Happy Birthday To Our Handsome Leader #happytaeyongday

happy birthday to our handsome leader ♡ #happytaeyongday

‘he-’ series: he dimples (cr.) 

he’s so handsome 😭

{kth + blurb}

(Moodboard credit to @yutoadah. This is stunning.)

~

Prompt: “Shh. I’m forming an artist’s opinion.” In which you and Taehyung have been paired up to research a very interesting piece of museum art for your ARTS203 final. 

Genre: i’ve started calling it ‘build-and-release-fluff’

Member: Kim Taehyung

Warnings: kim taehunk as that artist type because whoa watch out?? but nah

Word Count: 6.5k

~

Art. It’s all art now. 

Scattered PaperMate pens and number two pencils of various sharpness and eraser length littered about the table etch a haphazard frame to the scrawled journals and tattered texts forming a kind of abstract image in their messy, half-open pilings. There are faded coffee stains barely visible against the wood surface– a sort of blotched watercolor offering the subtle scent of espresso to the surroundings of the canvas. You wonder absentmindedly as you twirl an ink pen in between lazy fingers if modern artists are missing out on a prime opportunity for a new take on scratch and sniff.

“Earth to Y/N,” a low timbre rolls out, sounding far away at first before it cuts through the heaviness of your distraction with the accompaniment of a waving hand. You hadn’t realized how far you’d allow your mind to drift until you’re shaking it of the enveloping haze, eyes blinking away the fog that frames the sculpture you’ve spent the last 15 minutes unheedingly analyzing. 

Glancing up with more effort than it should take to refocus your gaze, you find a familiar mop of floppy, silver-green locks leaning itself into your line of vision, an expression of questioning adorned on the cherubic face below it: Taehyung. The first and only thought that seems to form at the sight of him is how he can still look just like he did when he stepped out of the hotel 8 hours ago–all put together and presentable–whereas you’re pretty sure you’ve been more resembling the Wicked Witch of the West since about noon.

His stupid hair–even tousled through and through by studying hands–is, of course, tumbling in waves of loose, glossy curls across his forehead, its coat somehow satin-like still against the dim glow of the coffeehouse bulbs overhead. Golden, melanin skin, paled slightly from the coming of the colder seasons, seems void of the stress and grime of the day laying creaseless and dew-like atop the landscape of his face. A softly structured nose rounds gently over a sharp cupid’s bow currently partnered in the parting of his stupid upper lip– too pink and too big for his own good.

And those eyebrows, dark and full and an ample frame to that pair of liberally lustrous irises set wide and staring right at you. 

Art.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” those lips suddenly speak, a small, endeared chuckle following.

You shake your head again quickly, blinking. “Did you ask me something?” 

“If you were ready to get out of here, because it looks like you’re about to fall asleep on me.” He continues to look amused at your befuddled state as his long and lithe stature shifts from the metal chair he’d been residing in, svelte arms beginning to disassemble the sculpture of books and pens scattered about the table. Finally seeing this masterpiece of a mess return to a jumble of mundane school supplies seems to jolt you out of the last of your lagging lethargy. 

“Oh…no, I wasn’t falling asleep on you!” you vindicate as naturally as possible, rising a little too fast from your own seat as the words settle on you a second time. “I-I mean, I wasn’t on you.” Your hands elevate in defense as your eyes widen slightly. “I was over here not falling asleep! Very not on you…No, I was just–” You’re all-too-aware of Taehyung’s luminous eyes watching you with undisguised intrigue, a dusting of that winsome side smirk present at the corner of his lips as he tosses his book-bag over one shoulder, shoving the other hand into the front pocket of his slacks. “What time is it again?”

You’re aware that he never said it in the first place, but your inner-self is practically begging you for a change of topic before he can respond.

If you weren’t embarrassed before, you begin to feel so now at how disheveled you appear attempting to wrangle up your own things while Taehyung stands there waiting looking like something carved from alabaster, but he only chuckles lowly once more, unfazed by your scattered nature. You’re too busy stuffing the last of your PaperMate pen collection into a pencil case and avoiding his shining gaze to see him grinning fondly down at you, tugging his wrist back out to check the watch that resides there. 

