蓬鬆|fluffy°yoonmin

Fluff [18]

The carpet was almost worn out from the continuous pacing.

It was as if Yoongi was trying to do that, as he walked back down the familiar path along his apartment.

Bedroom. Hall. Living room. Kitchen. Bedroom. Hall-

He sighed, and finally gave heed to his, now aching legs, as he plopped down on the floor next to the telephone.

His gaze travelled to the device and a certain bottom lip was bitten between two rows of pearly white teeth. Not that it needed any more biting; it was already red.

A hand was extended towards the receiver to pick it up and bring it up towards a certain ear. The said hand was shaking.

An index finger shakily pressed down the home address number he had gotten out through the local line, and an unsteady breath was delivered, creating a slight buzz against his ear.

A heart skipped a beat as the other end of the line was picked up and a voice he knew rather well now, was heard.

“Hello?”

_________

So there Hoseok was, lazing on the couch- or, at least, had been, until he had heard the unmistakable knock on the front door.

Grumbling, as he had had to leave conquest of champions behind mid-match ( his Black widow had been beating the hell out of T'challa ), he waded out the room, yawning and trying to flatten his overly messy bed hair.

“Who is it?” He peered out into the darkness with half lidded eyes, barely making out any sort of individual.

“Um, hi. Is Jimin home?”

Still unable to see very clearly, Hoseok's gaze darted upwards as he heard the said pinkette stifle a curse, no doubt realizing he had company.

“Yeah, he'll be right down. Who's asking?”

As Hoseok's sight focused, he made out a short boy, not unattractive, wearing a dark blue button down and black skinny jeans. Gray converse adorned his feet, and his raven hair lay atop his head even messier than Hoseok's were at the instant.

“You wouldn't happen to be Yoongi, would you?” He asked sheepishly.

“Yeah. That's me.”

“Oh. Come on in, then.”

________

Jimin heard the knock on the door, and the drawling, low octave of his date mate-

Date mate?

Shaking his head at his stroke of intelligence, he glanced at himself one last time in the mirror.

He had spent the afternoon googling up perfect hairstyles for first dates, and so; his usual coconut head was replaced by a part travelling down at an angle, dividing the pink strands into two.

Other than that, he had replaced his usual fluffy sweaters with a Burgundy long coat that flowed out past his knees.

Satiated, he grabbed his phone and wallet and ran out the room, sliding down the banister, and landed in the hall, eyes searching for a certain date mate.