Yoongi bought the choker as a joke. A silver crescent moon hanging from a cheap strip of black velvet, a constant reminder of the mother he has never seen, of the father who gazes at the moon through a telescope in search for a love he will never see again. Selíni is gone, hiding somewhere in a crater on the moon while Ártemis reigns supreme, chasing her brother as they ride their chariots around the Earth. The moonlight lingers on his skin, cold to the touch, a familiar caress.
He lets his phone ring, the bzzt bzzt of the vibrations buzzing to the beat of a two-four time signature. Presto. Molto agitato. Yoongi doesn’t feel like dealing with his father right now, too drunk on moonlight and moonshine to want to go back to that cramped apartment, where his father will look at him with an incomparable sadness. He has his mother’s eyes, he knows.
There’s a loud rustling in the bushes, accompanied by the sound of drunken laughter and a sober stride. Yoongi doesn’t even need to look to know that it’s Hoseok, loud and proud and brighter than the stars.
“Ahhh, there you are.” Hoseok drawls, leaves poking out of his hair as he stumbles over to where Yoongi sits, collapsing on the small patch of grass next to him. “I was wondering where you were.”
“There’s a clear path literally a few metres away,” Yoongi points out. Hoseok slips an arm around around his shoulders, wine stains from last week still lingering on the sleeves of his newly bought dress shirt. His arm is warm, and Yoongi leans in, burrows his nose into the crook where neck meets shoulder, skin meets fabric, “you could’ve just walked that way.”
“But the hard way’s funner, hyung.” Hoseok says, eyes closed as he hums a random melody under his breath.
“More fun.” Yoongi corrects him, chapped lips brushing against smooth skin as he mumbles into his neck, “How drunk are you, anyway?”
“Like, super drunk? Two hundred and five percent drunk?” Hoseok replies, tilting his head as he scrunches his eyebrows, cheeks flushed as red as pomegranates. “How drunk are you? I can feel the alcohol in your blood. That’s some rancid stuff you’ve got in you, y’know.”
“Please, it’s not much, you know we’re both lightweights.” Yoongi says. Hoseok hums, wrapping his spare arm around Yoongi’s waist, shifting his weight so Yoongi’s practically curled up on top of him. The moonlight is heavy on his back, a constant presence, always bending and swirling and moving, interacting with the stars in the sky. He feels it more than he sees it, like a screwed up version of proprioception but with the moon. Hoseok’s arm is a comforting presence, weighing him down on earth like gravity. “Besides, it’s not like you can’t just sober us up whenever you want.”
“Oh yeah,” Hoseok says, eyes creasing like crescent moons when he laughs, “I forgot I could do that. Heh.”
Bending moonlight isn’t hard, not when the sky is clear and the moon is full. All it takes is a little concentration- concentration that Yoongi doesn’t have right now, not when the moonshine makes his body feels warm and fuzzy atop Hoseok’s, when all he can focus on is the way the moonlight on his back pulses to the rhythm of Hoseok’s heartbeat. He shifts, lifting his head up from where it’s buried in Hoseok’s shoulder, resting on his elbows.
“Oi, Hoseok-ah, sober me up.” He says, half occupied at the way the moonlight buries itself in Hoseok’s ruffled, leaf-filled hair. Hoseok hums in agreement, smiling cheekily at him.
Having Hoseok suck the drunk out of him is always an interesting experience. It’s indescribable, a weird sensation comprised of both freedom and heaviness, flying and sinking, a weird acquired taste. Not a lot of people like it all that much (Yoongi does though, if only because Hoseok’s the one doing it). Hoseok feels it more, says that he can feel the alcohol evaporating from his blood, floating away into the atmosphere like ozone and all the other gases. It’s not the most scientifically accurate description, but it's not like their existences are scientifically accurate anyway.
It’s like a weird hazy fog is lifted from his eyes all at once. The moonlight is brighter, heavier, colder, its presence around them magnified. Hoseok is as dazzling as always, hair splayed out on the ground beneath them, framing his face like a chaotic halo. It doesn’t take long for Yoongi to bend the moonlight around them, twisting and moving it with his mind.
