't know why he had told you to bring the matches round.

Well, no, he did: He wanted to smoke but didn't have a lighter.

What he didn't understand is why he didn't just go to the shop and buy a lighter himself.

What he couldn't understand even more than anything else is why you had agreed.

Yet there you were, knocking at his door, and suddenly he was self-conscious.

He didn't want a stranger to think that this was how he lived, that he was unsuccessful or in poverty. But he liked the idea of anonymity, at least just for a little while longer.

Opening the door to you made him feel nervous. For a couple of days, he had been able to imagine you, the way that your skin would look up close, or the scent that your clothes would carry. You were a fantasy and now you would become a reality.

Unlatching the door, it opened with a creak. With a false sense of confidence, finally he faced you. Your balcony boy.

"I come bearing gifts," you smiled, offering over your matches, ignoring knots that your stomach was tying itself in. It had been doing it the whole way there, but somewhere between your knock on the door and the scent of his aftershave that greeted you when he opened it, your stomach had become inconsolable.

"Like a modern-day fairy godmother. Thank you," he seemed appreciative, taking them from you gently. He began to walk back into the room, leaving the door wide open and you weren't sure if it was an invitation to come in or not.

Almost as if he had read your mind, he began to talk again. "Come in. Excuse the fact this place is a shit hole."

You couldn't help but laugh a little. At least he was self-aware.

"I'm having a smoke, want one?" He asked, calling back to you as he began to climb out the window. You used the heel of your foot to push the door shut and followed him. You hadn't smoked in years, not since you would go out clubbing regularly. "Oh shit," he turned, holding his hand out to formally introduce himself to you. "Yoongi."

You took his hand and tried not to marvel at how your skin burned from his touch as you introduced yourself back.

"Pretty name," he said quietly, before helping you out of the window. He unfolded one of the chairs that had been perched against the wall and arranged them in such a way that you would be half facing each other, without it being too intrusive. "Sit."

Placing your elbows on your knees, resting your chin on the backs of your palms, you were huddled to preserve warmth. It was cold, and you were quite looking forward to having something heat you up, even if it did knock a few years of your life.

"Sorry," he said, ripping the top of the packet and piercing through the foil seal. "This probably seems really weird."

"In a way," you admitted. "But also, kind of not."

"How so?" he mumbled, cigarette dangling in between his lips as he sat.

"This is how people used to meet, yanno," you teased lightly, swiping a match against the side of its packet to create a flame. Yoongi moved his head closer to you as you cupped the flame, and lit the cigarette for him. "No great love story ever came from a match on tinder."

You realised what you had said almost as soon as it had escaped your lips. It wasn't how you meant it. He didn't seem to mind too much.

"Don't get it twisted," he exhaled the smoke that had been sitting in his lungs. "This isn't love."

"Don't get me twisted, Yoongi," you flicked your eyes up to meet his through your lashes. "I don't do love."

His lips twitched upwards slightly, an indication of the amusement he felt at your response. He took another drag of his cigarette, before passing it over to you. You took it between your middle and index finger, your skin brushing against each other ever so slightly. If you didn't know any better, you could have sworn that a tiny electric shock had buzzed as you touched.

"What do you do, then?" He quizzed.

You shrugged a little, inhaling the thick vapour and toying with the idea that this is what Yoongi tasted like right now. "I run."

He cocked his head a little and the light from the streetlamps caught him a little differently than before.

"Do I dare ask what from?" He set his teeth down over his bottom lip, letting it slip mindlessly from beyond their grip.

The movement of his head had caused a light to shine directly into his eyes and there was more depth now, flecks of caramel that you hadn't noticed before scattered in his dark irises. The curves and convections of his face were contoured unlike anyone you had ever seen before, like a marble sculpture that had been painstakingly perfected over many years.

You'd never felt envious of a sculptor before, but would have envied anyone who had been able to run their hands over anything as deliriously perfect as his bone structure.

You shook your head and reclined back now, putting distance between the two of you, crossing one of your legs over the other. Your guard was coming up and manifesting itself in your body language. "Everyone's running from something. Aren't you?"

You knew that he must have been. You didn't just end up in this part of town for the fun of it.

He shrugged now, leaning back into his own chair.

