There are three things that Yoongi hates above all else: wet feet, working on Fridays, and wild goose chases.
Unfortunately for him, his current situation includes all of the above.
“Joon, you better have something good for me,” Yoongi mutters, ducking as a man next to him opens his umbrella. “I’m soaking wet, it’s dark, and I’m cold.”
Static comes through his earpiece as Kim Namjoon, warm and dry inside their base in Yongsan, sighs. “I’m working on it. Gumiho are powerful, hyung. It’s hard to track them on an ordinary day. And today—”
“Today isn’t ordinary, right,” Yoongi grumbles, cursing under his breath as he steps in yet another puddle. “Of all fucking places, why did it have to be Hallow’s Eve in Hongdae? There are motherfucking halfsies everywhere and it’s throwing my tracking spell off.”
“Halfsies isn’t what they want to be called anymore, hyung,” Namjoon says mildly. “Take a right at this intersection.”
Yoongi shoves through a crowd of wide-eyed tourists gaping at storefronts. “I can call them whatever I want, Joon-ah, because I am one,” Yoongi says.
“You are not,” Namjoon rebukes. “Your mother was a quarter-sylph, so that means you’re even less than that. You don’t face even close to the same kind of bias—”
“Okay, fine, point taken,” Yoongi says. “Where am I going now?”
“Uh.” Namjoon pauses, and there’s the sound of his fingers on his keyboard. “…Hoseok? What’s the spell telling you?”
Another pause as Hoseok, the only one in their little group capable of performing full-fledged magic, says something. Yoongi stops at a red light, stepping back so he doesn’t get splashed by cars going past.
“Oh, uh,” Namjoon starts unsurely, “he says it was a false trail. Go back a block and go straight past the Kimbap Paradise.”
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Yoongi asks, turning on his heel and marching back the way he came. “After this, I’m quitting.”
“What, and let Seoul be overrun with out-of-control gumiho and shadow-suckers?” Namjoon asks.
“There are other demon-hunters besides us,” Yoongi says. “Jeongguk and Seokjin, for example.” He splashes through another puddle, colored red and blue with the flashing neon signs of stores. Downtown lights up the night sky in the distance, all-metal skyscrapers gleaming in the rain, their windows yellow and blinking like artificial stars.
“Okay, Hoseok says straight for now,” Namjoon continues, and Yoongi speeds up. “There should be a restaurant, a chicken place, apparently—”
“I see it,” Yoongi says, stopping in front of the store and looking in. It’s packed with people, the orange-and-yellow sign on the front painting the sidewalk in neon colors. Rain drips down his back as he stands, searching for anything that feels off.
“Can you feel anything, hyung?” Namjoon asks after a moment.
Yoongi narrows his eyes just as the small non-human part of him starts to hum, picking up on the magic of the gumiho.
“Yeah,” Yoongi says, stepping back from the glass and looking around for a place where he can get out of the rain. “It’s definitely in there. I just gotta give myself some more time to figure out who. ”
“Hoseok wants to know how long,” Namjoon asks. “We’re going out tonight.”
“I couldn’t give a damn about your date,” Yoongi rebukes, stepping off the main street and taking cover underneath a fire escape in an alleyway. It smells vaguely like rotting vegetables, but it’s out of the rain, so Yoongi’s not in a position to be picky. “I want this thing off the streets. Too many people have gone missing, and it’s taken us months to find it. I’m not letting it get away.”
Namjoon sighs again. “It’s pointless trying to convince him,” he says offhandedly to his boyfriend, who lets out an audible squawk in the background. Namjoon’s voice gets closer again as his attention shifts back to Yoongi. “Okay. Well, I’m going to use the bathroom. Hoseok’s here if anything happens.”
“Right,” Yoongi says, brow furrowing as he focuses on the gumiho, the humming getting louder as he gets closer and closer to locking in. His eyes dart over the people inside the restaurant, narrowing down the possibilities as the minutes tick by. Gumiho are usually female, and are notorious for luring young men into dark, hidden places, where they go missing and turn up with their necks covered in hickeys and their eyes empty of life, their souls plucked from their bodies by the yeowu guseul— the gumiho’s kiss. They’re sly, tricky things, nearly impossible to hunt down, and even harder to trap and kill.
Another minute passes, and Namjoon comes back from the bathroom. “Any luck?”
“Almost,” Yoongi says, but just as he’s about to force himself to look harder, the restaurant’s side door opens with a squeak. “Ah, shit,” he mutters, pressing himself back into the shadows. A figure appears in the doorway, hauling what looks like a bag of trash behind him. As they do so, the humming in Yoongi’s blood reaches its peak, and there’s a jerk as the tracking spell locks onto the gumiho’s magic signal.
Yoongi’s eyes narrow, and he can’t help the smile that spreads across his face or the smug, satisfied feeling that accompanies it. I’ve got you now, he thinks victoriously.
He’s a little surprised, however, when the gumiho steps out into the light. Instead of being a female, as Yoongi had expected, it’s a young man, beautifully sculpted and polished to supernatural perfection made only more unworldly in the yellow streetlight. He’s dressed in a waiter’s uniform, and he can almost pass as human—but there’s a distinctive red shine to his hair and a strange, light-footed way he carries himself, like he’s not used to two legs. To Yoongi, these two things are dead giveaways. The gumiho, for all its magical prowess, can’t fully shed its fox form when it becomes human.
He shifts, and the gumiho’s head snaps up, eyes narrowing when he catches sight of Yoongi, standing against the wall. His nose twitches as Yoongi steps out of the shadows, arms crossed.
“You’re the one that’s been on my tails for the last few months,” the gumiho says derisively. “What do you want from me, demon-hunter?”
“What gave me away?” Yoongi asks.
“Hyung,” Namjoon says warningly in his ear. “Don’t joke around.”
The gumiho sneers. “Who else walks around in leather and all-black?”
“I’ll ask again,” the gumiho continues, brushing him off and doubling the intensity of his glare. Yoongi can’t help but notice the silvery glint to his eyes and the way his lips pull back from his teeth defensively. “Why are you following me?”
“Don’t try to play dumb,” Yoongi snaps, and reaches towards his hip, where he’s got his spell-worked knife. “You know why.”
“Sorry, but I really don’t,” the gumiho replies condescendingly. “I could call the police, you know. This is illegal.”
“You’re not going to,” Yoongi says, “because I’m going to catch you and then make you tell me why you’re stealing boys’ hearts.”
The gumiho rolls his eyes. “Oh, them?”