“Almost three-thirty,” he replies casually, replacing his hand and readjusting the position of his bag across his broad shoulder.

“Three-thir–are you kidding?! There’s barely any time left!” Your eyes are suddenly wide and breathing frantic, any organization that was going to the innards of your book-bag now long forgotten as you jam the zipper half-closed and toss your arm through the strap. 

“Don’t worry, it’s not that fa–” Taehyung is abruptly cut off with a surprised grunt as you whip his body along behind yours, his narrow wrist locked within the steely determination of your nimble fingers. All of your previous inhibitions have been momentarily stored away for the sake of the greater task at hand–and that greater task closes in less than 3 hours. 

“Thank you!” you call hastily over your shoulder to the barista who is currently restocking 20oz cups by the register. He seems an equal mix of confused and uninterested as you whisk your entourage from the premises of the quaint coffee shop you’ve been holed up in for the past who-know’s-how-many hours stuffing random bits of research into your head until it refused to retain anymore. 

You hear Taehyung echo your acknowledgement of service behind you with a stutter, his footsteps slapping heavily after yours in an effort to keep up with your pace as you press through the doors and stumble out onto the bustling Manhattan sidewalk. There’s a brief moment where you worry that your feet are going to catch on themselves in all your haste before Taehyung’s hand frees itself from your grip and stations against your waist, hovering, ready to steady your clumsy gate. 

“Whoa there,” he breathes with a hint of laughter as you turn your face to find his resting far too close, his long body bent at an odd angle over you to accommodate for the lack of space left for two stationary bodies in the middle of the walkway. All semblance of resolve formerly, and very momentarily, surging through your body speeds away along with the bustling business men and women on their conference calls leaving you to your usual awkward self, dissecting the sculpture in front of you with wide eyes and a lodged throat. 

“I think I can keep up with you now,” Taehyung continues, smiling that smooth lipped smile, soft and small. “Besides, I might need both of my limbs to keep you from hurting yourself for the next few blocks.” His hand slips from your waist, the tips of his jointed digits leaving a palpable sting where each of them sat before skimming away and disappearing back inside the lining of his pocket. 

Of all of the many quips that run through your head in response to his comment about your uncoordinated–and sure, sometimes hazardous–manner of motion, all that comes out at the part of your lips is, “R-Right.” The urge to let your self-reprimand show in every expression imaginable is too great to continue to facing Taehyung, so you quickly turn and force your feet forward, careful to make sure they’re out of their own way before heading off.

“Uh…hey, Y/N?”

“What–Yeah?” You contort awkwardly around to see that Taehyung hasn’t moved from where he stands except for an arm raised with a thumb jabbing in the opposite direction from you. 

“MoMA is that way.” 

There’s a moment’s pause before your chest pulses with a breathy laugh, your hands finding purchase on your hips as you casually adjust your course, hoping beyond hope that the powder on your face is helping to hide the red roses blossoming in your cheeks. You try with all your might not to let the mortification you feel reach your knees, nervously smiling as you venture, “Since when did they…put it there?” and immediately regret it for how unnatural it sounds coming out of your mouth. The moment you pass Taehyung (avoiding direct eye contact for all it’s worth) your subconscious repeats the question sardonically to you, adding the ever-encouraging: Really? That’s what we went with? 

You’re a little more than confused when you hear Taehyung’s low chuckle vibrate behind you followed by the stomp of his shoes against the pavement as he jogs to catch up and fall into step with your pace. His amused gaze is like concrete against your temple, so tangible it hurts to continue ignoring. Luckily, he doesn’t allow you to.

“Was that…your attempt at a joke?”

“Um…”

“Waitwaitwait,” he goes on, his usually silken tone spiking with a kind of giddy entertainment you’re not quite sure the source of. “You’re telling me three years worth of art classes together and a whole semester as partners on this project and even a 14 hour plane ride sitting right next to each other, and all I get is, ‘Since when did they put it there’?”