Stalemate.

"Why Paris?" He changed the topic, holding his fingers out to retrieve the nearly burned out cigarette butt from you.

"Why not?" You countered.

He laughed as he drew a fresh cigarette and lit it with the butt of the old one, before stubbing it out on the railings. Still amused by your response, he took a long drag on the newly lit stick. There was something about the way his indentations formed from the bottom of his nose to the corners of his mouth whenever he smiled that made you want to keep him happy. It wasn't even so much that you cared about his happiness; you cared about your own, and you enjoyed seeing them a little too much.

"You're infuriating," he informed you. You smirked and rested your elbows back on your knees. He did the same. "Nothing's ever simple, is it?"

"Simple is boring," you told him, and you could feel the warmth of his breath as you flirted, knowing that you really shouldn't be. "It's not in my nature."

He was so close to your now that instead of handing you the cigarette, he simply held it up to your lips. You felt like a Grecian Empress being hand-fed grapes on a chaise lounge as he did so, although the reality of it was that you were sat on a grotty, rusting fire escape in the middle of a city that neither of you belonged in. Perhaps that had been why you had felt inclined to smoke with him, to feel as if you belonged.

You had run from London to Paris because your life felt out of control and you wanted it back. Now that the cyclical pattern was starting up again, you needed to feel as if you were in charge of your choices. You were choosing to smoke with a man you had barely met. It felt reckless and dangerous and empowering.

Except, as you inhaled from the thin white cylinder, it was he who was in control, holding it for you.

In a feeble bid to regain control you told yourself 'just one more toke'... until you couldn't resist, and it turned into 'one more cigarette' and eventually, you had smoked the whole damn packet together.

It wasn't just the cigarettes that you had shared, but small stories of your lives, snippets of your personalities and revelations of your favourite things. Truth be told, you had both need someone. It didn't matter who. It could have been anyone. It just so happened that you had run into each other at just the right time.

You were using each other to fulfil a need. Nothing more, nothing less.

You were the perfect distraction and he was the perfect way for you to pass time. It was a mutually beneficial coming together.

Yoongi lay in bed that night with a heart on fire, but he put it down to the nicotine pumping through his bloodstream - because, despite the duvet, his feet were still icy cold.

── ❝Act I | Scene Four | Animosité❞ ──

Yoongi didn't get it.

He didn't get the weathered, cigarette-butt covered, cobbled streets or the romantic aromas of the patisseries and most of all, he didn't get the Eiffel-fucking-Tower. He just simply didn't understand the attraction to Paris or the attraction that comes with being in Paris.

If this was the city for romance, then romance was well and truly deceased.

He aptly chose to ignore that he too had been seduced by the bright lights and the vow of something new. He had spent his entire flight considering the possibilities of what could happen when he touched down somewhere completely new to him, somewhere that he had only imagined in the depths of his dreams.

Unrealistic expectations did, however, often lead to disappointment.

But you hadn't.

As he was traipsing around the city, getting lost in a labyrinth of elusive limestone facades, aimlessly looking for anywhere to exist, he was thinking of you.

And he hated it.

He hated the intrusion of your perfume in his nostrils and the fact that the merest scent of peaches had him whipping his head around all day to see if you were close by. He hated the way that you hadn't laughed at all of his shitty jokes and had instead said something even funnier back. He hated that you had made him laugh so hard that he had choked on a toke of thick cigarette smoke, causing his eyes to swell and water.

He hated the way your cheeks hallowed as you sucked gently on the thin white stick he would hold in front of your mouth and the way strands of your hair would fall in front of your eyes, blocking them from his view. He hated that you had walked down the grimy fire escape instead of going back through his hotel room and he hated watching you walk up the fire escape of your own building. He hated the stupid tiny wave you had sent his way before you had climbed into your window and he hated the way he could observe your silhouette move elegantly beyond your closed curtains before your lights cut out.

Yeah, he hated you, alright.

Or at least that's what he told himself, in an attempt to justify his constant thoughts about you.

As the days went by, your conversations had grown friendly. Little chats over dinner, an evening greeting, or sometimes just a wave through a window. There was a sense of togetherness in a city where you both felt entirely alone.