“I’m counting on you to make me look pretty, hyung.” Hoseok says, smiling.
Yoongi’s been to an astronomical observatory only once in his life, the same observatory his father said he met his mother at. Perhaps he was grasping at straws, trying to hold onto any trace of his mother he could find, or perhaps he just wanted to understand what it was about the moon people were so enamoured with. It was ironic, he’d thought at the time, that a son of the moon would be less enthusiastic about space than those made out of earth and clay.
Maybe it’s an opposites attract kind of thing- people always admire what they can never experience themselves. Yoongi wishes he could be like Hoseok, borne of the earth and son of the wine god, able to roam the world without fear of flying away. He’s scared, so scared, of floating away like the moonbeams he’s always so hyper aware of, of being pulled back to the moon like his mother, leaving his father to die alone in a lonely city. There are always things that ground him, of course: the sound of Beethoven’s ninth, the clicking of a mouse, the light in Hoseok’s eyes. Still, he can only hope that they are enough. He needs it to be enough.
“You’re always pretty, Seok-seok-ah.” Yoongi says, watching as the drunken haze starts to leave Hoseok’s eyes, the alcohol leaving his blood. He transfers the moonlight hitting his back to the top of Hoseok’s head, slowly weaving a crown of moonflowers into his hair. They illuminate Hoseok’s face in the strangest of ways, as if the moonlight itself were in awe of his beauty, making him glow in ways that defy logic and reason. Hoseok closes his eyes, dimples emerging as he smiles. Yoongi sprinkles flakes of moonlight on his cheeks, drawing known constellations and coming up with new ones in Hoseok’s name.
“You know, I was quite the artist when I was young.” Yoongi says, letting the moonlight swirl and flow around the soft glow of the moonflowers, “I didn’t realize that most people didn’t feel the moonlight like I did, so my drawings of the night sky back in preschool were… different. My art teacher was impressed.”
“She said it was real Van Gogh-like.” Yoongi continues, drawing Corona Borealis atop his crown of moonflowers. “I think my dad almost had a heart attack, the first time.”
“Heh, maybe Van Gogh was a son of Selene too.” Hoseok says, eyes fluttering open. He looks at Yoongi with a softness that makes the moonlight off his back restless, makes his heart grow two sizes and makes his hands tremble. Many people say that love feels like floating, but to Yoongi love feels like gravity instead. It plants his feet down into the ground, gives him the strength to sit in the moonlight without feeling like he’s going to fade away at any moment.
Yoongi crawls off Hoseok, warm arms slipping off his waist as he moves to lie down next to him. Hoseok puts an arm around Yoongi’s shoulders, lets him rest his head on his arm as he snuggles in close, their cheeks softly brushing against each other in greeting. He pulls out his phone, takes a photo of the two of them lying on the grass, his moonlight dancing on Hoseok’s face, the stars on his cheeks reflecting the stars in his eyes. The moonlight in the photo will never be as radiant as it is in real life, but it’s a memory, one that the two of them can look back at when their godliness overwhelms their mortal shells, when they need to be reminded that love is kind and soft and grounding. That love, no matter romantic or platonic, intense or mellow, concrete or abstract, is enough.
“I want to look for my mother.” Yoongi blurts out. The weight of his choker suddenly feels present, the crescent moon pendant heavy at the hollow of his throat.
“Then we’ll find her together.” Hoseok replies, cradling Yoongi’s palm in his. Their fingers slot together like puzzle pieces, Yoongi’s long and lanky piano fingers a beautiful contrast to Hoseok’s calloused and weathered guitar hands.
“Together.” Yoongi repeats. Hoseok hums, tapping out the start of a spontaneous refrain on the back of his hand. The moonlight bends around them, and he illuminates little flecks here and there, makes them float around like fireflies.
Together. He likes the sound of that.