You risk a glance to the side, curious to catch sight of his honeyed expression. To your ears, everything he just said adds up to sound something like an insult, but to your eyes, the hint of laughter visibly edging just behind his lips mixed with the glint of something more galvanized than usual swimming in those eyes added to the shoulders angled slightly in your direction as if he’s asking for something more all makes you feel the exact opposite of insulted. And suddenly, you’re laughing despite yourself, the moment of silence hung in the air after Taehyung’s inquiry now being filled with the simple heartbeat of your own amusement. 

“Sorry,” you giggle as your laughter fades, shaking your head. “I guess comedy isn’t quite my…forte.” It wasn’t a total lie. You knew it was only hard because you get so nervous every time Taehyung’s around. “I’ll work on my delivery.”

“I’ve got plenty of tips if you want to exchange notes later,” he suggests, meeting your eyes as you glance at him with scrunched brows, head cocked slightly as you try to discern where he could possibly find the time to take notes on comical delivery. His grin purses shyly, his eyes cutting to the ground for a moment as he laughs quietly to himself. “I was just being sarcastic.”

Your mouth forms into a sheepish ‘O’, instantly realizing you’d missed the joke. Maybe comedy really isn’t your thing.  

“Don’t worry,” he chuckles, again unfazed by your slip-up, his grin of the genuine variety that makes his eyes squint up into those sweet curves. “It gets easier with practice. We’ll take it slow.”

“Hm. Real smooth talker, aren’t you?” 

He doesn’t miss a beat, grin spreading until a real belly laugh lilts between bared teeth, his head tilting back in a boyish manner. “See? You’re practically an expert already.” 

You can’t help but smile–a real, barefaced grin–up at Taehyung, surprised at how much more comfortable you feel in his presence. An hour ago, he had been the Kim Taehyung of the junior art department: the charming, ruminative, cosmopolitan of your class that had the kind of face every other girl at your university wanted to get her legs around. Everything he’s done, does, and probably will do turns out all sunshine and rainbows, and even when something of the cruelest challenge might arise, he almost makes it look like child’s-play putting it bed with a smile. Of course, one could imagine, he’s quite the frustration to sit beside semester after semester while these infuriating feelings of roses and gummy bears sit like a rock in your gut fighting your every desire to dislike him. 

But now…what was he? You suppose ‘friend’ is as good a word as any for his place in this relationship that seems to be collecting itself at your feet. You’re already aware of how many others go proudly boasting this title around the university–as if Taehyung’s name is some sort of badge to be worn as nothing more than a sign of status–but this doesn’t feel like that. You may need a bit more practice on picking a joke out of a crowd, but you can spot dishonesty a mile away, and the way Taehyung is still grinning back at you in this moment…it’s nothing but authentic. 

“Whoa! Watch–” he suddenly and spasmodically puffs, his serene smile contorting in favor of quick alarm. You’re slightly ignorant to what’s happening in the blur behind you, your gaze still dragging like molasses along Taehyung’s face hovering above, until his hand once again burns against your hip. The feeling echoes up your side, and you instinctually begin to pull away from his ensnarement on a whim of insecurity lest you lean in a little too much, but Taehyung’s hand only grips tighter, this time tugging causing your body to stumble a few steps sideways, tripping until your hands catch themselves against him–one on the upper arm steadying you and the other fisted against the brunt of his abdomen. 

“You okay?” he checks, his voice drifting from above you as you keep your eyes trained on the eccentric pattern of his loosely tucked button down. You can only nod in response, still unsure of how to casually un-stick yourself from his side. 

“Stupid biker…” you hear him mutter under his breath. “He should know better than to be going that fast with this many people out…could hit someone.” 

You quickly crane your neck around, wide eyes searching down the sidewalk where it doesn’t take long to spot a man in a tacky business suit speeding away far faster than is safe through the parting stream of this many people. It’s then that you realize that in all of your roses-and-gummy-bear confusion, Taehyung had only been pulling you to safety…yet again. With this new cognizance in clear picture, you suddenly feel extra awkward when you look back and remember that you’re still tangled in a symbiotic embrace with him.