The window seat had always been your favourite part of your cramped and frankly overpriced flat, so there was no way you were going to stop using it on account of him. If anything, it had made you want to use it more.

You tried to pretend as if you didn't steal glances across the back alley just to see if he was home. You told yourself it was just where your gaze was naturally falling - and it was... because you had positioned yourself in such a way that it would land exactly on Yoongi's room.

'Unintentionally', of course.

The next morning was different.

Usually, your stolen glances came in the evenings. You would tell him that you had to stop meeting like this, and he would laugh and agree.

As the sun rose over the city, a dewy fog hazing in the autumnal air, your alarm clock rang throughout your apartment. The shrill, mechanical cry tore you from your tranquil state and rudely awakened you to the reality that you had another mundane workday ahead of you.

Typically, you would have snoozed your alarms, getting just a little bit longer in the cocoon of your duvet, but you found yourself pushing the thick quilt off of you almost instantly. Perhaps you had finally become an autonomous robot, a slave to capitalism or maybe your dreams weren't as fulfilling as they used to be. Either way, you sleepily yawned as you made your way into your kitchen, letting your hair down out of the bun you had slept in.

Flicking the kettle on, you reached for a mug that hung from your shelving unit and lazily chucked in some instant coffee granules. Real coffee had become a bit of a luxury these days, but you'd settle for a caffeine boost in any form at this time in the morning.

As you waited for the kettle to boil, your eyes wandered to your window, taking in the ambience of what looked to be a cold morning.

It didn't take long for your eyes to land on your new friend's room and your stomach felt as if it was resting in your oesophagus.

You had never seen him about so early. His blinds were usually drawn shut at this time, but they were wide open, and you were greeted with the sight of him in his morning state.

His hair was tousled ever so slightly, and you thought that you actually preferred it this way to the immaculate cut he usually sported. He was half-dressed, clearly in the middle of getting ready, with tight black jeans undone around his waist, boxers peaking from the top of the waistband. As your eyes travelled North, your teeth rested on your bottom lip to repress a curse word from escaping them. You had never considered what his body would look like, but even if you had, it wouldn't have been this. The skin on his chest was tight against his muscles, contoured perfectly as he moved. In all honesty, you had imagined him to have a boyish frame, but he was so much more. You didn't think he could even be described as a man. No, he was a God amongst men.

The click of your kettle boiling snapped you from your surveying and you shook your head, letting out a flustered laugh. It had been long, far too long, since you had seen a man like that, and you had definitely let it get the better of you. Still, it didn't stop you from looking back in his direction as you held your warm coffee to your lips.

He was on the phone, and despite the thick glass barriers between you, it felt as if you could hear him.

The frenzied movements of his arms and the thick furrowing of his brows painted his dark mood perfectly. You got whiplash as you watched him throw his head back in sarcastic laughter only to snap back to fury in milliseconds. Pacing his room as he spoke, clearly getting more and more agitated.

You couldn't help but study him as he moved, the animation in his kinesics illuminated by the dull light morning light. It felt intrusive, voyeuristic, and you wondered if watching him would dial his anger up. Taking another sip of your coffee, you choose not to question it too much.

He was still pacing, going round in circles. The tenebrous expression on his face suggested that his conversation was following a similar pattern too. His phone was thrown suddenly and sharply across the room, with such force that you wouldn't have been surprised to find it embedded in the wall of his hotel room.

Placing his palms on his window frame, his shoulders were wide as he regulated his angered breathing. He was looking at the floor as the bones of his shoulders rolled gently in an attempt to relax his physique.

It was almost as if you were scared to move, like he was a predator that would notice any sign of movement, making you his prey. You could almost hear your heart beating in your chest.

Closing his eyes, he pulled his head back, stretching his neck before lowering it back down. His eyes opened slowly, calmer than they had been before.

They latched on to yours and you both froze.

His jaw seemed stronger than it had before. It was sharp and angular. You could tell that behind his pouty lips, his teeth were gritted. He changed position slightly, eyes still on you, and pushed the window upwards, and nodded, an indication for you to do the same. You didn't need telling twice.

"What are you doing today?" Yoongi spoke indifferently, as if he didn't care for the outcome of your response. He was looking for a distraction and you seemed like the perfect way to pass the time.

