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(you know how i like my coffee.)
yoongi doesn't drink his coffee bitter.
jungkook is too aware of that. he's made a habit out of watching, very intently: yoongi between schedules, taking two packets of sugar out of his pocket, sometimes three, and pouring it all into his paper cup, always a little wary, careful so that no one notices. jungkook notices, though. he has no idea why yoongi insists on keeping his order extra strong and sugar-free, as if he has some kind of image to maintain, a rough edge to him that jungkook believes is not really there.
it's a little endearing to jungkook, but he is endeared by pretty much everything yoongi does.
it's early morning, too early, and jungkook stands in front of the stove. the kitchen lights glare at his tired, glassy eyes. there's the sound of voices coming from the living room, in every possible pitch. there's also the lack of the one voice jungkook likes the most, and this hits him like a punch to the jaw, stronger than it should.
jungkook carries the cup of coffee he made for yoongi and yoongi only, something that is too deep and saccharine for his own palate. he's unhurried as he makes his way to yoongi, measured steps to make sure the coffee doesn't spill.
yoongi is sitting on the couch, legs folded weirdly, looking lethargic, body still. it's like he's a charging phone, waiting for energy. the dark fluff of yoongi's hair is in disarray, his lips are pink like petals, the gray sweater he's wearing is too big for him. jungkook waves the mug in front of yoongi, who takes it five seconds too late. his thumb brushes over the side of jungkook's hand, and jungkook knows the peach soft of yoongi's skin will linger for the rest of the day.
"i made it for you," says jungkook, and yoongi smiles at him. easy, gentle. "strong and sweet, just like hyung," yoongi's smile gets bigger, gums showing—they rarely ever do when he's sleepy like this. jungkook feels a troubled kind of warmth spreading inside of him.
jungkook watches as yoongi takes a sip, his heartstrings tangling, behaving as roots: he's slightly nervous, the there's more feelings in this little act than there should be sort of jittery. yoongi swallows, hums low, then says with a sleep-heavy voice, thank you, kook-ah.
the words make jungkook's heart beat faster than any sugar rush ever could.
(come here, let me fix it.)
the photoshoot is coming to an end, and jungkook waits for it with restless hands and a tired mind. he likes it, the fast pace, the busy routine, but there are times, like right now, where he just wants to lie in bed under three blankets, curl into a little ball and sleep for ten hours.
jungkook watches yoongi, from across the room. it seems like he's always watching yoongi, and there's something about it that is not quite right. that shouldn't be quite right. today is particularly hard not to watch yoongi. he's wearing ripped jeans and a snow white sweater and a pearl necklace. jungkook is so weak.
times goes by slowly, but it does go by, and soon enough yoongi is walking towards him, his steps careful, as everyone else gets ready to leave.
jungkook sits still: he's enraptured.
yoongi stops, holds out a—veiny, so painfully pretty—hand and grabs jungkook by the wrist. he helps jungkook get up, and it's only then that jungkook realizes he had been nearly dozing off, neck craned and resting on the couch's cushion. yoongi looks at him for a while, fixedly, softly. there's so many sweet things bubbling up inside of jungkook, pressing hard against his left lung, trying to break his ribs, that he feels almost nauseated. sick, in the best way.
"here, lemme—" yoongi says, letting go of jungkook's wrist, stepping closer. jungkook's heart rattles inside his chest, because yoongi is near, too near. then, there are fingers running through his hair, deft and careful, brushing cool against the fever-warm skin of his forehead. "your hair. it was all weird."
"oh," jungkook says, and his voice is so small. he gets the urge to touch yoongi's hair too, even though it's not messy at all. it looks silky, and their proximity allows jungkook to catch the smell of what he thinks is yoongi's shampoo: peach, kind of artificial, so different from the strong kind of colognes yoongi likes to use. "thank you, hyung."
he doesn't know why he thanks yoongi. it's such a small thing, but jungkook finds a lot of meaning in those.
their manager screams their names, says the van is waiting, and jungkook feels sad that this nice, odd moment shatters like glass. but it's okay: yoongi keeps a warm hand on the small of jungkook's back during the whole walk to the car and—
(the wind blows, and there is peach everywhere, spiraling around jungkook's body. he knows the scent shouldn't be that strong, isn't that strong. but yoongi makes everything feel like it's multiplied by tenfold.)
—jungkook burns burns burns.
(happy birthday.)
on the morning of the day jungkook turns twenty-one, he finds himself inside an empty make-up room.
yoongi had grabbed him by the sleeve the moment jungkook was done, face heavy with products and hair feeling like plastic. he'd dragged jungkook down busy hallways, holding tight onto jungkook's wrist with one hand and carrying a bag with the other. they got to places with fewer people, then to somewhere else with none. yoongi'd pushed him inside of a room, closed the door, turned on the lights.