As naturally as you can manage, you unlatch yourself from Taehyung’s stature, though you still end up scrambling a little faster than you intend for which you try to recover by smoothing the wild fly-aways of your hair behind your enflamed ears once more. Risking a glance up through nervous lashes, you see Taehyung smirking down at you with that look that you’ve practically memorized after seeing so many times today. 

Seeing it laced once again upon his features suddenly sends the remnants of your embarrassment flowing from your limbs, your eyes rolling as his lips part to say something most likely sarcastic in regards to your never ending clumsiness. “Let’s go,” you interject before he can comment, surprising even yourself as you reach out and grip the strap of the book bag slung across his shoulder, tugging assertively behind your directed stride. You hear a small grunt expel from behind you as he chokes a little bit on the words that never were, which–potentially spurred by the small devil of subconscious confidence you don’t realize is growing in your chest–makes you grin smally to yourself. 

Your gate is long and purposed–slightly because you want to keep up the hold you have over Taehyung at the moment but mostly because you don’t know what time is now, and you suddenly feel like you’ve wasted a decade trying to move a few blocks down the sidewalk. Just as your nerves start to creep back up your spine, jokes and speeding bikers no longer present to distract you from the actual reason the two of you were brought across the world to be in this city today, you round the corner onto 53rd street and behold the glory that is MoMA. 

“Wow…” you breathe in awe, your chest feeling like a balloon and your limbs like noodles. 

“You know,” Taehyung’s voice filters in through the cloud of your euphoria, not totally registering until it’s paired with the warmth of his palm coming to rest over where your own hand is vice gripped around his shoulder strap. “I hear it’s even better inside.”

The urge to roll your eyes again pales to the sear of his fingertips ghosting against your white knuckles. Your now redirected gaze is entranced instead with the vision of the slender digits that you’ve seen grace the length of paintbrushes and pens so many times now curled in a similar manner over the back of your palm. Your heart beats so aggressively it’s almost painful as you watch the intricate tendons under the smooth, rich layer of his skin pull and tense against the smallest of adjustments his fingertips make along the ridges of your fist. 

Everything feels so agonizingly slow, like this moment is being pulled through marshmallow fluff when you’re sure to outside eyes it’s all just a passing glance, yet you want to break the tension as much as you never want to move. Knowing you’ll crumble if you dare to look up to where Taehyung is surely analyzing you with those russet eyes, you indulge in the burn for only breath longer before clenching your jaw and un-tensing your fist, your knuckles flooding with blood-flow once more as you drag your appendage back to its own territory and drop it limply at your side. 

“We should probably go before they close,” is what you end up going with, unable to think of something to play off of Taehyung’s previous comment which you’re sure would’ve been a far smoother transition from the odd moment you just shared. Either way, Taehyung is nodding, his expression–now that you’re able to meet it–is reading rather inscrutable much to your frustration.  

This time, he’s the one to take the lead, striding forward with his hands now shoved in the pockets of his slacks, his gate casual, but casual for him meant a speed hop for you. You turn and jump to catch up with him, skip stepping awkwardly at his side as the two of you make the final approach to the face of the sculptured architecture that is the Museum of Modern Art. 

Your heart beats faster in all the best ways with every step closer to the interior that you get, a montage of iconic images cycling through your head that you’ve only ever seen in recreation or online mere minutes away from being right in front of you in real, vivid life. You think Taehyung can sense your excitement somewhat while you wait in the security line because you hear a puff of dry laughter from behind you followed by, “They might mistake all that bouncing for suspicious nerve,” breaking the poker-faced silence he’s adhered to since outside.

Recognizing the energetic bob in your right knee and refusing to let his cynical tease dampen even the slightest ounce of your zeal, you intensify the bend of your bounce, animating the motion on purpose and tossing a scowl over your shoulder towards Taehyung who is now trying to hide a grin. You decide to keep any comments regarding why he isn’t more excited to be here to yourself, beyond certain that once you emerge into the first exhibit, every part of Taehyung’s inner love for the artist is going to explode–hopefully in a very embarrassing display of gushing reviews, effusive ramblings, and a heartfelt apology for ever trying to rain on your parade. 