"Work," you shrugged, as if it should have been obvious that most people worked 9-5's, even if he didn't appear to. You had considered what his profession must be, considering he spent so much time in his dingy hotel room. You had managed to whittle it down to either a secret super spy or a drug dealer. You weren't sure which one felt more dangerous.

"Call in sick," he ordered, the look on his face still stern and you couldn't hide the confusion in your expression as your brows furrowed together. He knew his request was unreasonable, hell, he had even surprised himself by the directness of it. "We're being tourists today, and tourists don't have jobs."

A smile crept on your still confused face. There was something about the spontaneity and commanding nature of his voice that made you feel the desire to comply. "One condition..." You purred.

"Go on."

"We do it all," you stated plainly. It had been a topic of conversation between the two of you, how neither of you had done any of the cliché tourist traps, but part of you felt like there must have been a reason they had become cliché; they must have been somewhat good. "All of the shitty landmarks, all of the crappy movie scenes, all of it."

He smiled softly, smirking almost. "I'll even take you to the sodding Louvre. Get dressed, I'll be at your fire escape in twenty."

── ❝Act I | Scene Five | Mandarine❞ ──

Yoongi hadn't considered what the Champs-Élysées would actually look like up close, nor had he considered that he'd have to get up real close to even catch a glimpse of the Mona Lisa. He hadn't considered that he might find the Love Lock Bridge kind of endearing and he certainly hadn't considered that sitting under the Eiffel Tower with a near-stranger could be somewhat fulfilling.

Except you didn't feel entirely like a stranger to him now. You had spent the day sharing your expectations of the city and the vehement disappointment that it had been. There was an ease to the way in which the two of you spoke to one another; like you were equals.

You had been sharing a punnet of raspberries by the Seine when Yoongi started to let his guard down.

"It was the first flight out of Seoul," he admitted to you. "Although it wouldn't have mattered even if it wasn't. I want to go somewhere that felt..." He paused, wanting the find exactly the right word to convey what he meant. "Auspicious."

You nodded, without saying a word. You wanted to let him talk, to let his thoughts flow freely. You enjoyed the way his vocal cords crafted words and the hum that leapt from his tongue to your ears.

"My girl," he caught himself on his words and corrected himself to add a little "ex" in there. The slip up didn't go unnoticed by you. "She was cheating on me I think." He popped another raspberry in his mouth and spoke as it rested in his cheek. "Nah, I know she was. I saw the pictures."

"Shit," you winced, not wanting to imagine how that felt.

"Oh not, like, in the act," he laughed, before coming to the sudden realisation that he had been thinking about it as being an emotional affair. He had no idea if they had been fucking behind his back. She'd come home sweaty from rehearsal but would never let him join her in the shower. No, she needed some kind of buffer between the two men and a cold shower seemed to serve the purpose.

Suddenly, the raspberry in Yoongi's mouth tasted very bitter.

Sensing this change in him, you tried to distract him with your own equally pathetic story.

"My boy - ex-boy - did the same," You grimaced as Yoongi hallowed his cheeks and spat the still intact raspberry in the river beneath you. Ducks swarmed towards it, desperate for a taste of something sweet. Echoes of words that he spoke when you spent that first evening on his balcony swam through your head and you couldn't help but ask: "Is it why you don't do love?"

He pouted his lips a little, studying a boat as it made its way down the river. There were people on board celebrating, perhaps a birthday, and they seemed so alive. They seemed happy. Yoongi had been struggling with that concept recently.

"Is it why you were running?" He chose to counter your question with one of his own. His voice was prying yet gentle, knowing he was touching on delicate territory.

All you could do was nod. "Don't know where I'm running too, I just know that I can't look back."

He laughed a little sadly. "You're dumb."

You knocked his arm, pushing him lightly. His body rocked slightly but regained composure with ease.

"You wanted to run away from love, so you ran to fucking Paris," He was fully laughing now, lips lifting to reveal perfectly aligned teeth and pink gums.

There was something about the thought process that tickled him.

"You did the same!" You protested, but also finding the humour in the stupidity of it all.

