the devil skates on thin ice ∙ myg ✓

8 ↝ the soju-fuelled evidence

Yoongi knows he should despise how utterly excited he feels. Yet there he is, feeling the kind of descending-rollercoaster-rush of exhilaration that he gets in his gut when the game is tied with 30 seconds left on the clock.

The entire 15-minute walk to the pojangmacha is submerged in a dense silence, though he hardly minds. Knowing that she is keeping up to pace beside him—despite the scowl that appears permanently etched into her features—is enough to satisfy his urge to be near her for the time being. Even so, he keeps glancing out the side of his eye to make sure that she is still there. To be absolutely positive that she is not some incredibly lucid figment of his imagination which, given the circumstances, would been highly concerning.

In fact, Yoongi is still struggling to believe that she even agreed to such an absurd offer of a stir-fried dinner on a chilly Friday evening. With him. Especially since she is on a diet for a figure-skating competition, which is something that she takes very seriously. Always, when it comes down to anything that involves her sport. Her future Olympic career.

What he really cannot fathom is that she accepted on the basis of such a flimsy excuse. Given their recent history, it was wholly unnatural on her part. She must have been able to see right through the "for the coaches" facade and caught wind of his genuine desire to sit down and talk civilly with her. Because surely, there must have been better options for her to schedule into her agenda. Like burrito-ing herself with bed blankets, cramming a bland salad down her throat, and bingeing on Netflix.

So, is this a subtle sign of peace? Or is she merely hoping that if she sacrifices the next handful of hours to his overly eager grasp, he may, perhaps, cease annoying her to the end of her wits?

Yoongi, as per usual, is as clueless as a fucking goldfish. Yet knowing that he will have the chance tonight to speak at least two sensible words to her—ones that are not founded on a pointless argument or a five-year rivalry—has him trying to compose that rollercoaster sensation all over again.

Once they turn the final street corner, the orange tent comes into existence through its bustling appearance and mouth-watering aromas. She, with her lips still clamped shut, strides right ahead and through the open flaps of the entrance. Yoongi, teeth grinding to powder, is tempted to fling an insult at her for her blatant rudeness. Instead, he channels that negative energy into propelling his legs forward, following her.

Determinedly, she weaves through the busy stall and picks a table in the far corner without so much as a glance back at Yoongi. So obviously attempting to project her lack of care for him and this entire situation. Without warning, a hopeless grin itches at Yoongi's lips.

"Hungry, are we?" he says once he is back within her proximity, dropping his sports bag beside his seat and shrugging off his parka as she does with her own. Underneath, she wears a black, form-fitting long-sleeve. He hastily casts his gaze elsewhere before she tries to call out the pink flush on his cheeks for him being perverted.

"Yes, but I also want to get this over and done with as swiftly as possible," she grouses, tossing her jacket over the stool and then plunking herself atop it.

Yoongi proceeds in doing the same, but not without retrieving his soon-to-be-withered wallet from the parka pocket. "If you eat too fast, you'll get stomach cramps."

"I've mastered the art of speed-eating, I've got this," she sneers, leaning towards the makeshift kitchen to better penetrate the constant, chattering hum of the other patrons with her calling voice. "Can I please get one serve of tteokbokki and two bottles of soju?" Without turning to face him, her eyes slide to the side, meeting his own. "That's only for me, by the way."

Swiftly as possible. Right.

"I thought you were on a diet."

"Yeah, I'm actually 'Min Yoongi intolerant' and the diet's been working until, well, right now."