Security takes it sweet time, or at least feels that way, but when they release you with an hour and half to spare roaming the hallowed grounds of so many sacred works at your leisure, your chest almost rips itself open to give the security lady a hug. You and Taehyung have a mission to accomplish with one piece in particular, but when a bunch of people in suits wearing ear-pieces finish patting you and your bag down and tell you to “enjoy your time” in a free-range art exhibit, did anyone really expect you to keep any semblance of priority? 

Taehyung begins to unfold as you weave your way through the exhibits, the glossy and uninterested facade he wore in line giving way to something bona fide and vulnerable. You begin to snag snippets of what he thinks about deep-down and how he really looks at the world. With each painting you pass, his eyes look closer, more intentional, his lips parting, breathing in slowly and then laughing to himself or shaking his head or humming softly–lowly–as if something dark has resonated with him. It doesn’t take words or commentary for you to understand what the image is making him feel or think about–you just observe. It’s not the lyrical explosion you’d imaged, but lyrical still and a sweeter expression than you would’ve thought.

Occasionally he makes a comment on the origin of the painting–a tragic backstory of how it came to inspiration–or how he felt the first time he saw the image versus the emotion it elicits now. They’re small divulgences but concise, needing little vocabulary to communicate the sentiment. About an hour in, you realize you’ve spent more time admiring Taehyung than the actual art, but for some reason, you don’t really mind. 

It’s half an hour until closing when Taehyung rounds the corner on an exhibit, having just finished analyzing another image for himself, to find you standing in front of your own curiosity, head tilted and eyes entranced. 

“Hey they close pretty soon, we should probabaly–”

“Shh,” you quip without averting your gaze from the surreal collage. “I’m forming an artist’s opinion.” 

Taehyung scoffs, humored and surprised at your response, smiling as he redirects his sight to the painting you’re so enthralled by. “The Song of Love by Giorgio de Chirico,” Taehyung recites from memory, most likely recognizing the piece from one of your many art history classes over the years. “I don’t know much about this one. What’s your artist’s opinion saying?”

You pause in thought, tilting your head in the opposite direction as you continue to stare, mesmerized by what a sculpted head, a red rubber glove, and a green ball all painted purposefully on the same canvas represent. Unlike Taehyung, some foreknowledge of the piece is swimming upstairs, and the reason for the raptured staring is some tugging in your gut from something you vaguely remember reading about the creation on MoMA’s website a while back–one of the many pieces that caught your eye during a research splurge when you first knew you’d be coming on this trip.  

“‘Unlike meetings among dissimilar objects’…” you murmur, catching Taehyung’s attention. 

“Hmm?” 

“Dissimilar objects,” you repeat to yourself a little louder this time, turning sideways to see him next to you, looking curiously down at your working thought process. 

“I’m gonna need a few more words here, Y/N” he laughs again, your enigmatic bullet points obviously not getting the point across. You can’t help but chuckle to yourself as well as the rest of the article begins to resurface in your mind, the individual parts making uncanny–and sort of unnerving–sense the more they fit together.

“Sorry,” you laugh, shaking your head. “To be honest, I’m not 100% sure what Chirico was going for here…he wasn’t really one for logic and intense meaning–more childlike invention and lens.”

Taehyung nod’s slowly, his eyes upturned in thought, obviously confused by the method of your mood-swing explanation. 

“My artist’s opinion,” you continue, taking a breath as he meets your gaze again, expression awaiting something. “The ‘unlike meeting among dissimilar objects’–it’s the song of love in a way, don’t you think?” Taehyung tilts his head, equally intrigued and examining. “Opposites attract…isn’t that what people say?” You laugh to yourself lightly, eyes trailing the ground as you try not to get swept away in thought. 

“Anyway,” you smile, breaking the reverie before anything else slips into the moment of silence, recognizing that you don’t have much more time that can be eaten up by secondary items before MoMA closes. “The main event, shall we?”