Anger boils in Yoongi’s gut. “Yes, them. Thirteen of them, in fact.”
“I already told you!” The gumiho protests, voice pitching up, “I didn’t kill them!”
“And how many times do I have to tell you,” Yoongi replies sharply, “that I don’t believe you?”
“Okay, hyung, let’s maybe step back,” Namjoon rushes out. “Take a deep breath, regroup—”
Yoongi ignores him and goes straight for the blade stashed at his hip, tired of the back-and-forth conversation. At the same time, the gumiho takes off, sprinting for the other end of the alleyway, so fast that Yoongi almost misses it.
But Min Yoongi is good at his job, so he gives chase, focusing on the gumiho ahead of him as he shoves past people.
“Hyung,” Namjoon groans, exasperated. “This is exactly what I didn’t want to happen. Now he’s running, and there’s something off—”
“I’m gaining on him,” Yoongi says, out-of-breath. He rounds a corner, pushing himself to go faster. “Just give me a second.”
“Yoongi-hyung,” Namjoon cuts in sharply. “Watch out, he’s about to—”
Before Namjoon can finish his sentence, Yoongi trips and goes flying, hitting the wet concrete hard. He tucks and rolls automatically—a move drilled into him since he was sixteen—and comes up in a crouch, knees and hands stinging from where the sidewalk has torn them up.
“Fuck,” Yoongi exclaims, getting to his feet. The gumiho’s disappeared from sight, gone in the precious seconds Yoongi had lost when he’d fallen. He brushes himself off, the hairs on the back of his neck rising as he surveys the street, which is eerily empty given that it’s the prime hour of Hallow’s Eve.
Namjoon says something through the earpiece, and Yoongi adjusts it with a sigh as he breaks into a jog again.
“—happened?” Namjoon finishes.
“I fell,” Yoongi explains. “A trip charm, I think. Either way, the little shit’s gone.”
Namjoon exhales slowly, and Yoongi can feel his exasperation even through the earpiece.
“Don’t say I told you so,” Yoongi adds. “I still have a lock on him, though, so I can just cast a quick portal spell and pull myself to him.”
“Hoseok says that’s not a good idea,” Namjoon says. “Something about magical layers being thinner—”
“We don’t have another choice,” Yoongi replies before he can finish. He takes a shortcut down another alley, stopping short when he’s out of sight from the people on the street. “He just disappeared, Joon. Into thin air. This is the best shot we have at finding him.”
“Hyung, this really isn’t a good idea,” Namjoon pleads. “It’s Hallow’s Eve, plus there’s something off about tonight, so I really don’t think you should—”
Yoongi pulls out his portal stone, a tiny piece of jade with an indent in the middle of it, like a shallow basin. It glows a little in his hand, especially when he lifts his torn-up palm and shakes some of the blood off and into it.
“Yoongi-hyung,” comes Hoseok’s voice through the earpiece, breathless and ringing with warning. “Don’t do it. There’s something wrong with tonight.”
Yoongi pulls the earpiece from his ear with his free hand. Namjoon may be right—but he’s this close to closing up this case and going home, and he’s not about to let the gumiho get away again. Steeling himself, he grips the stone tighter and focuses on the rapidly-fading pull of the gumiho’s presence.
“Bring me to him,” Yoongi says, and there’s the same firm jerk from before as the tracking spell catches, and the air opens before him. He takes a single, staggering step, and he’s plunged into darkness, following the singing tune of magic.
A second later, Yoongi’s feet hit the sidewalk. He stumbles a little, disoriented, trying to make sense of his new surroundings. It’s stopped raining, for one, and the weather is a lot colder—there’s a bite to the air that Yoongi’s never felt before, thanks to all the magic that warms the wind and the sky. Yoongi can see a few stars, too, and they glimmer faintly in the clear, brisk sky. But Seoul’s never been cold, not like this.
The weather is the first giveaway that something has gone wrong. Very, very wrong.
And then he sees where he’s standing.
This is still Seoul, because the streets he’s standing at are ones he’s walked a hundred times, and off in the distance he can see Namsan Tower, all lit up. The store signs are in Korean, and the people around him speak it. But this is a Seoul he doesn’t know. The streets are packed with families, all dressed bizarrely, and the houses are decked out, too—pumpkins with faces, fake gravestones, blinking orange lights. It smells like fallen leaves and damp pavement, and the air hurts his lungs a bit when he breathes in, unused to the cold. The whole effect is dizzying, the scene so unfamiliar and strange that it knocks the breath out of him. He sits down hard on the curb, putting his head into his hands and trying to wrap his mind around what he’s done.
God, he’s so royally fucked. Namjoon’s gonna kill him when he ever gets back. If he ever gets back.
Okay, deep breath, he tells himself firmly, and think. What had Hoseok said about Hallow’s Eve? There’s something wrong with tonight.
Magic is fickle, always-changing—and with the layers between worlds being so thin, it’s actually…totally possible that Yoongi’s ended up in a ripple universe. Not necessarily a dangerous one, but changed in major ways. Recognizable, but not quite the same.
He wonders if it’s still Hallow’s Eve, or if he’s magically time travelled, too. He reaches out, faltering and pulling back when he gets no response. The familiar hum in his blood is gone, the inside of his head is quiet, and the air is still, devoid of magic. The emptiness of it almost hurts.
He takes another deep breath. I have to get out of here.
Distantly, he wonders where the gumiho had went, or if he’d been pulled somewhere unexpected as well.
Yoongi stands, brushing off his pants before he remembers his torn-up hands. Wincing, he gingerly pulls out a one-use paper charm Hoseok had prepared for him in case of minor injuries, but when he rips it in half, expecting his palms to heal over, nothing happens. He resists the childish urge to throw a tantrum, opting instead to swear as loudly as he can. A family passing by gives him a worried look before nudging their children farther away from him and speeding up.
“I can’t believe I’m fucking stuck here until tomorrow,” Yoongi mutters darkly, patting his pockets in an attempt to find his phone—not that it’ll be any use, though, because he’s got no service. “Fuck, what’s the time here anyway?”
He steps back up to the sidewalk and collects himself for a second before he approaches a man—a boy, really, if his clothes are any indication—standing off to the side on his phone.
“Excuse me,” he says as politely as he can muster, “but would you happen to know the time?”
“Uh, sure,” the boy says, squinting at his phone. “It’s eight.”
The same time, Yoongi notes, and nods. He’s about to thank the boy and continue on his way when the boy lifts his head, and Yoongi catches sight of his face. It’s the gumiho, perfect features and all, standing in front of Yoongi like he hadn’t just tried to bolt.