"happy twenty-one, kook-ah," yoongi says, now, in such a hurry it's almost sad. he walks towards a table, and jungkook stands, dazzled, as yoongi takes a cake out of the bag, a really tiny one. there's a candle in the center of it, a question mark. "i found it in the kitchen drawer," yoongi explains, taking a lighter out of the bag, lighting up the candle. it's fitting, jungkook thinks. sometimes he feels too young for the life he leads. other times it's like he's fifteen and wide-eyed and a little scared all over again.
jungkook takes a step closer, closer to yoongi, feeling drunk on their privacy, their closeness, things that seem so rare lately. there's strawberries in the cake, jungkook thinks. the icing is pink and the smell is sweet enough to almost make him sick.
"thanks, hyung," jungkook blows the candle. the fire dies so fast.
yoongi smiles, leads jungkook to the sofa. two disposable forks seem to appear out of nowhere and they start eating: hidden away somewhere in the building, quietly. jungkook watches yoongi eat, watches how the corners of his lips get a little messy with frosting. it's sort of captivating: yoongi makes those small, soft noises with every bite.
once they're done, yoongi asks him about what he'd like to do for his birthday, later, with everyone. jungkook says he wants to travel somewhere far far far, for a whole week, the seven of them, maybe stay there until namjoon's birthday. then he adds, but we can't do that, so let's eat at that lamb skewers place i like. yoongi nods, but stays quiet, and his face falls when jungkook adds, if we get home early, since jungkook isn't one to sugar-coat anything.
the lights are low and yellow, and yoongi still looks so pretty under them; like he's something out of a movie, like he doesn't belong here. jungkook feels raw in the way he sometimes does after spending too long in the stage holophotes. there's a certain cleanliness about them, about their expensive clothes and perfect everything, but jungkook can't see it right now. can't see it when yoongi's hair is a little disheveled and there's still icing clinging to the very left edge of his mouth. jungkook thinks he likes them better this way.
yoongi smiles at him, and it's not really a happy sort of smile, but it still looks like he's swallowed the sun.
"we don't have a lot of time," yoongi says.
when they have none and need to go, yoongi walks out of the room first. jungkook waits for a bit, and thinks of big things, of terrible scenarios, of impossible endings—like swimming wounded in an ocean full of blood-sniffing sharks and coming out of it alive.
(like yoongi's caring eyes, always there, swaying around jungkook in a constant way, as the moon does to the earth. like yoongi's gentle words, pulling jungkook to the surface, stitching him up, healing him whole, when all there was left for him to do was drown.)
(it's okay, i couldn't sleep.)
it's nearing midnight, and jungkook just won't fall asleep. he wants to. he's tired and his body is sore, but his mind is still restless and doesn’t want to shut up. jungkook has to sleep; they'll be leaving tomorrow morning by six. they'll be inside a plane for too many hours. jungkook is not new to this, not anymore, so he does know best.
he also knows that lying on top of his cold sheets, and staring at a ceiling that seems to get more boring by the second is not what he needs right now.
what he needs is...
jungkook uncovers his body, gets up, walks out of his room. when he gets to yoongi's door, he doesn't even knock.
it hurts a little: imagining yoongi on his bed, duvet draped over his torso only, hands tucked between his knees. yoongi likes to sleep on the right side, close to the wall, facing the door. it hurts because yoongi enjoys his room the most when it's dark dark dark, blackout curtains forbidding jungkook to see him at all. it hurts because jungkook doesn't need to see him: he already knows all these little things about yoongi by heart—they’re written down like secrets of a diary in the parts of tissue that feel the most bittersweet.
jungkook makes his way to the bed with practiced ease. he lies down and it's easy, too. the mattress dips under his weight like it knows his body. jungkook holds out a hand, searches for yoongi's face, for his nose, presses down on it with his little finger, lightly, just the way he knows will wake yoongi up.
it's funny: how jungkook doesn't say anything, never says anything, but still—
"hey, kook-ah," says yoongi, sounding happy, drowsy, sure. there is yearning in his voice, just like there is yearning in jungkook's fingertips.
"did i wake you, hyung?" jungkook gets closer, finds the hollow of yoongi's waist, rests his hand there. it's so much more comforting, being here with yoongi. the punch line is that their mattresses and their sheets are exactly the same kind, the same brand.
jungkook feels a hand curling around his upper arm, pulling, pulling, and it sends sparks down his backbone, the sort that burns.