Taehyung’s face looks strange when you rest your eyes on it once again, muddled with a thoughtful emotion that you can’t quite place but that shows obvious signs of intentional gnawing along the scrunched furrow of his brow as he stares directly at you, his irises searching. The suddenness of it startles you momentarily before his face is right back to normal, grin and all giving an affirmative nod as if nothing even happened. You blink quickly, wondering if anything even did as Taehyung takes the lead past you, his deft fingers snaking around your flimsy wrist and tugging you along after him into the final destination of the evening: the Vincent Van Gogh exhibit. 

You spot the precious canvas instantly, framed in all of it’s blue-and-yellow-swirled glory, rich and imposing, hung as a centerpiece to the stark, white wall behind it. Your eyes ache in unworthy reverence as they strive to take in the detail of every corner upon approach, every other person, painting, and feeling present in the room now wasting away until it’s just you and Vincent, standing in admiration before the glowing masterpiece that is “Starry Night”. 

“Oh…ohmygod.” You’re utterly breathless, the strokes brushed to imitate wind upon the canvas stealing away every ounce of air you have to work with. Suddenly, the hand–shaking uncontrollably under Taehyung’s grip on your wrist–is released. Without thinking, your fingers instantly begin the search for some new constant to counter your raging, excited, nervous energy until they eventually root into the warmth of an open palm, gracile appendages carefully slotting one at a time between your own and curling closed over the back of your chattering fist. 

“I can’t believe…it’s actually–we’re actually…I’m looking at it,” you stammer, feeling the strange urge to reach out and hug the painting: an urge you swiftly reject. In this moment, you desire nothing more than to just remember. You want to remember every emotion and detail of right now, knowing that art is feeling and the details in the expression. This piece has brought you 14 hours across the ocean into a country, state, and city you’ve never been to, experiencing so many incredible things just in the passing. It’s been so much more than the painting itself but how new hearts are drawn together to wherever it may be, and there they get to experience moments like this. 

A moment of anticipation that’s built up for years, learning all there is to know about the art and the artist behind it and what inspired such torment or beauty or revelation. Diving into the depths of what’s beneath the surface of that person or painting to a level where you feel like you know someone you’ve never known or can understand the nonverbal messages they wanted to send to the world. Helping someone to be understood when, at first glance, it might not be what meets the eye–it’s incredible. Indescribable. It’s art. 

You feel your cheeks burn as you suddenly realize a subconscious grin has made its way to your lips, your facial muscles tensing with how giddy you feel. “Why did we spend so long researching it when we could’ve been here living it?” you wonder in disbelief. “The colors, the inspiration, the detail, the style…it’s all so much more in real life.” You find yourself laughing lightly with elation which, earlier today, would’ve sent your face blushing immediately, but now, you feel nothing but comfortable. Your thought suddenly reminds you that you aren’t alone in your observation.

“Taehyung,” you breathe, still staring, hypnotized by the beauty before you. 

“Hmm?” A soft, almost sleepy sounding hum echoes from your left. 

“What’s your artist’s opinion saying?” Now that you ask it out loud, you feel a pang of nervousness as you realize Taehyung hasn’t said anything since you approached, your vehement ramblings of praise the only thing lilting through the silence. 

“It’s…” There’s a brief pause, and you can hear the tender rumination in the quiet, but your nerves are still edging, waiting to hear if he’s as in love as you are. “…extraordinary.”

Your chest inflates at the sound of his voice, your body humming until it jolts at the feeling of something warm squeezing around your hand, a solid and soft reminder that it’s still being gently steadied between Taehyung’s secure digits–an event you didn’t fully register until now. 

“I think,” he continues softly, and you can feel something in the air has shifted. His tone is the same as it was earlier in the fleeting moments when he would express his thoughts on various paintings, but for some reason, you’re not all that certain that he’s referring to the Van Gogh piece your eyes are practically burning a hole through at this point. 

There’s another beat of silence. 

“I think it’s more beautiful than it knows.” 