"Yeah and I'm fucking dumb," he admitted. He meant it too. It wasn't meant as an insult, more of self-deprecating acknowledgement of the fact that they were, in a way, kindred spirits.

The sun was setting and there was a tangerine glow in the sky that lit your faces warmly. It seemed fitting to Yoongi, given the warmth he was feeling towards you. He let you ramble on about something else and watched the way your eyes tracked the clouds that passed by ever so slowly.

He wondered if ending up here was a little bit of serendipity or just dumb luck. Knowing himself fairly well, he decided it was the latter.

── ❝Act I | Scene Six | Vérité❞ ──

There were 42 steps down from Yoongi's fire escape, and 42 identical steps up to yours. He had counted them as the pair of you ran from his room to your apartment, having ducked into his hotel to escape the rain, only to realise that your place would be a much more pleasant setting. Your nimble fingers fiddled with a rusty latch that really shouldn't have been able to give as easily as it did and popped it open.

He half thought that he should fix it for you, to prevent break-ins from less friendly strangers, but he thought that might be overstepping a boundary. Perhaps you liked it that way and it felt like a peculiar thing for him to ask.

"I'll grab some towels," you narrated as you clambered in through the window, leaving Yoongi alone for a moment. He quickly realised that it wasn't just you who smelt like fresh peaches, but your whole entire apartment did. Had he not liked it so much, it probably would have been a bit overwhelming.

The colour palette reminded Yoongi of his own room back home. White-washed walls were the perfect blank canvas and you had opted for lofty furnishings, exposed wood and metal forming the bases of your living space.

Unlike Yoongi, you also had a love for all things cosy, so adorned the aged oak furniture with cushions and throws. It almost looked like something from a home styling magazine, until he noticed the disorganised chaos of your DVD collection. He didn't even realise people still watched those things.

Crouched by them, he studied the plastic spines until you finally returned.

"Unless you're into rom-coms and Harry Potter, I doubt there'll be anything you like," you said tenderly, holding out a warm white towel for him. His knees clicked as he stood, taking it from you and ruffling his damp hair immediately.

"I'll have you know, I'm the poster boy for Slytherin," he smirked, putting your assumptions in their place.

"Is that so?" You crooked your neck slightly and raised a brow, inviting him to carry on. He rested his towel around his shoulders and ruffled his hair again, this time just with his fingers.

"You should see me blonde; I give even Draco a run for his money."

You couldn't imagine Yoongi blonde. His dark hair framed him so well, that it seemed a shame to imagine him as anything else. "You've been blonde?"

He nodded, beginning to walk around your living room. He was looking at the pictures you had displayed, the smiles that were permanently cemented in time.

"Uh-huh, a few times, actually," he admitted. "Never stay one colour for too long."

"Yoongi the chameleon," you smiled, sitting cross-legged on your couch, watching the way he was taking in the elements of your personality that you had on exhibit in your room. He studied one of the frames a little bit harder than the rest. It was made from driftwood that you had collected at a beach near your childhood home, that was then crafted into a frame for one of your school projects. It was a bit shit, in all honesty, but it felt like home. "The girls," you informed him before he even had to ask who was in the picture.

"Back home?" He asked curiously. Yoongi hadn't really stopped to consider the good parts of your life that you had abandoned when you chose to run from your problems. For a second, he felt almost judgemental that you'd let one little thing drive you away from the people you loved; but then he remembered that he had done the exact same thing.

"Uh-huh," you mumbled, unable to read the thought process the boy in your living room was having. "I miss them."

"Then why don't you go back?" Yoongi felt like such a hypocrite, especially when he thought about the way in which he had blown up at Jimin that very morning for suggesting the same thing to him. He hadn't told you that was who he was on the phone to, but in all fairness, you hadn't asked. You just let him pretend as if his problems didn't exist for a while and he liked that. He liked that he could escape with you.

You sighed and wished you had a glass of wine in your hand. You rose and sauntered over to your kitchen, grabbing a bottle from the fridge and placed it on your coffee table with a pair of glasses.

"Because that's not real life," your voice was mellow, as the wine glugged its way into the glasses. One for you, one for him.