"no, 's okay," yoongi says. his voice is rough but he's still so soft-spoken. it's the one voice he has right after he wakes up—yoongi lies, "i wasn't sleeping."
jungkook nods, realizing belatedly that yoongi can't see him. jungkook doesn't reply. instead, he lets his fingers travel up to yoongi's ribs, run across the protrusions of them. yoongi presses his palm to the left side of jungkook's chest, and it just stays there. jungkook can't tell how many minutes pass, never can. he breathes quietly, chest in knots, bare face and bare heart; he's never been more thankful for the darkness.
"can i sleep here?" jungkook asks, even though he's already lying down.
(jungkook tries not to fall, even though he's already fallen all the way.)
"yeah," yoongi says, fast, as if he doesn't have to think about it. as if it's all he thinks about. "yeah, c'mere, closer."
they're already close. so much closer than they should be. jungkook doesn't mention it, though. he moves his body, until his nose is pressed against the jut of yoongi's collarbones. jungkook breathes in: yoongi smells sweet and strong at the same time, like the coffee he drinks, like what jungkook believes home smells like. it's peach and tea tree and something jungkook can't quite name.
the heat between them is starting to get familiar. it's summer, and lately yoongi has been sleeping with the AC off. yoongi has always been a lot more sensitive to the cold, so jungkook thinks he feels this kind of late-night warmth the most. then, he thinks it doesn't matter, because he knows that yoongi feels it too. yoongi hums low to him, a wordless lullaby that speaks so much, and jungkook—
falls.
(it's too cold, take my jacket.)
it's the beginning of spring, but jungkook can feel the ice of the wind seep into his bones.
they've been walking down these streets that are starting to look the same for far too long. he wants to go back to the hotel, get some rest, but he also wants to see the city; they're in new york this time, this weekend, and though jungkook has been here before he doesn't want to miss it.
yoongi loves new york so much. he was smiling that tiny smile of his—the one that plays with the very corners of his lips, the one that is barely-there—when he had asked jungkook if he, maybe, wanted to go somewhere with him.
jungkook was so eager to go he never thought of grabbing a jacket.
the cold of jungkook's skin is not unbearable, but it does bother him a little. they had dinner already, and went shopping, so it won't be long till they're on their way back to the hotel, he thinks. he hopes.
they take a turn to the left, and cool air hits him like a runaway train. he's about to tell yoongi he needs to stop somewhere to buy a coat when—
"are you cold, kook-ah?" yoongi asks, wrapping his fingers around jungkook's forearm, pulling him away from where people won't stop walking.
"yeah," jungkook replies. he pauses, shivers. he's even colder now that they've stopped. yoongi's eyes are a little heavy on him, a little concerned, and so are their manager's. "yeah, i am, can we—"
"take my jacket," yoongi says, already unzipping it. "it's okay, i'm wearing a sweater underneath. it's wool, i won't be cold."
the sweater does seem warm. so jungkook takes the jacket. starts to put it on. he's unhurried as he does it, and yoongi watches him with such a fond look on his face.
jungkook remembers this jacket. it's leather, one of the first things yoongi’d bought when it all started to get better for them. he remembers yoongi coming home after buying it, remembers him trying it on the moment he got through the door, eyes gleaming, still unused to wearing something with that many zeros in the price tag.
"thanks, hyung," jungkook feels so much better. so much warmer. the jacket is not that thick, not really, so jungkook wonders, briefly, if yoongi is the one who makes warmth linger.
seconds pass, and their manager tells them in a quiet voice that it's time to go. jungkook and yoongi start walking again, and their hands brush from time to time. jungkook's fingers itch: he wants to hold yoongi so badly.
after they get to the hotel and go back to their rooms, jungkook lies on top of sheets that don't smell like home, still wearing yoongi's jacket. he feels something stir to life inside his chest, something that is good and bad in equal measure. because when jungkook said see you later hyung, yoongi smiled at him and it was blatantly warm, yet painfully secretive—jungkook felt like he broke his own wishbone and got the longer piece of it.
(it looks better on you, anyway.)
jungkook ends the live-stream, locks his phone screen, and not a minute later there are knocks on the door of his hotel room.
"can i sleep here tonight?" is the first thing that comes out of yoongi's red, bitten mouth. his voice is heavy with tiredness, and his eyes are puffy. he doesn't look too good, but he has looked worse. jungkook takes a step back, doesn't ask what's wrong, not yet, because something tells him there's nothing really wrong.
yoongi sits on the bed that doesn't belong to either of them, says c'mere, jungkook-ah, and it's so calm, that jungkook knows there's nothing wrong, for sure.
sometimes yoongi just doesn't want to be alone.
sometimes jungkook just doesn't want to be on his own, too.
jungkook does go there, stopping by the nightstand to turn off the lights, to take off his cap. he lies on the bed. a few moments pass, the warm sort of silence wrapping itself around jungkook like a woolen blanket; then jungkook watches, through lead-like eyelids, yoongi turning around, crawling closer to the headboard, all gentle and sly like a cat.