His words have your head tearing away from the canvas to where you find Taehyung already turned towards you, those stupid brown eyes mapping over your face with sincerity and a measure of anticipation, gaze flicking between the floor and your own wavering irises as his thumb brushes the back of your hand nervously. All that does is send maddening shivers along your arms and down your spine. 

“J-Just to be sure…” you begin, the words that are coming out of your mouth not even bothering to go through the filter–or your head in general–before emerging. “You are–t-talking about me, right?” 

Whatever reaction you were expecting, Taehyung bursting into laughter was not it. He has to bend over to collect himself, but even then he’s still humored as he comes to face you, shaking his head slightly so his floppy tendrils wisp against his forehead. “You’re incredible,” he beams, making your eyes widen even further. “You always say something that surprises me.”

If he thinks you’re surprising, he should take a walk in your shoes right now…

“What are you talking about?” you ask bluntly, closing your eyes against everything happening–it was a lot for 10 minutes before closing. 

Outside the world behind your eyelids, his laughter cadences to a stop, the silence making you even more nervous than before. The slow burn of his ever-loving fingers coming to curl and rest around the curve of your cheek, his thumb now brushing artist’s strokes on its canvas only causes you to squeeze your eyes tighter together, though in contradiction, you find comfort in also squeezing the daylights out of the hand you still hold, your whole body tensing. 

“I really want to kiss you right now.”

That has your eyes flying wide open, almost flailing out of the station of his hold on you if he weren’t so damn steady. “What?”

“Oh, no, don’t worry, I wasn’t being sarcastic this time,” he teases, his face completely nonchalant. The mortified expression you wear in reaction is all it takes to get him laughing again. “I’m serious, Y/N.”

“No, you’re not. You’re insane.”

He scoffs at you, rolling his eyes before pursing his lips and looking over your face in a thoughtful manner for a moment, his gaze narrowing. “I spend all day letting Ms. Falls-a-lot trip into me, trying not to laugh at those stupidly endearing jokes, attempting to understand how you can wear every little emotion on your face and still somehow always leave me dying to know what you’re thinking, and to top it all off, being left speechless in the middle of an art exhibit because you apparently have some alter ego in which art brings out this romantic, academic, philosopher-whatever that you’re so unaware the captivation of…and you expect me not fall in love with her? If that’s the case, then you’re the insane one.”

You’re not sure how you processed all of that very eloquent word vomit, but every gushy piece of it is stirring thick in your chest, the story of your ‘today’ remembered in such…affection. Every internal organ feels like it’s being thrown up, digested, and choked on simultaneously. “One day…” you begin somewhat incoherently, blinking a lot. “Isn’t love.” 

“Today was just the icing on the cake,” he whispers, smiling sweetly as the hand on your cheek shifts so it’s fit to the curve of your neck. Your eyes are still blinking rapidly, somewhat from disbelief. “You might have assumptions about the kind of person I am at school, but I think people are crazy if they can sit beside a girl like you in class for three years and not notice.”

You break the gaze you’ve been holding with him, eyes trailing the space where your feet stand, unable to process any more of what he’s saying with him looking at you so wholeheartedly. Once again, as much as you try or may want to believe in what’s easy and safe, there’s no denying the authenticity drenching the words he speaks. And your heart is racing at the slightest brush of his skin against yours, your whole body burning with him standing this close to you. You know, and you’ve known, how you feel about Taehyung for a while now, only inclined to repudiate your feelings for him because, until now, he’s been on a totally different planet than you, and hope wasn’t even in the solar system. It would’ve been idiotic to waste more than passing thoughts on what it would feel like to love him, but you’re starting to feel all of those passing thoughts welling back up from where you’ve stuffed them over the years the more he touches you.

No. Absolutely not. This all seems so enticing in the middle of a vacant art exhibit 5 minutes from close, but once you both walk through the front doors into the real world, what happens then? You both go back to school where he’s still him, and you’re still you–

“I’m your dissimilar object.”

“You’re my wh-” you begin to question in your confusion. 

“I’m the sculpted head to your rubber glove. The green ball in your triad of nonsense.” 