“You,” he mutters, hand flying to his hip. “I knew you’d be here—”
“Whoa, whoa,” the boy says, holding his hands up. “Calm the fuck down, dude, I don’t even know you.”
Yoongi freezes, taking in the look of fear, the lack of resistance. He steps closer and realizes that this must be an alternate version of the gumiho—a human version, no less. His hair isn’t red, for one, it’s black, and he’s wearing completely different clothes, dressed like he’s walked out of some ridiculous sort of fairy tale, complete with a fake sword.
“What the hell are you wearing?” Yoongi asks, unable to help himself. “What—why’s everyone dressed so weird?”
The boy’s eyebrows go up. “I’m a pirate.”
“No, you’re not,” Yoongi points out. “That’s a fake sword.”
“Obviously, ” the boy says, looking more and more confused. “I’m only dressed as one. It’s Halloween. That’s what you do.”
“Halloween?” Yoongi repeats, testing the strange word out. This world’s version of Hallow’s Eve, he thinks, digesting this information and putting it aside. “And you…dress up? And walk around?”
“Yeah, you trick-or-treat,” the boy tells him, like this is supposed to be very common information. “Are you telling me you don’t know what any of this is?”
“We don’t, uh, have Halloween where I’m from,” Yoongi explains.
“But you’re Korean.”
“Uh, yeah. Well, sort of.” At the boy’s increasingly curious expression, Yoongi feels his cheeks go hot in embarrassment. It doesn’t help that he’s suddenly noticing how cute the boy is, costume and all. “I mean, it’s complicated. Long story. I guess…I never really celebrated it.”
The boy’s eyes go wide. “You never celebrated Halloween? God, that sucks!” He throws his arms out wide, gesturing to the strange decorations on the houses like they’re fine pieces of art. “This is the best holiday of the whole year! Even better than Chuseok, or Seollal, in my opinion.”
Chuseok? Seollal? Yoongi thinks, immensely confused but trying not to let it show on his face. “Those are…pretty great, though,” he says, not wanting this boy to think he’s a total idiot. “But I’ve never really had Halloween before.”
“Well, you clearly knew it was happening tonight,” the boy says, “because you’re all dressed up. Everyone’s sort of doing the demon-hunter-assassin look nowadays, but you’re really nailing it.”
Yoongi looks down at himself. Sure, the anti-possession and protection wards are a little strange, but they can easily pass as normal tattoos. Maybe it’s the jewelry? He’s not sure how people dress here, but he is wearing a lot, even for someone in his world. “What?”
“Jimin-hyung, Jimin-hyung!” A little kid shouts before the boy can reply, running over to them. He’s got a plastic pumpkin filled with candy clutched in one hand, and there’s a pink nose and whiskers painted on his face. Yoongi squints at his costume, trying to make sense of it, and then realizes he’s supposed to be a cat.
“Jungwoo-yah,” the boy—Jimin, apparently—coos, squatting down so he’s eye-level. “What’d you get? Where’s Chaeyoung?”
“Right here,” a girl says. She’s slightly taller than her brother—eight or nine, Yoongi thinks—and she’s wearing an outfit that makes her look like an evil robot. She’s got a mask, too, but it’s on top of her head instead of over her face. “Who’s this, oppa?”
“Oh, uh,” Jimin says, “this is—”
“Min Yoongi,” Yoongi offers. “I’m Jimin’s, uh, friend.” He casts an uneasy look at Jimin, not sure if that’s the right term to use.
“Yep,” Jimin agrees, grinning brightly. There’s something endearing about that smile, and it throws Yoongi off just a little, especially since the last time he’d seen this face, it’d been attached to a gumiho on a murderous rampage. “He’s dressed as an assassin.”
“Ooh, cool,” Jungwoo says, eyes going wide. “What’s all the necklaces for?”
“Didja steal them from all the people you killed?” Chaeyoung asks, and Yoongi gives Jimin a wide-eyed look, mouthing did she just ask that?
“Chaeyoung reads a lot,” Jimin explains. “She’s pretty smart.”
“I’m reading Harry Potter right now,” Chaeyoung boasts proudly. “All by myself.”
“Is that who you’re dressed as?” Yoongi asks tentatively.
Chaeyoung gives him an offended look. “ No, dummy,” she says, huffing. “I’m Darth Vader, duh. ”
“Of course,” Yoongi corrects quickly. “From, uh—”
“Star Wars, ” Jungwoo offers, jumping up and down. “Lightsaber! Lightsaber!”
Chaeyoung unclips something from her belt, and presses a button. All of a sudden, she’s holding a flashing, conical sword, and Jungwoo is making grabby motions at it, bucket of candy long forgotten.
Jimin sighs fondly, watching the two of them whack each other. “They’re good kids,” he says warmly. “I love trick-or-treating with them. It doesn’t hurt that their mom pays really well, too.”
“Oh, you’re babysitting?” Yoongi asks, grinning. “Ah, that sounds pretty fun.”
Jimin nods, and Yoong shifts as he realizes they’ve run out of things to talk about. His situation comes back to him in a rush, and he’s once again aware of how out-of-place he is, and just how dire his situation is. And no matter how much Jimin looks like the gumiho, he isn’t one, and nothing about him is going to reveal any sort of information, no matter how much Yoongi wants it to.
“I should, uh, get going,” Yoongi says awkwardly, trying not to wince as Jimin’s face falls a little.
“Of course,” Jimin replies. “Sorry for keeping you.”
“No, no,” Yoongi assures him, “I don’t have anywhere to be. Or to go. At least until midnight, I think. I just didn’t want to infringe.”
“Nah, it’s all good,” Jimin says. He studies Yoongi for a second longer, lips pursed, and Yoongi pauses. He knows he should leave, but he’s not quite sure how.
Jungwoo comes up and tugs on Jimin’s pant leg. “Hyung, can we go to the next house?”
“Yeah,” Jimin answers, ushering them up the walkway of the house they’re standing in. “Go ahead. I’m going to say goodbye to my friend.”
“I want to ring the doorbell this time,” Chaeyoung tells her brother as they race up to the front door.
“I guess this is goodbye, then,” Jimin says, turning back to Yoongi.
“Happy Halloween,” Jimin says. “And nice costume, by the way.”
“It’s not a costume,” Yoongi replies.
Jimin snorts. “You’re asking me to believe you just wear that all the time?”
Yoongi looks down at himself again. “Yes?”
