|"My name is Yoongi, by the way," says the stranger, the Korean — no, this Yoongi person — and all of a sudden Seokjin feels something sharp shoot to the back of his ears. His cheeks feel warm, sort of. "Not that you asked. It's just... weird, actually talking in Korean to a Korean in a place that isn't Korea and— I swear I'm actually better at words, on most days, but—"|
But it's late and they're stuck in an airport far away from Incheon International Airport. But it's fucking two in the morning and they've been let down by their carrier at least three times already — that gives them an excuse to be a little less eloquent, right? A little less logical? A bit more unwilling to put up walls in front of a supposed stranger who, all of a sudden, feels like home? Come on, that should be a good enough excuse. It's three in the afternoon in Seoul, South Korea, and yet here they still are — in a foreign land speaking their own language, no more than two feet of each other, stuck mid-thought and mid-decision, something warm and explosive lodged in their throats, waiting to be pushed out.
"You want gum?" Seokjin offers. He reaches deep in his pocket, sick of the standstill, then drops his gaze to where he's rummaging for sweets, all while babbling, "'Name's Jin, by the way. And uh, I had crackers earlier but I already ate 'em and I'm pretty sure the stores here won't open 'til five or six or something, so—"
"Sure," Yoongi answers, short and curt, and Seokjin resists the urge to peer through his bangs. It's barely been thirty minutes since they'd met, but there's a peculiar little curl in the man's voice that Seokjin is dead sure looks a lot like a small smile tugging at the corners of the guy's lips. He's tested that theory on at least ten friends already. He's never been wrong. "I, uh— Thanks, Jin. I'd— D'you mind if I have two?"
elindar, you're up!