The photograph in question had been taken on your last birthday and was the first night in months you had all got the time off to spend it with each other. The girls had work and relationships and their own schedules and part of being a grown-up was accepting that they just didn't align. After the infidelity and subsequent break-up, it was easier for you to remove yourself entirely and make it impossible for them to find time for you. It let them live their lives without having to worry about you. "The group chats still mental most of the time," you smiled softly, knowing that you would have about 146 missed messages by the time you checked your phone again.

Yoongi looked at the photo one last time before putting it down and taking a seat next to you. You looked happier in the photo; your eyes were brighter and there was a ring around your finger. It made him feel stupid for being so forlorn over a girl he had been dating for a few months. You had lost your entire future when your dickhead of an ex cheated on you and it made Yoongi feel genuine anguish for you.

"You think time heals?" Yoongi asked, and you knew exactly what he was alluding to. You knew that your ruby-clad ring finger was clear as day in the photo. It was still stashed in your jewellery box. You weren't quite sure why.

"No," you spoke honestly, taking a sip of your Gavi. Despite living in France, Italian wine was still your favourite. Yoongi mirrored your actions. "I think it helps us to forget though. See humans forget pain, so after a while, we can't remember what it felt like. The wounds are still there, just numb. As soon as someone pours salt in them, they're gonna sting like fuck."

"Wounds heal," Yoongi contemplated, not sure that he entirely agreed with you.

"If you let them," you nodded. It was a concept you had thought about a lot, particularly in this room.

Had Yoongi been in town a few months earlier, he would have been lucky enough to get a front-row ticket to the one-woman show you liked to call 'brb, having another break down'. You'd wail like a banshee and repeatedly ask why everything still hurt if time was supposed to heal. There would be no mythical presence to answer you though, so instead you started drinking more wine and watching films that made you believe in love again. Slowly, but surely, you were getting there. Just.

Yoongi took a sip of his wine, and, despite being more of a red man himself, found it quite agreeable. Wanting to change topic, but not being too sure how to do so, he got up and hovered back down by your DVD's, knees clicking as he did so. He had his back to you, hands fiddling at cases and you heard a plastic disk pop from its case and the mechanical whir of your old Panasonic player.

He took his seat again, this time pulling slightly on the legs you had tucked up beside you. It was an invitation for you to stretch out, at his expense, and you couldn't remember the last time you had spent time in the company of someone like him... hell, in the company of anyone.

The curve of your ankles rested on his thigh, as his forearm cushioned over the top of them, holding his glass in place on his knee. Truthfully, you'd have probably been more comfortable in your original position, but the kindness of character he was showing was too inviting to say no.

You laughed as an all too familiar orchestral instrumental began to sound, realising what he had put on. He tried to hide it, but he couldn't help but smile too, pleased with himself for doing something that seemed to cheer you up, even if only momentarily.

"I'm going to judge you so hard on which one you chose to put on," you let him know, eyes focused on his smug little face. You hadn't hung out with a friend in so long, that it felt like all of your Christmases had come at once.

"Such a fucking Ravenclaw," he smirked, knowing there was no way that he would have got your house wrong. You were too headstrong and witty to be anything else.

"Didn't know I was friends with a sorting hat," you laughed, sipping on your own liquid luck.

"You're not," he was beaming now, the wine in his bloodstream and acknowledgement of a new friendship only adding to this. "Slytherin's are shrewd bastards, I could tell what you were from a mile off."

The night carried on with playful banter and, annoyingly, Yoongi had picked your favourite film of the series, which put you at two-nil down. There was an easy discord, helped partially by the wine, but mostly due to the fact that you were both looking for something to fill the voids that you had been left with.

Yoongi's was fresher; it stung more - but yours was a dull, chronic ache. It seemed dumb to compare who was hurting most, especially considering that by the time Yoongi had said his goodbyes and made the 84-step journey back to his own room, his mind and body were absent of the unpleasant twinge he had grown used to.

Yes, wounds could heal, and Yoongi thought that he'd quite like to let them do so.

Not even a second after he had slid his window shut, Yoongi's phone began to hum intrusively in his back pocket. Pulling it out, he was careful of the screen that he had cracked earlier that morning, and sighed looking at Jimin's caller ID. It was time to face the music, but, for once, Yoongi didn't feel very musical at all.