“Who the hell are you, even?” Jimin asks, and normally, Yoongi would get defensive—but Jimin’s just a regular human, not a demon out for blood, and he’s got a cute half-grin on his face that makes Yoongi want to smile back.
“I’m a demon-hunter,” he says truthfully, causing Jimin to burst into laughter, the sound bright. “No, seriously.”
“Okay,” Jimin replies, still giggling. “And I’m a pirate.”
“A pretty cute pirate,” Yoongi blurts before he can help it, already mostly-enraptured with the way Jimin’s whole face seems to shine when he laughs.
Jimin’s eyes curve into crescents with the force of his smile, and Yoongi realizes what he’s said.
“I mean, uh,” he says, backtracking hastily, “what I meant to say—”
“Thanks,” Jimin cuts in, saving Yoongi from self-combustion. “I think I look pretty cute too.”
Yoongi groans, dropping his face into his hands, and Jimin laughs some more, patting him on the back.
Chaeyoung and Jungwoo come skipping back with their bags of candy. “Assassin-ssi, you’re still here?” Chaeyoung asks, looking up at him. “Are you coming with us?”
“I, um,” Yoongi stutters, looking between her and Jimin.
“Come with us! Come with us!” Jungwoo chants, leaping around excitedly and knocking his cat ears askew. “I wanna be friends with you too, Assassin-ssi!”
“Um,” Yoongi says. In the back of his mind, there’s a part of him going don’t do it, don’t fall for his face, you’ve got things to do and a world to get back to, don’t just toss it aside for a boy—
“You should!” Jimin agrees cheerfully, and god, there’s that motherfucking smile again, and Yoongi’s known him for all of five minutes, but he’s already giving in. “You’ve never had a proper Halloween before, anyway. The kids can take you trick-or-treating!”
“Trick-or-treating! Trick-or-treating!” Jungwoo shrieks, jumping around some more and nearly knocking Yoongi off his feet.
“Okay, okay,” Yoongi relents at last, smiling when Jungwoo and Chaeyoung erupt into victorious shouting. “I’ll go. It sounds fun.”
Bad idea! The rational part of him screams.
But then Jimin smiles again, and Yoongi finds it’s never been easier to ignore it.
Trick-or-treating, as mundane or as stupid as it seems, is actually incredibly entertaining. Chaeyoung chatters non-stop about a hundred different subjects, and Jungwoo practices his cat sounds in between houses. At one point, Chaeyoung grabs Yoongi’s hand and insists that he come up with them, because how can he really be trick-or-treating if he’s not saying it?
“I have to say something?” Yoongi asks, reluctantly letting Chaeyoung drag him up to the next house, its windows filled with pumpkin-shaped lights and fake spiders.
“Don’t be scared, it’s easy,” Chaeyoung reassures him, patting his hand. “Just go up and say trick-or-treat and Mr. Yoon will give you candy!” She points at her little brother. “Look, Jungwoo will go first!”
Jungwoo approaches an old man in a lawn chair, beaming from ear-to-ear. “Trick-or-treat!” He says.
“Ah, Jungwoo-yah,” Mr. Yoon says, voice low and rumbly. A smile spreads across his face when Jungwoo bows and accepts the candy, sticking it into his pumpkin. “And Chaeyoung-ah,” he continues, nodding at Yoongi. “Who’s this?”
“Assassin-ssi, like his costume,” she responds cheerfully. “He’s Jimin-oppa’s friend. He’s never been trick-or-treating before!”
Mr. Yoon offers Yoongi a dry smile. “Well, there’s nobody better in the neighborhood to show you around than these two.” He rifles around in his bucket and pulls out a green packet.
“Wait, you have to say it!” Chaeyoung insists, tugging on his hand.
Yoongi sighs. Behind him, he can hear Jimin laughing. “Trick-or-treat,” he says eventually, and both Chaeyoung and Jungwoo cheer.
“I hope you like grape,” Mr. Yoon says, and hands the candy to Yoongi. “Happy Halloween.”
Yoongi accepts the candy, bowing his head and putting it into his pocket, where his fingers graze over his portal stone and a number of paper runes, reminding him of his mission to get back home and find the gumiho.
He falls back with Jimin as Jungwoo and Chaeyoung race ahead.
“This is the last one, you two!” Jimin calls after them. “Then I’ve got to get you back to your mom!”
“Okay!” Chaeyoung responds, cape flapping as she sprints towards the next house.
“Noona, wait!” Jungwoo shouts, coming dangerously close to falling as he chases after his sister.
“They’re…high-energy,” Yoongi comments as Chaeyoung presents her candy bag at the door.
“Yeah,” Jimin says, smiling fondly. The streets are starting to empty now as night truly falls, and Jimin’s arm bumps Yoongi’s as they walk. Yoongi’s fingers are a little stiff with cold by now, and he tucks them into the hoodie he’s wearing under his jacket. “But they’re good kids,” Jimin continues. “It’s just them and their mom, so I like to help out every now and then.”
“Do you live alone?” Yoongi asks.
Jimin nods, pointing back the way they came. “No, I’ve got a roommate. We live in an apartment back that way. I go to college around here, too.”
“Ah, what are you studying?”
“Education and communication,” Jimin admits. “This is my first year.”
“Whoa, you’re nineteen?” Yoongi asks. “That’s pretty young to be committed to something already.”
Jimin eyes him. “Why, how old are you?”
“Twenty-one. Not much older than you,” Yoongi assures him quickly. “And I wasn’t trying to make fun of you. I’m pretty set on my path too.” They stop at the house Chaeyoung and Jungwoo are at, and Jimin turns, face relaxing as he considers Yoongi’s words.
“Well, I appreciate that,” Jimin says. “Are you in college?
“No,” Yoongi says. “I, uh, work.”
“What do you do?” Jimin asks curiously. “Clearly something very badass, since you apparently wear that every day. Also, what job lets you have tattoos that high up your neck?”
The ones where you hunt down malicious demons for a living, Yoongi thinks wryly. Aloud, he says, “a dangerous one.”
“Ooo,” Jimin says, wiggling his eyebrows. “Mysterious. Are you doing all this to woo me, Min Yoongi?”
“Uh,” Yoongi says, faltering at the foxlike-quirk of Jimin’s lips. “No?”
Jimin’s eyebrows hitch higher, and Yoongi feels heat rise in his face. They stare at each other for a long moment, Jimin’s eyes flickering over Yoongi’s face like he’s looking for something. The wind picks up and Yoongi shivers slightly, huddling back into his jacket.
“I’m just messing with you,” Jimin jokes after another second, and Yoongi coughs, breaking the tension. Chaeyoung and Jungwoo return to them just as he’s about to joke back, shaking their full bags of candy like bags of loot.