"you're wearing my jacket, still," yoongi says once he's laid down, sideways. he is so near. the happy, surprised tone of his voice makes something ache inside jungkook's chest, but in a good way.
in the best way.
"yeah," the lights are off, but the curtains aren't drawn and the moon is full. jungkook can see yoongi's face almost clearly, skin pretty and nearly unmarred. he can see the red grime on yoongi's cheeks. can see the chapped, hurt bottom lip yoongi has probably been worrying at. yoongi is distracting, and in moments like this... in moments like this, when there's the night and the silence and this weird sort of liminal space that exists in hotels and airports and other places they won't be for long, can't be for long, jungkook forgets what he wants to say, what he needs to say, words escaping from his reach like a hummingbird would. syllables scatter inside his head like puzzle pieces, edges worn, torn, and jungkook takes way too long staring at yoongi's lovely face before mumbling, "sorry. sorry, you can have it—"
"no," yoongi interrupts him, knife-sharp and quick; it is too different from his next words, which are honey-soaked, golden in the almost-dark: "no, keep it. you can keep it. please keep it. looks way better on you, anyway. i think it's the arms, y'know."
yoongi's subtle compliment gets a wordless answer: jungkook wraps his fingers around yoongi's thin wrist, pulls him close, closer, until yoongi's whole body shifts in a soft but urgent way, until yoongi's got his head resting on jungkook's chest, on the left side of it, right over his treacherous heart.
something about the way they lie close close close, entwined, is so intimate. lately, so many things between them have been. jungkook knows there's a fire somewhere, delicate sparks that are just beginning to grow: he sees it in the pout of yoongi's lips when he says jungkook's name, in the strain his muscles make when he holds yoongi up. he feels it when he presses their hands together, love lines kissing, thumbs overlapping.
he feels it, and he knows yoongi does too.
jungkook is sure that when he looks at yoongi—eyes heavy, warm, focused on yoongi's lips, on his hands—yoongi stares right back at him, in the exact same way, all heat and longing and want. there's no doubt, not when it comes to them, and jungkook is relieved for that. he just has to wait for that blooming glow, that tangle of feelings, that bone-deep kind of thing, one he can feel inside his marrow, to finally unravel.
until then: jungkook takes a deep breath, holds yoongi tighter, and sleep comes easy.
(i'm here, it's alright. go back to sleep.)
on their last day in america, jungkook can't sleep. he can't sleep, even though the mattress is comfortable and the sheets are soft and yoongi is there with him, arms wrapped around jungkook's waist, their legs tangled under the blankets. jungkook stares at the white, unfamiliar ceiling, eyes used to the dark. they have a busy day tomorrow, and he wants to sleep as much as he can, as much as he needs. the red numbers of the nightstand alarm clock increase as if they're in a hurry; jungkook tries to save it, but time flies past him like an airplane. when jungkook does sleep, finally, it's only to wake up, not even an hour later, from the most terrible nightmare he's had in a while.
any concrete memory of it slips away from his reach a few moments after he opens his eyes, startled, sweating, but he's still got a blurry afterimage left: gray skies and loneliness and water, so much water. a sad piano song. dried, dead roses. jungkook doesn't know a lot about dreams, doesn't care about the meanings of them, he's not really a believer.
he can't deny the fact that this dream is not good, though. it isn't good at all.
jungkook wakes up shaking, and he can almost feel the taste of metal in his mouth.
yoongi wakes up too. he is a heavy sleeper, most of the time, but he always seem to be there for jungkook when there's something wrong, one way or another. this turn around, it is—
yoongi's hand brushing jungkook's damp fringe away from his forehead, yoongi's arm curling protectively around jungkook's waist. yoongi saying, what’s wrong, kook-ah, what's wrong, in such a gentle, worried manner that it makes something in the very core of jungkook waver.
"i had a weird dream. a bad dream," jungkook explains, voice shaky, feeble, jagged. it feels like he's all broken, out of sorts. shattered in a way that a bad dream shouldn't have the power to make him.