── ❝Act I | Scene Seven | Débile❞ ──

Good things never lasted long, especially not for Yoongi.

When he first learned how to ride a bike without stabilisers, he got so excited that he forgot to stop and wrecked his bicycle just an hour later. When his first girlfriend told him she loved him, he panicked and broke up with her.

There was a cyclical pattern to his luck; he earns it but then runs from it.

Sighing in frustration, your words about everyone running from something came back to him. Why did you always have to be right?

Yoongi had considered this - you, Paris - another good thing. So, as per tradition, he was about to throw it all away.

It was better this way, he felt. It saved it from being snatched from him.

"It's all over twitter," Jimin sighed through the phone. Yoongi had spent well over a week hidden in Paris and was beyond frustrated that the one day he was spotted was the day he had spent with you. The rumour mill had gone into overdrive.

"Management are considering releasing a statement to downplay it, but no-one knows what to say without hearing it from you first."

"There's nothing to hear," Yoongi snapped a little at his friend, and immediately felt guilty. He knew that Jimin only ever had his best interest at heart, which is perhaps why Yoongi fought with him; because he didn't feel like he deserved it.

"And I believe you," Jimin lied. They both knew he was fibbing, but trying to get omissions from Yoongi was like trying to get blood from a stone. "There are pictures going around of one of the assistants in a similar outfit to the girl, so there's speculation you're there on business and that she's no-one of real interest. Lila's fans aren't so happy."

It was the first time that Yoongi had heard his ex-girlfriend's name since he had boarded his flight. He hadn't been prepared for the sucker-punch he felt in his chest that ripped through his being.

The wounds are still there, just numb. As soon as someone pours salt in them, they're gonna sting like fuck.

Always. Fucking. Right.

God, you annoyed him.

Yet he found himself cooling, his anger becoming tepid when his thoughts drifted back to you. Like an ice cream cone on a sweltering summers day, it was refreshing and sweet, and just what he needed.

"Yeah, well they can go fuck themselves," Yoongi scoffed, picking at the loose hem of his flannel shirt. He was being bratty and he knew it, but it came so much easier to him than actually being rational. He knew something had to give, so he sighed and shifted in his seat. "What have I got to do?"

"Well, we're due in London a week before the concert, so it's up to you. Either lay-low in Paris for another week and meet us there, or fly back to Seoul and go with us like normal," Jimin negotiated. Yoongi knew that there must have been board meetings back at HQ discussing this all in advanced. He wouldn't have been surprised if Jimin was in one now, with him on speakerphone. Out of all the boys, it was always Jimin who grounded Yoongi when his head got too hot, so it was unsurprising that he was the one to be making the phone call instead of a man in a suit.

Yoongi paused, contemplating his options. Going back to Seoul seemed like the right thing to do. It was wrong for him to have left them like that - but he just couldn't help but feel as if he had unfinished business in the city of lights.

He hadn't realised, but his eyes had wandered to your window, again.

The lights were off, window shut.

"Stay in Paris," Jimin interrupted Yoongi's train of thought. He had known his friend for long enough to know that a pause of that length meant he was battling an internal conflict. "Do what you need to do. But I swear to the high heavens, if you aren't waiting at the airport for us with a crappy hand-written sign then I'm never letting you be selfish again."

Yoongi could hear the smile in his friend's words and could picture the prominent apples of his cheeks as he did so. His band - his brothers - were potentially the only goldmine of luck that he hadn't run from.

"I'll use glitter glue and everything," Yoongi promised.

"Can't wait," Jimin laughed through the phone. Yoongi had missed his friends and was grateful to be seeing them again soon. He thought about you and the way in which you had pined for your friends too.

"Jimin-" Yoongi had the voice on; the one that he used when he wanted something, like a kid who had picked up a bag of sweets while out shopping with his mother. Jimin knew he wouldn't like where this is going. "The girl, the one from the pictures. She hasn't been back home in, like, half a year..."

"Go on," his tone matched that of a mother who couldn't be bothered with their child's shit.

"London's home for her. Do you think she'd be able to travel with me? It won't interrupt any of our schedules, it's just-" Yoongi didn't really know how to phrase what he wanted to say. "She's been a godsend since I've been here. I genuinely don't know what I would have done had it not been for her, so I kind of want to return the favour."