“Ready to go back?” Jimin asks, like he hadn’t been flirting shamelessly five seconds ago. Yoongi shakes his head, trying to get his thoughts back in order. He’s not used to getting attention—genuine or not, he can’t tell—from pretty boys. Ever. Mostly because people take one look at him, see the tattoos and the silver jewelry, and give him a wide berth. Just because what he does is necessary doesn’t mean it’s accepted, or that he has a place in society.
But here, where ghosts are part of a holiday and magic is something out of fairy tales, his clothes don’t mean anything. The tattoos look cool and the jewelry is for show only, and Jimin smiles at him like he’s not some kind of of outcast, like he doesn’t lurk in the shadows for a living.
Jimin smiles, and Yoongi wants to step into the light.
Chaeyoung and Jungwoo’s mother opens the door for them, smiling gratefully at Jimin when he nudges her kids forwards and introduces Yoongi.
“Mom,” Chaeyoung whines, “can we stay out a little longer with Assassin-ssi and Jimin-oppa? I don’t even want any more candy, I promise!”
“Kim Chaeyoung, that’s a lie and you know it,” Ms. Kim says sternly. “You’re already going to get a cavity. Plus, if I let you go out and not Jungwoo, that’s not fair.”
Chaeyoung grumbles unhappily, but then Jimin crouches down next to her, his face sympathetic.
“You’ll see me again soon, Chaeyoung-ah,” he promises. “I’ll come babysit again in a week or so.”
“Really?” She asks, and when Jimin nods, she throws her arms around Jimin’s neck and squeals happily. Yoongi watches, struck dumb, at the way Jimin’s face scrunches up as he hugs her, and his heart does the same weak fluttery thing it’s been doing all night.
“Momma,” Jungwoo says, fading fast now that he’s home. He holds his his arms up in the direction of Ms. Kim, who picks him up. He drops his head into the crook of her neck, sucking on his thumb. His eyes flicker sleepily.
“See,” Ms. Kim says, shifting Jungwoo on her hip. “Jungwoo’s tired. And he’d be sad if you left him.”
“Okay,” Chaeyoung agrees reluctantly, and Jimin straightens, going back to stand next to Yoongi. “Bye, Assassin-ssi,” she says, waving a little.
“Bye, Chaeyoung,” Yoongi replies, waving and smiling back. He bows to Ms. Kim. “It was good to meet you.”
“You as well, Min Yoongi-ssi,” she says. “Have a good rest of your night, you two.” She smiles at them once again, and then the door’s closing, leaving Jimin and Yoongi on the stoop alone.
“Well,” Jimin says, clapping his hands together, “you hungry?”
Yoongi, unable to do anything else, ends up following Jimin to a 24-hour convenience store, where he discovers that this world uses different money than they do. Rather than the muted tones of Yoongi’s won, Jimin pays with bright bills all sporting some old guy’s face.
It is comforting, however, to know that instant noodles have remained the same. They cup steaming bowls of ramen with stiff fingers and sit in the corner, silent while they eat. Yoongi’s far hungrier than he realizes and inhales his food at the speed of light, glaring at Jimin when he laughs and buys them sodas, too.
“I feel bad, taking all your money,” Yoongi mutters.
“It’s fine,” Jimin assures him, mouth full. He sticks his chopsticks in his ramen and struggles with his coat pocket for a second before he pulls out his phone, but in the process, knocks his can off the table.
Yoongi’s reflexes, honed to near-perfection, have him reacting before he can think about it. Just as the can’s about to tip over and spill its contents on the ground, he catches it, breathing out a sigh of relief.
Jimin’s staring at him as he puts the can back on the table. “What the hell,” he asks, looking awestruck. “Whoa, what are you, a ninja?”
“No,” Yoongi says. He was thinking about it for a little bit, but Jeongguk came back sort of weird, and two years in the mountains of Pyeongchang sounded a little much. “I just have good reflexes.”
“That’s not just good reflexes,” Jimin comments, “that’s like, you trained.”
You’re not wrong, Yoongi thinks, but opts instead to sip his soda. “What’s the time?”
“Uh, just after nine,” Jimin says. “Don’t avoid the topic, though. Does this have anything to do with why you almost attacked me when I turned around?”
Yoongi’s been preparing for this sort of curiosity, and this time, stands his ground and refuses to let Jimin turn him inside out and pull the truth from his lips.
“Do you always ask so many questions?”
“Hmm,” Jimin says, leaning forward on his elbows. “Only when I don’t get answers.”
“I don’t think you want my truth,” Yoongi replies, leaning back in his chair. “It’s sort of gruesome.”
“You act so mysterious,” Jimin notes, “but you still turn bright pink when I smile.”
Right on cue, heat floods Yoongi’s cheeks. “I’m not being mysterious,” he mutters, looking down at his soda. “I’m being truthful.”
“Then why can’t you tell me what’s up with you?”
Yoongi purses his lips, trying to figure out a way to get Jimin to stop badgering him. There’s no magic to pull from the air, here, because charms don’t work—and his portal stone is down for the count until tomorrow, when Hallow’s Eve is done fucking up the magic in his world. But nothing Yoongi says will sway him, so he still has to try.
He’s quarter-sylph, and can feel the dissonant hum in his blood, distant but there. So he focuses for a second, gathering breath in his lungs, and exhales lightly. The whole store is suddenly filled with a breeze, warm and sweet-smelling. The magazines on the racks flutter lightly, and Jimin’s hair lifts from his face as the magic Yoongi had mustered up washes over him. His eyes fog over momentarily as whatever thoughts are in his head are swept away, like leaves in the wind. Yoongi feels a little bad for having to use a scatter, but it’s not like Jimin will totally forget—he’ll remember in time. Just—hopefully after Yoongi’s gone, and unable to answer his questions.
“What was I talking about?” Jimin asks distantly, pushing his hair off his forehead, and Yoongi notices how attractive he is for what’s probably the thousandth time. Now that they’re in the light, too, he can see the clear differences between the gumiho and Jimin. His lips are chapped from the cold, and there’s a shadow of acne across his forehead. The skin on his knuckles is flaky and two of his fingernails are painted pink, the sleeves of his sweater dirty and pilling.
Yoongi sort of wants to kiss him. Well, he’d wanted to kiss the gumiho, too, but that’s because everyone wants to kiss a gumiho. That’s sort of the point of their magic.