"jungkook-ah. everything’s okay, it was just a nightmare. close your eyes, bun, try to sleep again," the sentences spill out of yoongi's mouth clumsily, like the words are running fast and tripping over each other, making bets about which one of them will get to comfort jungkook first. yoongi doesn't ask about what exactly jungkook had dreamed of, doesn't pry for details, all human curiosity exchanged for the sweetest type of concern.
jungkook breathes deep, once then twice, tries to will away the storm wrecking the insides of his heart, focuses on the warmth of another person, his person. it doesn't disappear, the bad feeling, not entirely, but it's not like jungkook is expecting it to. not like yoongi was. yoongi holds jungkook close to him, like he wants nothing but to numb this horrible, sudden pain, even if just a little bit, and—
that is enough.
against yoongi's chest bone, jungkook whispers, his cold lips too close to a heart that's beating a little too fast, "sing to me?"
under the spell of a love song jungkook's never heard before, one he wishes selfishly it's meant only for him, jungkook falls asleep, slowly but surely. when he dreams again, it's of yoongi and an unfinished, pretty piano song. he dreams of blue skies and still water and daisies scattered over green grass, spelling out jungkook's name.
(i'll hold your hand if you'd like me to.)
it happens in the shortest, quietest of ways. it's subtle, jungkook thinks. jungkook hopes. it has to be subtle because there's thousands of pairs of eyes on them, thousands of people watching when he gets closer to yoongi, at the end of the concert. subtle when he presses his thumb on the swell of yoongi's wrist bone. subtle, too, when yoongi looks at him and reads the muted wish that spreads through every inch of jungkook's face.
hold my hand, hyung.
yoongi does. he slips his fingers into jungkook's, twines them, like it's something he can't help, as effortless as wanting to go home is. jungkook's heart soars, his chest swells, and he thinks of a promise made too many summers back about never letting go.
(sweet things make you think of me.)
jungkook stares at the silhouette moving in the stage like he's stuck in a daydream.
he already knew, from the first time he heard the song, that seesaw was one of his favorite things in the entire world. he already knew, but it's different seeing it like this. it always is. jungkook stands there, hidden from the lights, holding his phone tightly with a sweaty hand, as yoongi sings with that honeyed voice he's got, as he walks across that narrow platform like he's no longer afraid to fall, no longer afraid of getting hurt.
yoongi's words are genuine, always speaking too close to jungkook's heart, and he shapes his mouth around them in a pretty, bright way, like he's been kissed by a star.
jungkook closes his eyes, focuses on his favorite voice. he thinks of yoongi. he thinks—of throwing pebbles at a window in the midnight hour. carving initials in the trunk of a tree. of kissing in swimming pools after curfew, watching the sunrise, saying goodbye in doorways. thinks of red marks on the skin, on a calendar. of the bittersweet feeling the last day of summer brings. thinks of loving someone, asking them to stay, having to let them go.
it's not really a happy song, jungkook knows that. but yoongi's voice always makes him feel summer-warm, and jungkook finds solace in being told about when things sometimes just don't work out. about how it's okay if they don't.
that's when he knows it, for sure, for real: when he thinks about a summer love that never was. when he sees yoongi, not for the first time, in that sparkly suit, dancing that little dance jungkook adores.
jungkook loves yoongi.
loves him like something that is crimson, burning. loves him like searching for yoongi's voice in the dark, like seeking comfort in yoongi's hands between his. loves him like being homesick, in the best way, like coming home. like finding out that good times aren't infinite, and that bad times might come.
loves him kindly, earnestly, carrying in that feeling just the right amount of longing, the same way all the best memories do; loves him less like summers that always end, and more like summers that always come back.
(waltz with me in the dark.)
one day, in the middle of october, yoongi seems to forget all about his own hotel room after they get back from dinner.
it's routine, by now: they will walk in through different doors, same floor, and jungkook will get ready for bed and wait. wait until yoongi shows up thirty minutes later, sleepy and wearing that white shirt that's too big for him. wearing that white shirt that probably belongs to jungkook.
this turn around, though, yoongi walks in right into room 715, jungkook's room, his fingers curled around the bend of jungkook's arm, his voice soft and soaked with wine and very close to jungkook's ear. yoongi doesn't realize it until he's sitting on the mattress, and when he does, he gets up really fast, walks out of the door with a shout of i'll be back. jungkook laughs quietly, fondness spreading inside his chest. jungkook changes his clothes and brushes his teeth, stares at the mirror for a while and studies his reflection, in an attempt to ground himself, to remember that he's there, and that he's real.
it doesn't really work.
when he leaves the bathroom yoongi is already lying down, curled up small, and jungkook feels like he's stuck in a nice dream.
yoongi looks ready to sleep, drowsy and whiny and red in the way he gets when he's had a little too much to drink. jungkook is tired, also, so he doesn't know why he turns on the bluetooth speakers, puts music to play, and asks yoongi, out of whim—
"dance with me?"
yoongi sits up, frowns, then smiles, that gummy sort of smile that makes everything inside of jungkook burn and melt.