Your lips part in astonishment as whatever words you’d had catch in your throat. Taehyung has never looked more serious or more worried in your three years of knowing him. You’re not sure if he could sense you accepting defeat within the recesses of your mind or if the silence was dragging longer than he would’ve liked, but either way, the enormous depth and weight to his response was more than you would’ve ever expected to hear from the Kim Taehyung. He’d gotten it. Whatever you were trying to say before with the Chirico painting, he’d understood. He knew it was the two of you when you didn’t even know you were trying to tell that to anyone but yourself. 

And without even realizing it, you’d said yes. 

“Yes?” he repeats, incredulous and confused from your out of context response, his expression mixed with a layer of amusement, per usual. 

“Just yes, I don’t know. I’m just saying yes,” you clarify as if it needs no clarification. It might’ve been a little obvious that you’ve never done this whole ‘confession’ thing before. 

Luckily, Taehyung seems proficient at interpreting your enigmatic way of speaking, his expression slowly morphing from one of deep thought to one of disbelieving hope to one of expectation. 

“Sooo, yes to being my rubber glove?” he asks with that tone that has you rolling your eyes.

“Ok, I was actually wondering: why do I have to be the rubber glove, and you get to be a chiseled greek god?” You hold up your pointer finger in protest.

“I thought it was obvious,” he says casually, pretending to be confused that you would even have an objection.

“If what’s obvious is that you really don’t want that kiss you were talking about a second ago.”

His face blanches exactly as you expected it to, his Adam’s Apple bobbing with an obvious gulp. “Are you serious?”

You can’t help but laugh at how helpless he looks in this moment, though somehow never more attractive, as his hands come to rest on the curve of your hips, pulling you towards him without restraint, the front of your body almost flush with his. “I’m not kidding, be serious,” he reprimands as you continue to giggle. “You have no idea how badly I’ve wanted to. For so long.” 

As your laughter subsides and you take a moment to register the pleading authenticity in his eye, all you can do is nod gently, your hands curled nervously against the plane of his chest. You hear him exhale the breath he’s been keeping captive through parted lips as his feet shift once again until yours are between the gap of his towering stance. You’re so close to him you can smell the soft scent of mint rolling off his neck, sending tingles along your chest as you repel the urge to reach out and press your own lips against the smooth expanse of skin there. 

You’re glad that he doesn’t say anything in this moment, curling a single finger under your chin to tilt your head up until you’re facing him. His eyes are hooded and gentle, searching the lines of your face with lethargy until they land on your lips, his tongue darting out to wet his own in response before he begins to descend slowly towards you. The pace gives you just enough time to not think before his pillow of a pout is cushioned against yours, lips fitting like a hug together as he tilts your head and leans in farther, his hand cupping your jaw and the other squeezes his nervous energy into the flesh of your hip. 

You’ve never felt anything more unfeigned and guileless, and when he pulls away, the only thing that comes out while the back of his knuckle rubs smooth circles into your cheek is the swollen whisper, “My art.” 

If anything could’ve ruined the mood in that moment, it definitely would’ve been that lady from security walking in on your narrow embrace and shouting, “It’s 6 o’clock somewhere, people! Feel inspired on your own time.” 

Cheeks blossoming in embarrassment, you sigh, turning towards the exit where you’re instead tugged backwards into another swift and sweet kiss that leaves you shocked and dazed with roses and gummy bears dancing around your head. “T-Taehyung, we have to–”

“Shh,” he hushes, pecking your lips for the third time, his expression one of savoring as he pulls away and pulls you close. “I’m forming my artist’s opinion.”

“O-Oh,” you stutter, huffing into his chest. “All positive reviews, I assume.” 

He hums contentedly, his lips pressed to the crown of your head before his hand snakes down to grip yours gently, turning to lead you both towards the exit. “Hmm, there’s room for improvement.” 

“Oh, fortheloveof–shut UP.”

~

1. artist taetae is my everything 2. dream glow is my everything 3. i’m lowkey really happy with how this turned out so hey, goodnight everyone

a whole cutie