But Jimin isn’t a gumiho. Or at least, Yoongi sure hopes he’s not, because then he’d be down a soul and probably dead, and it’d really piss Hoseok off if he did that. Which means Yoongi’s desire to kiss Jimin is purely him, which is a terrifying thought on its own.
“Oh yeah,” Jimin is saying, nodding, “I was gonna ask you if you wanted to come to my house and watch some spooky movies. I’m guessing you’ve never seen those either.”
“I haven’t,” Yoongi admits, blinking and trying to find something other to focus on than Jimin’s face. “But I’d really like to.”
“Great!” Jimin says brightly, and there’s the smile again, warming Yoongi all over.
Jimin lifts his bowl of ramen and slurps down the rest of the broth. It’s kind of gross, but also immensely endearing in a way Yoongi can’t put his finger on even if he tried.
They clean up their table, and Jimin shimmies back into his jacket and Yoongi holds the door for him, shivering a little as they head back into the cold October night.
“Why are you doing this?” Yoongi asks as they walk. “We’re basically strangers, remember?”
Jimin purses his lips, thoughtful. “You seem like the kind of guy that wants to be approached but never is,” he says, “because of how you look, or how you act.” He twists his hands together, suddenly shy. “People sort of…do the same thing to me. So I guess I just wanted to give you a chance.”
Yoongi stops dead in his tracks, stunned. “What?”
“I’m overstepping,” Jimin says immediately, panicking and waving his hands apologetically. “I’m sorry.”
“No, no,” Yoongi jumps in hastily. “You’re—you’re not. You just, uh, hit the nail on the head, somehow.”
Jimin looks at him, unsure.
“You didn’t overstep,” Yoongi says gently, nudging Jimin and starting to walk again.
Jimin lets out a sigh of relief. “Good,” he says, jogging a little to catch up. The leaves crunch under Yoongi’s boots, and Jimin hums something under his breath. Their hands bump as continue along together, a little closer than necessary.
Something inside of Yoongi is warm, and if he’s smiling the whole way back to Jimin’s apartment—well, it’s dark out, and Jimin doesn’t have to know.
Jimin decides on a movie called A Nightmare Before Christmas, telling Yoongi something about ‘Halloween classics’ and how he’s ‘not about to watch a horror movie this late’. Yoongi hasn’t seen a movie in a long time—his job doesn’t really allow for it, because most of the work he ends up doing is during the night, and nobody ever wants to watch a movie during the day.
“You’re lucky my roommate’s out partying,” Jimin says as he puts some popcorn in the microwave, “or he’d be barraging you with questions.”
“Do you like him?” Yoongi asks.
“Yes, of course,” Jimin replies. “He’s my best friend. Get the kimchi out of the fridge—it’s from my mom, and we have to eat it or she’ll be sad.”
Yoongi does as Jimin says, pulling out the container of kimchi and setting it on the counter, and Jimin grabs a couple forks before they both settle onto the couch. Yoongi puts space between them in the beginning in an attempt to keep his wits about him, but Jimin slowly slides closer and closer as the movie plays on, until he’s got his arm pressed against Yoongi’s. He looks much smaller, tucked close like this, and Yoongi is comforted by the warm, solid weight of him.
“It feels like I’ve met you before,” Jimin says suddenly, just as Sally’s gotten kidnapped by Oogie Boogie.
A different version of you has, Yoongi thinks, but I didn’t like him quite as much as I like you.
“What’d you say?” Jimin asks, eyes still trained on the TV.
Yoongi curses under his breath. “Nothing,” he says.
Jimin turns to look at him, the movie painting his skin in a hundred different colors. “You said you liked me.”
“Of course I like you,” Yoongi scoffs, even as his heart pounds hard in his chest. “I wouldn’t be in here if I wasn’t.”
“Yeah, but how’d I know you weren’t some sort of creep? How’d we even get here in the first place?”
“Beats me,” Yoongi says. “You’re the one that invited me in here. Maybe this is your plan to trap me.”
“I could never hurt anybody,” Jimin replies, unexpectedly fierce, and his tone is what makes Yoongi finally glance over to him. “Really. I never could.”
Yoongi studies Jimin for a second, and then for another. In the background, the movie plays.
He’s not quite sure why Jimin’s so intent on making this clear—his reaction was unexpected, to say the least—but there’s truth shining in his face, and desperation that screams believe me.
“I believe you,” Yoongi says at last. “I—sorry.”
“It’s okay,” Jimin replies, drawing his legs up onto the couch. “It was funny, actually. I just wanted to make sure…you knew I wouldn’t hurt anyone. Or you. And we barely know each other, and all of that, but. It was important.”
“Okay,” Yoongi says, not sure what point Jimin’s trying to make.
Jimin sighs, reading the confusion on his face. “What I’m trying to say,” he huffs, “is that I’m a good guy.”
“Oh,” Yoongi says. “That’s it?”
“Yes,” Jimin says. He purses his lips, studying Yoongi’s face like he’s once again searching for something specific. Yoongi, in turn, admires the way the turns Jimin soft, smoothing the edges of his jaw and casting his hair silver. As they stare at each other, the air between them tightens, filling with a heady sort of anticipation.
“And now,” Jimin says, “I’m going to kiss you.”
Yoongi blinks. “Okay.”
Jimin smiles, and Yoongi feels something inside of him melt, the last of the cold fading away. Then Jimin is moving towards him—slowly, like he’s afraid Yoongi will back away—and Yoongi holds his breath until their lips brush, the touch feather-light. Jimin starts to pull away, but Yoongi catches his wrist. “It’s okay,” he breathes, and Jimin nods. This time, when their mouths meet again, it’s with conviction, and Yoongi lets his eyes close.
Yoongi hasn’t kissed many people in his life—he can count the number on one hand, actually—but Jimin clearly knows what he’s doing, because there’s minimal bumping and pretty soon Jimin’s licking into Yoongi’s mouth, and Yoongi loses himself in the feeling of it, of the feeling of Jimin’s lips and tongue. Jimin smells nice, too, like popcorn and and something softer, sweeter. He cradles Yoongi’s face with unexpected tenderness and shuffles a little closer, and Yoongi reaches for him, driven by the need to touch Jimin, to feel him.
Jimin pulls back before Yoongi can slip his fingers under the hem of Jimin’s shirt, cheeks and lips red. Yoongi thinks he’s done something wrong for a half-second, but then Jimin lifts himself and slides smoothly into Yoongi’s lap.
“Better,” Jimin declares, and then leans down again.