"only if you lead."
that's how midnight finds them: waltzing slow in the middle of a hotel room to chopin nocturnes, jungkook's hand around yoongi's waist and yoongi's fingernails digging crescent moons in jungkook's silk-clad shoulder. yoongi is not that hazy with alcohol, not anymore, but he holds onto jungkook stubbornly, as if he's afraid to get dizzy and fall, or simply scared of letting jungkook go. the music gains strength, gets faster, and jungkook manhandles yoongi into an impromptu pirouette. yoongi grunts, gives him a dirty look, but it's okay since jungkook has never minded the bite.
"do you think shooky and cooky slow dance?" the question is sudden, odd, and it is said so quietly that jungkook wouldn't find it strange if he got no answer at all.
but yoongi does hear, because he moves back a little, only enough to stare at jungkook with a puzzled look on his face. yoongi is pretty and his cheeks are still too pink. their mouths are so close that jungkook can smell the mint of yoongi's toothpaste.
"shooky and—jungkook what?"
"they're soulmates," jungkook explains. tries to make sense. "soulmates slow dance lots."
"yeah," yoongi's tone is confused, still, but the way his eyes are glued on jungkook's shows none of that. he's got something undeniably fond in them, noticeable even in the dark dark dark of his pupils, "i think they do."
"hyung."
"yes, kook-ah?" yoongi shortens the distance between them. he drapes his arms over jungkook's shoulder blades, hides his face in the nook of jungkook's neck. jungkook rests his chin on the crown of yoongi's head. jungkook remembers, then, of a year in which yoongi was taller than him. jungkook thinks of how it's like he's never even noticed himself growing up. wonders why time goes by so damn fast.
"we're slow dancing," the first notes of raindrop fill the room and, outside, it starts to rain. jungkook decides this might be his favorite symphony in the world: a sweet melody in the background, drops of what will soon become storm hitting the window glass, puffs of hot breath against his clavicles, beats of a heart jungkook loves against his right lung.
"we are," says yoongi, after a while.
jungkook sounds hurt to his own ears, in a bittersweet kind of way, when he speaks—
"then what are we?"
—yoongi says nothing back. but he holds jungkook tighter as if he's got some untranslatable word under his tongue, like he's missing something he doesn't have yet. yoongi presses his cold lips on the swell of jungkook's collarbone, doesn't whisper, doesn't kiss. jungkook feels it too, he thinks: the loss for words, the absence of a thing he isn't quite ready for, the feelings rooted in the truest part of him, ones that are much more than longing, much more than everything else jungkook's ever known.
he will know it someday, though. sometime soon.
the music stops, and jungkook's heart screams.
(can i kiss you?)
it doesn't happen as the good ending of a like me/like me not game, doesn't happen in that sucker-punch way jungkook always thought it would.
they kiss, eventually. jungkook had imagined, though, things to go a little different. a little better. he imagined them in a beach, south hemisphere, sand under their feet and fireworks in the sky. imagined new years eve, a bottle of champagne; he thought about the clock striking twelve, thought about things changing, about his lips pressed against yoongi's, about a kiss that would taste like pomegranates.
jungkook's even dreamed of it, once, but dreams are just dreams.
the best things between them, the important things, always seem to happen in the dark, in the quiet, jungkook came to learn. so it isn’t truly unexpected that they’re in a hotel room, closer to daybreak than to dusk, when the words stumble right out of his mouth, eager, restless, like he's kept them there for far too long:
"i really wanna kiss you, hyung," jungkook says to someone he isn't sure is awake. there's silence for a while. there's the moonlight seeping through the window like a curious thing, wondering what will become of jungkook. jungkook doesn't really know, as well, if his confession that hasn't been a secret at all will just be dismissed, for now.
jungkook holds his breath, starts thinking of another daydream-perfect scenario in which a first kiss will probably never happen, and then yoongi speaks, voice low, unwavering—
"i really wanna kiss you too, kook-ah," jungkook smiles as if he already knew. smiles because he kind of did.
so jungkook sighs, like he's relieved, even though he's never been that much worried in the first place; then jungkook dares, "so why won't you?" and yoongi does. he kisses jungkook.
it's awkward, at first. their angle is awkward, because yoongi is lying on his back and jungkook is lying just the same, and they've got to crane their necks too much, to the point it's uncomfortable. but it doesn't last. yoongi seems to notice it won't work out this way, so he shifts his body, shifts until he's lying half on top of jungkook, forearms on each side of jungkook's head. jungkook grips yoongi's sleep shirt as yoongi hovers above him; from where he is, the moonbeams are hitting yoongi just right, painting his face silver, and yoongi stares at jungkook as if he's something curious, too.