Jimin was in no real position to be calling the shots, but he didn't see the harm if fans thought he was just an assistant anyway. If anything, it would help play into the narrative.

"I told you to stay in Paris, Yoongs, whatever you decide from there is up to you," he relinquished himself of all duty.

He didn't stay on the line for much longer, just enough time to let Yoongi know that they better get some killer songs out of his one-man-adventure to make it all worth it.

Yoongi stared up at the cracks in his ceiling and wondered how many men had done the same thing. This room felt like a relic, transfixed in time. The beige glow of the walls around him felt dimmer now than it had before. He missed the pure white of your apartment walls.

Before he even had a chance to think, he was out of his window, feet splashing on the shallow puddles in the steel checker plate steps. Down 2, 3, 4 he counted until reached number 42 and darted across the courtyard. Up 2, 3, 4...

He stopped when he reached number 41. Was this a dumb idea? Probably.

He took another step regardless and knocked on your window with far too much urgency for such a late hour. He shuffled nervously as he waited, drizzle pouring from the heavens.

He watched as your flat began to illuminate, first your bedroom light, then the living room, until finally, your sleepy head flicked the kitchen light on. You were confused, half-asleep and he found it unbearably endearing.

You wore a huge white shirt like a dress and had your arms folded over your chest - partially due to the cold, but mainly due to your lack of a bra. You nodded towards the boy, inviting him to fiddle with the latch and let himself in as you traipsed back into your living room, huddling up on your sofa in wait for him.

His wet shoes squeaked on your floor before he kicked them off. You wouldn't have minded if he kept them on, but appreciated him not bringing footprints into the living room.

"You hate your job," he told you, with absolute certainty as he walked through the door frame.

"I tolerate it," you nodded, having discussed it with him earlier in the day.

In typical Yoongi fashion, he had been vague about his career path, but you had accepted he was in the production side of music (although you still hadn't ruled out super spy).

You, however, had taken an admin job at the first place that you could find when you arrived in the city. It wasn't what you had trained for. Back home you had a successful reputation as a marketer. You weren't here to further your career, though.

"So quit," Yoongi crouched in front of you, his knees cracking like they always did. He crossed his arms over his knees, supporting him in place and you looked at him like he was mad.

"That's not how life works, Yoongi," You laughed at the absurdity of it. "4 weeks' notice and all that."

"Fuck it," he said defiantly. "Give 'em a week."

"And then what will I do with my time?"

"I'm going to London next week. I'll take you home."

Truthfully, you half-thought that the location wouldn't matter. You would have wanted to go regardless. He had this way of making you feel more at home than you'd ever known.

What is it that they say? Home is where the heart is? No, surely not. That would have been ludicrous.

"Yoongs," you whispered. "That's fucking mental."

You believed it, but it didn't stop you from smiling from ear to ear.

He knew you were right, but it didn't make it any less intoxicating, the idea of keeping up your run-away streak together.

"Just think about it, okay?" He pleaded a little.

He looked at you like were a sweet peach, soft enough to bruise at the gentlest of touch. Succulent and flavoursome, he knew that one taste was all he needed to get hooked on you and keep him coming back for more. You were forbidden fruit, delectable nectar that would no doubt poison him if he drank up too much. To die in such a way would be so heavenly that self-sacrifice wouldn't seem absurd.

He wanted this; he wanted more time with you, and he wanted to be able to provide with you with some form of happiness. He knew that you were going to be a fleeting presence in his life, that in a couple of weeks he'd be back in Seoul and all this would be over. He wanted to savour it, he wanted to make it last.

"Okay," you nodded, promising to think about it. That was enough for him for now. He knew he was asking a lot.

Which is why he was surprised to hear you call after him as he reached the window.

Turning to face the direction of your voice, his gaze locked with yours as you appeared in the walkway between your sitting room and kitchen. There was an expression on your face that he hadn't seen before.

Wide eyes and a subtle smile, that was hidden by the teeth biting down on your bottom lip, conveyed exactly how you felt.

"When do we leave?"

───── ❝Fin.❞ ─────

A/N : this used to be a story called Young God, but I ran out of steam with it, so hiii, it's here now :)