The last person Yoongi kissed had been Unseelie, and they’re ice-cold, so the warmth of Jimin’s skin is a shock. Heat curls under Yoongi’s palms, and he swears he can feel Jimin’s heartbeat there, solid and steady against his fingertips.
Jimin runs his fingers along the lines of Yoongi’s jaw and shifts forward. Yoongi groans at the movement, pulling away, and Jimin grins wickedly.
“Sorry,” he says, not sounding sorry at all.
Yoongi gives him a flat look before pulling him close and pressing his mouth to Jimin’s neck, all the way from underneath his chin down to his collarbones, exposed thanks to his stupid pirate shirt. He lingers for a second or two, and then it’s Jimin’s turn to make noise now, low and keening.
Yoongi’s just about to lift Jimin’s shirt up, the warmth coming from him addicting, soothing and settling something deep inside of Yoongi, when the there’s the sound of a key in the lock.
Once again, his reflexes are a step ahead of his logic, and everything in him simultaneously screams protect! So he bolts upright, pushing Jimin behind him, a hand already at his waist and muscles coiled, prepared to vault over the couch.
The door opens, and of course it’s a totally unfamiliar, harmless-looking guy, eyes widening as he sees Yoongi, posed like he’s about to attack.
Jimin tugs on the back of his shirt. “Yoongi-hyung,” he says, and Yoongi can hear the goddamn laugh in his voice. “Don’t jump my roommate.”
“Hi,” Jimin’s roommate says. “I’m Kim Taehyung, and if you’re going to hook up with Jimin, please don’t do it on the couch.”
Yoongi groans and lets himself tip backwards into Jimin’s lap, face heating with embarrassment. Jimin cracks up, patting Yoongi’s head sympathetically. “We were just watching some Halloween movies,” Jimin explains. “Yoongi’s never had a Halloween before.”
“So you’re saying this ridiculous leather jacket isn’t a joke?”
Yoongi sits up again, glaring at Taehyung. “Why the hell is everyone coming at me for what I’m wearing?”
“Dude, you sort of look like you jumped out of that one American TV show,” Taehyung says. “What was it? Based off a book?”
“Shadowhunters, ” Jimin fills in. Taehyung snaps his fingers.
“Yeah, that,” he says, and then nods at Yoongi. “Thanks for not attacking me, by the way. I appreciate it.”
Yoongi huffs, and Jimin pats his head again.
“Where are you going?” Jimin asks as Taehyung kicks off his shoes.
“Gonna FaceTime my boyfriend,” Taehyung replies. “I’ll keep it down if you keep it down.”
Jimin rolls his eyes. “You’re an ass.”
“You love me,” Taehyung says, grinning. “Okay, I’m going now. Bye! Stay safe!” He throws Jimin a saucy wink, then disappears down the hallway, leaving Yoongi and Jimin alone once again.
“Well, that totally killed the mood,” Jimin comments, shifting so they’re pressed up against each other again. “Aw, and we missed a good bit of the movie.”
“We could always go back and rewind it,” Yoongi suggests.
“Or,” Jimin says, eyes glinting, “we could just keep kissing, mood be damned.”
Needless to say, they go with the second option. They kiss for so long that Yoongi’s mouth starts to go numb, and all he can taste, feel, and smell is Jimin. His grip on reality loosens, and Jimin wonders aloud a couple times if he’d left a window open, because more than once, a breeze floats through the room, warm and sweet. Yoongi nearly tells Jimin that he’s technically causing it, because Yoongi’s lost a hold on his magic and it’s Jimin’s fault.
The clock ticks nearer to midnight, and Jimin’s eyelids start to droop as they lie on the couch. They’ve moved on to some animated movie about Day of the Dead, because Jimin had sworn it was the best movie he’d seen in his life. Yoongi half-watches it, half-watches Jimin fall asleep, partially in Yoongi’s lap. His mouth is open and his cheek is pressed against Yoongi’s shoulder, who thinks he’s never been more endeared in his whole entire life.
On the coffee table, Jimin’s phone lights up with an alert, and Yoongi catches the date and time—12:01, November 1st. He heaves a massive sigh. Already, he can feel his blood buzzing as all of his magic returns to him, calling to a world far away as the magical weirdness from the night fades. The tracking spell has long expired, as he’d suspected, but at this point he can’t find the energy to care.
He looks down at Jimin again and feels something in his heart jerk painfully. Four hours they’d spent together, and it was the most meaningful four hours in Yoongi’s life. Must be nice, he thinks wistfully as he gently extracts himself, to be human here.
Jimin stirs as Yoongi starts to stand up, eyelashes fluttering as he lifts his head. “Yoongi-hyung?” He asks sleepily, voice hoarse. “Are you going?”
“Yeah,” Yoongi answers. “It’s late.”
“Oh,” Jimin replies. “You could stay the night, if you wanted.”
Yoongi actually hesitates before he remembers his responsibility, his friends, his home. He can’t turn away from them, not when they need him. Jimin doesn’t need him, and he doesn’t need Jimin.
Not yet, the quiet part of him whispers. But if you gave it time, you could. In the best way.
Yoongi shakes his head, coming to his senses. “I can’t, Jimin-ah. I have to get home. There are people worried about me.”
“Mm,” Jimin agrees, letting his head tip back against the couch cushions. “Probably. You had a wild night.”
Yoongi thinks about how he’d slammed through multiple dimensional layers, ended up in a reflection of his world and had met a human boy with a beautiful face. There’s no way Jimin could know this, but he’s right anyway—it has been quite a night, and Yoongi has never felt warmer in his whole life.
“Put your number in my phone,” Jimin says, gesturing to it. “I’ll call you later.”
Yoongi’s heart sinks. This is exactly what he’d been wanting to avoid. He takes a deep breath, fighting off the sadness that pricks at the corner of his eyes. Then, for the second time tonight, he exhales, watching Jimin’s eyes fog over and then clear.
“It’s time for me to go,” Yoongi says. “It’ll take a second for the magic to set in, but you’ll forget me soon enough.”
Jimin sighs heavily. “I suppose I will.”
Yoongi freezes in place, but Jimin doesn’t elaborate, only tips his head up. “Kiss me before you go back, then?”
Yoongi’s done some pretty difficult things—he’s chased down rank five demons, he’s slain monsters, and he’s said goodbye too many times, to too many people. But somehow, this is the hardest thing yet.
The kiss is gentle and quiet, like Jimin knows exactly where Yoongi’s going and how he’s never coming back.
Maybe he does. There’s something in his eyes, Yoongi thinks, that tells him Jimin knows a little more than he lets on—but that could also just be how humans in this world look.