jungkook's been curious for so long.
he's been wanting to kiss yoongi for a couple summers, at least, since he has liked yoongi like crazy for a while longer than that. so he leans in. leans upwards. kisses yoongi, on the mouth, and it's so much better than the very first time, just seconds ago. yoongi doesn't taste of strawberries, but of mint toothpaste, and he smells like hotel soap, instead of lavender.
yoongi does feel like something close to heaven, though, and jungkook thinks that is more than enough.
jungkook stays mostly quiet, mouth closed, but then yoongi throws a leg over jungkook's hips, lies down on top of him properly. jungkook strays away from stillness, parts his lips and gasps all at once, like everything seems to be when it comes to yoongi.
jungkook's hands move to yoongi's waist, down to his hips—he grips them hard, and yoongi shows him that there's bite to how he likes to kiss. yoongi traps jungkook's bottom lip between his teeth, holds it there, too delicate, like a kitten just trying to prove is has claws. it's a bit ruthless, in the most subtle way, and jungkook's tongue starts to get numb after a while, but he finds he doesn't really cate. they kiss till they're both panting and red and warm, too warm, the sheets messy under them. till they're tired and sleepy and smiling into each other's mouths more than they're kissing, anyway.
the moon begins to down and sleep comes easy. when he wakes up, too little hours later, jungkook's eyes are heavy and his head hurts and his body is all achy. yoongi is there beside him, with tousled hair and kiss-bitten lips, so jungkook thinks there's no other way it could've gone.
(i want you to have this.)
yoongi ends up losing his A ring.
he's got at least two extra ones, so it's not that big of a deal. yoongi doesn't mind. but a part of jungkook, the part that enjoys complaining about petty things, doesn't like it very much. doesn't like it because that's one less ring for him to play with on the drive back to their hotel. there are another three left, though, and jungkook plays with those. he twists them around yoongi's fingers like yoongi himself does, when his mind's somewhere far away.
after they arrive at the hotel, jungkook lets go of yoongi's hand, reluctantly, and things go as they usually do. yoongi shows up at jungkook's room at exactly 11:56 p.m. and five minutes past midnight, he loses his S ring too, sort of.
instead of flying off into the crowd, it goes willingly, as yoongi tells jungkook to close his eyes, and places it in the center of jungkook's palm.
want you to keep it with you. for as long as you want it.
jungkook knows that when yoongi says that, he means hopes wishes—for a real long time. jungkook puts the ring on, says, lucky me, wanna keep it forever, and yoongi's smile is so so bright.
later, when they're in bed, tangled and warm and nearly asleep, jungkook says, "S for seesaw." he says it without much thought, because seesaw is his favorite thing, and he knows the ring means something, has to mean. then he adds, still not thinking it through, "S for our song."
"seesaw isn't our song, kook-ah," yoongi says, with a careful voice, "it's something from the past. and whenever i kiss you i see nothing but the future, a good one. but i've got another song for you. a song for us."
jungkook listens to yoongi's words, memorizes each one of them, places them in his pocket for safe-keeping. in the morning, jungkook will think the ring looks good in his index finger. will think it means—S for soulmates, but not really. S for so much more. S for sorry. S for summer. for sad and stressful and scary, too, like life sometimes is.
but for now, at two a.m. of a wednesday, in berlin, yoongi, twenty-five, makes a promise yet unknown to jungkook, twenty-one. not quite a promise, because promises are fragile and feeble and they get broken even when we don't want them to, even if we don't try break them ourselves.
so it isn't a promise.
it's a little bit more than that.
(i've got you stuck in awe.)
sometimes, when yoongi is very pretty and very close to him, jungkook worries he might end up saying silly things.
it’s a bit of a problem, most days, because yoongi looks pretty constantly; does it like it's his favorite pastime. it’s specially difficult, right now: when it's mid afternoon, a little past five, jungkook thinks, and the rain has given place to an orange sunset, one that makes autumn feel like summer for some minutes. this golden kinda hour seems to like yoongi a lot. his hair is brown this month, almost red, and when the light catches it just right, yoongi has a halo of fire around his head.
jungkook stays still, transfixed, as yoongi tells him something about this one song he's working on. he wants to listen, tries to listen, does listen, but superficially: he's mostly under a spell, cast by the tide of yoongi's voice and the weight he presses down on jungkook's legs and every single line of yoongi’s face.
yoongi stops talking, closes his eyes, moves backwards—just a little, like a cat searching the sun—and suddenly there's a lot more skin and collarbones right in front of jungkook, who isn't surprised that he lets his mouth go slack, and blurts:
"wow," his voice is rough, like part of it got caught somewhere in his throat. there's something intense burning inside jungkook's chest, warmth low in his belly, but it isn't quite lust. yoongi is mesmerizing and jungkook is awestruck; he can feel this daring sort of thing trying to consume his heart entirely, betting him to speak more and more and more, to tell yoongi how pretty he is, and how his lips are the exact shade of roses, jungkook's pretty sure, and then to sigh and fall fall fall in love like a fairytale princess does. jungkook tells it to shut up, that there's no way it’ll happen, 'cause he's already as in love as one can be.
yoongi says nothing.
yoongi says nothing and laughs.
yoongi says nothing and kisses jungkook, instead.
two hours later, when it's dark and there's no more sun to turn yoongi into something out of the louvre, jungkook still thinks he's beautiful. and when yoongi kisses him again, just before they're supposed to leave the hotel and get in a plane, jungkook feels like this the whole way: soda bottle shaken, like a popsicle melting in the sun. fizzy and dizzy and a little blurred around the edges, but so incredibly sweet.
(just because.)
"why won't you stop talkin' about seesaw?" yoongi huffs, voice rough, and jungkook gets that harmless sort of breathlessness when he realizes it is like this because yoongi is kiss-tired. jungkook just knows that his lips are red, and that there's a pout in them when he says, "you've heard me sing it, seen me dance to it, like, a thousand times already."
jungkook raises his head, detaches his lips from the spot where they were painting purple into yoongi's skin, and looks at yoongi's face: at yoongi's lidded eyes and flushed cheeks, at the lovely downturn of his mouth.
"could do it a thousand more," jungkook says it quietly, as if it is a secret meant only for the dark hours, only for yoongi, when it's really not. "i never get tired of it because—"
all of the tiny, delicate reasons why he loves seesaw fill his mind.
yoongi stares at him, intently, with so much warmth in his eyes.
so jungkook kisses yoongi on the neck and says, because i like your voice.
jungkook kisses yoongi on the jaw and says, because i like your love metaphors.
jungkook kisses yoongi on the nose and says, because i like your shiny clothes.
jungkook kisses yoongi on the cupid's bow and says, because i like your pretty dance.
yoongi is laughing by this point, gentle little noises. the biggest reason of them all, one jungkook already kind of knew since the start, appears suddenly, out of nowhere. it's obvious and blunt in a raw way, how truths of the heart often tend to be.
so jungkook kisses yoongi on the mouth, right on the center of it, and half-sighs half-whispers into yoongi's lips, chest open, voice small but honest—
because it’s you. just because of that.
(i love you.)
it's written in a letter jungkook leaves on top of the genius lab doormat. he leaves it there, counting on his wishbone-luck that yoongi will notice: the crumpled blue envelope that has torn corners, the bouquet of forget-me-nots that are refusing to die, the pen-drive that is home to one and only song. leaves it all outside, unguarded, even though he knows the password, knows it by heart.
the words were inked in october, and will be read by yoongi in late december, a bit past one in the morning, when there's no planes that cross the pacific and no hotels for a little while. in an italicized handwriting, jungkook says, not for the first time, not for the last—
you know i love you, right?
i'm sitting by the window of our hotel room, looking at bright, pretty paris, but you're the only thing i can think of. maybe it's true what they say about the city of love. maybe i'm just in love with you all the time, wherever i am.
you asked me once, years and years ago, about what i'm most afraid of. i didn't answer, then. to be honest, i'm also not really sure, now. there is so much i have to learn about myself, so many hidden fears i have yet to find. it seems a little easier to do that when you're here by my side, holding my hand.
i do know what i am no longer scared of, though.
i'm not scared of getting off the seesaw. i'm not scared of falling and getting terribly hurt, of the scraped-up knees and the bruised knuckles and the bloody nose. i'm not scared of learning how to heal. just like when summer's nearly gone, i get that good ache in my chest when i think of all the days that have yet to arrive. i remember the days that have passed and nostalgia tries to swallow me whole.
i open my eyes, and the future stares at me. i'm not afraid of diving headfirst into it, with all the heart i've got.
as i write this, you're already sleeping, in that cute way of yours: curling up small, hands between your knees, pouting. i think i better go sleep as well. paris is wonderful to look at when it's nighttime, but i'm tired and there's still tomorrow, anyway.
i have a feeling there will always be.
i wrote a song about you, hyung. can't wait for you to hear it.
love, jungkook.