“Bye, Yoongi,” Jimin says when they separate. He sinks back into the couch, a small smile on his lips. “It was good to meet you. Stay warm.”
Yoongi pauses, jacket halfway on. “Stay warm?”
“Your hands,” Jimin explains, partially raising his own. His eyes are already closed. “They were cold. Find someone to warm them.”
His words trail off here as the final part of Yoongi’s magic takes hold, and he sinks into sleep. When he wakes, he won’t remember Yoongi even being here in the first place, his memories scattered by an unseen breeze.
Yoongi takes one last look at him, just for the sake of it. Then he steps out into the cold October night, pulls out his portal stone, and thinks about going home.
Yoongi knows he’s back because it’s warmer. Humidity swirls in his lungs, and the tang of magic sits heavy in the back of his throat, citrusy and metallic. His cell phone goes buzzes non-stop with alerts as soon as his service comes back, and his earpiece starts making staticky sounds. He sighs, wondering how he’s going to explain everything to his friends. Oh, by the way, he thinks dryly as he puts his earpiece in and dials Namjoon’s number, I met the human version of the gumiho in an alternate dimension, and I wanted to fall in love with him.
Yeah, that’d go over great. He’d never hear the end of it.
“Hyung!” Namjoon bursts out immediately. “Hey, you guys! Yoongi-hyung’s alive!”
There’s a chorus of shouting as Yoongi’s friends gather around, and Namjoon puts them on speakerphone.
“What the fuck happened to you?” Hoseok asks.
“I was literally about to scry for you,” Seokjin adds. “Jeongguk was damn near ready to tear the city apart, too.”
“Fuck you,” Jeongguk mutters. “Why didn’t you say you were going to a different dimension? I thought we didn’t fuck with that shit.”
“We don’t,” Yoongi says. “It was an accident.”
“Yeah, I fucking warned you,” Hoseok says, laughing. “And look what happened.”
“Yeah yeah, I’m sorry,” Yoongi replies, thinking of Jimin and not really feeling that apologetic.
“So where the hell did you do?” Namjoon asks. “What went down in the alternate world?”
Yoongi sighs. “It’s a long story. And I’m fucking wiped. Can you just get me home?”
“Yeah,” Namjoon says. “On it right now.”
“But you owe us the whole story in the morning,” Seokjin says. “Or I’ll pull it from your head.”
“Is that a threat?” Yoongi asks, turning around in a circle and squinting at the street signs.
“Nope,” Seokjin says cheerfully. “It’s a promise. Night, Yoongi-yah.”
“Here, I’m sending the location to your phone,” Namjoon says. “Jeongguk says he’ll wait up for you, but I’m going to bed.”
“Cool,” Yoongi says. “Oh, wait, did you find the gumiho?”
“The—oh yeah,” Namjoon replies. “Uh, turns out it wasn’t him. Seokjin looked at the bodies and decided it was a kappa. Those weren’t hickeys—they were strangle marks. They’d died from drowning, not from having their soul pulled out of them.”
A strange sense of relief washes over Yoongi. “Good,” he says before he can stop himself, thinking about how Jimin had looked him in the eyes and told him I could never hurt anybody.
“You sure you’re alright, hyung?” Namjoon asks after a beat. “You sound sorta…strange. And you were really set on bringing the gumiho in.”
“I’m alright,” Yoongi says. Behind him, a door opens and closes. “I just…”
“I met someone,” Yoongi replies distantly, and knows he’s only confusing Namjoon more. “I’ll tell you later.”
“Okay, hyung,” Namjoon says, giving up on trying to get a straight answer out of Yoongi. “Goodnight. See you later.”
“Night, Joon-ah. Sleep well.”
Yoongi hangs up and opens the map Namjoon has sent him. He starts up the street, passing by apartments and tiny narrow houses, faerie lights glowing in the windows of some of them. Next to him, cars drive by, tires splashing through puddles.
He’s got his head down, so he almost doesn’t see the boy standing on the sidewalk, hands in his pockets and a little smile pulling at the corners of his mouth.
Something makes Yoongi look up, though, and he stops dead in his tracks when he recognizes the face, illuminated by the streetlight in a way that feels much too familiar. It’s Park Jimin, it’s the gumiho, it’s both, and Yoongi can’t breathe.
“Hi,” the gumiho says. “I thought you’d be here.”
Yoongi exhales slowly. “Why’s that?”
“Just a feeling.” Shrugging, the gumiho steps closer. He smiles—it’s the exact same smile, the one Yoongi had kissed not long ago—and Yoongi cannot, for the life of him, work up the energy to be on edge in the way he’s supposed to be.
“So you believe me now?” The gumiho asks.
“What?” Yoongi asks stupidly, still reeling at the exact sameness of the gumiho’s face.
“I didn’t kill those boys,” the gumiho repeats, “and you believe me.”
Yoongi lifts his head, remembering how Jimin had looked at him with the same expression, the one that had asked Yoongi to believe him. The scene, now, is familiar: the light slanting across the gumiho’s cheekbones, the whisper of wind shifting leaves across the sidewalk.
And he does. “I believe you.”
The gumiho smiles wider, and Yoongi’s heart falls sideways all over again.
“I’m sorry for earlier,” Yoongi continues. “Really.”
“It’s alright,” the gumiho answers, waving a nonchalant hand. It’s not alright, Yoongi thinks, mind racing as he scrambles to put all the pieces together. “You had a chance to redeem yourself, in the end.”
Yoongi blinks at him, unsure what to make of that comment. Nothing that’s happening right now makes sense, whatsoever—and the gumiho seems to know this, if the twinkle in his eye is any indication.
“I’m Park Jimin, by the way,” the gumiho says, and of course he is, because tonight cannot get any weirder or any spookier.
“Min Yoongi,” Yoongi replies, shaking off the dizzying sense of deja vu.
Park Jimin smirks, and a mischievous look flickers across his face, like he knows something Yoongi doesn’t. It’s not unlike the look the other Jimin gave him right before he left. “I know,” he says. “Happy late Halloween, by the way.”
A strange sort of relief overtakes Yoongi, and in the back of his head, something clicks and settles. The part of him that was on edge finally relaxes, and Jimin can see it, because he smiles at Yoongi, delighted. “Do you want to come in and warm your hands up?” He asks.
“Sure,” Yoongi says, even though he really has no idea what’s happening, or how it’s happening—especially since they don’t have Halloween here, which means this shouldn’t be occurring in the first place. But he’s tired, and Jimin’s smiling at him, and the warm part inside of him says now you have all the time in the world.