Chapter Text
Taehyung had a plan.
It had assembled itself sometime between locking the door and walking back into the kitchen, fully formed, in the way good plans sometimes did when there was nobody around to immediately object to them.
The first part was simple. He was not going to college today.
This was not, he wanted to be clear with himself, rebellion. Rebellion implied a kind of statement, an act of defiance against a system, and Taehyung had no quarrel with the system. The system was fine. What he had instead was a logical reassessment of priorities, which was an entirely different thing and sounded much better.
The logic went like this: football meetups didn't start until Monday. His Friday afternoon class was a lecture he could catch up on through Noah's notes, which Noah always took meticulously and shared without complaint. And he had, sitting in his future, a cooking practical in two weeks that he was, by his own honest assessment, not remotely prepared for.
So instead of sitting in a lecture hall absorbing approximately thirty percent of what was being said, he could spend today actually practicing. In the kitchen. With real ingredients and real consequences and no pressure of an audience. This was, when you thought about it, a more efficient use of his time. Arguably a more academically responsible choice than attending the lecture, if you considered the practical outweighed the theoretical in terms of immediate relevance.
He was very pleased with this reasoning.
He was also aware, with the clarity of someone who knew his own family extremely well, that if he explained this reasoning to his mother, she would not receive it as reasoning. She would receive it as Taehyung skipped class, and the surrounding logic would simply not register, the way certain frequencies were inaudible to certain ears. So he decided, with the wisdom of experience, that this was a decision he would make for himself, quietly, and not mention.
Some knowledge was better kept private.
The second part of the plan was movies.
It had been, he realized, actually been a while since he'd watched anything just for himself. Family time had taken over most evenings lately... the Conjuring marathon, the general orbit of being part of a household that did things together. Which was nice. He liked it. But there was also something to be said for an evening with nobody else's opinions about what to watch, no negotiations, no his mother's running commentary or Junho's dramatic reactions.
Just him. The TV. Whatever he wanted.
The third part of the plan was the most important, structurally, because it was the part that made the other two possible: he was not going to leave the house. At all. For the entire weekend, if he could help it. This was going to be, he told himself with the solemn commitment of a man setting a personal record, the most successful couch potato weekend in recorded history.
He laughed, a little, at his own evil plan.
He was, despite the laugh, looking forward to it.
...
He poured himself tea... the one his mother had left brewing before she left, still warm in the pot... and settled onto the couch with the specific satisfaction of someone beginning something they'd been looking forward to.
He started, sensibly, with the kitchen prep. He found the potatoes, washed them, peeled a few, and put them in a bowl of water the way he vaguely remembered his mother doing for fries... something about the water pulling out starch, he thought, though he wasn't entirely sure of the mechanism. He set the bowl aside on the counter, satisfied with this small productive act, and went back to the living room.
He spent the morning doing very little, deliberately. He scrolled through his phone. He read a chapter of the green novel, finally, propped against the arm of the couch with his tea, and found that it was, as he'd suspected, the kind of book that pulled at you gently from the first page. He put it down after a chapter because he wanted to save the rest, which was its own small pleasure... having something good left to look forward to.
He made himself lunch. Simple, leftovers from the fridge, eaten standing at the counter with the specific freedom of someone who didn't need to set a table for one person.
He napped, briefly, on the couch, in the early afternoon sun that came through the window at an angle that made the whole living room warm and golden.
It was, all in all, an excellent morning.
...
His phone buzzed in the late afternoon.
Seokjin-hyung: tae-ya. tomorrow evening. game parlour. me, joon, the chaos twins, soobin maybe. you're coming.
Seokjin-hyung: this is not a question
Taehyung looked at this for a moment.
He had been planning, after all, a weekend of total domestic seclusion. The couch potato dream. The sacred no-foot-outside-the-house principle.
Taehyung: i have plans hyung
Seokjin-hyung: what plans
Taehyung: plans
Seokjin-hyung: tae-ya
Seokjin-hyung: your "plans" are watching things on the couch and you know it
Taehyung: thats a valid plan
Namjoon-hyung: beomgyu's been talking about this for two days. he'll be sad if you don't come
Taehyung: thats emotional manipulation
Namjoon-hyung: is it working
Taehyung looked at his phone for a long moment.
Taehyung: ...what time
Seokjin-hyung: 😈😈😈
Seokjin-hyung: 6pm. don't be late.
He set his phone down with the specific resignation of someone who had known, the entire time, how this exchange was going to end, and had engaged with it anyway out of some sense of obligation to put up token resistance.
Tomorrow, then. Tonight was still his.
...
The evening settled in properly, the light outside going soft and gold and then dimming toward blue, and Taehyung made himself hot chocolate... the good kind, with actual chocolate rather than the powder, because he had time and nobody was going to interrupt him... and arranged the couch into the specific configuration required for serious viewing. Blanket. Cushions positioned correctly. Remote within reach. Tea finished, hot chocolate now in its place.
He scrolled through his options.
And then he found it.
My Fault.
He'd seen it everywhere, the last few weeks... clips circulating, people's reactions, the specific online phenomenon of a movie that had become, very quickly, a talked about movie. Mostly the talk seemed to center around one specific quality of the film, which people referenced obliquely, with a lot of emojis, and occasionally less obliquely, with considerably fewer emojis.
Taehyung had been curious.
Not in any particular way, he told himself. Just... curious. The way you were curious about something everyone was discussing. It would be strange not to have an opinion, when the opinion was so widely available to be had. He was simply doing his due diligence as a person who existed on the internet.
He pressed play.
Sometimes, he reflected, settling into the couch with his hot chocolate and the blanket pulled up, nobody would ever really know what went on in his head. This felt like one of those times. He was not going to be telling anyone about this particular viewing choice. It would simply exist, privately, in the category of things Taehyung had done while alone in the house, filed away neatly, never to be discussed.
The movie started.
And, well... the internet had not been exaggerating.
The tension between the two leads was present from essentially the first scene they shared, the kind of charged, simmering thing that the camera seemed to know exactly how to frame, and Taehyung found himself watching with the specific, slightly self-conscious attention of someone who was alone but still felt, somehow, observed.
He sipped his hot chocolate.
He thought, at one point, watching a particular exchange of looks between the two leads that lasted several seconds longer than strictly necessary: oh. Okay. I see what everyone meant.
At some point he remembered the potatoes.
He paused the movie... right at a scene by a pool, the male lead, Noah, having just thrown a handful of water at the female lead with the kind of grin that suggested this was foreplay disguised as horseplay, the tension of the moment frozen mid-splash... and got up, blanket sliding off, to go deal with the fries.
He was nearly at the kitchen when the doorbell rang.
He stopped.
He looked toward the door. Looked at the time on his phone... early evening, not late, but late enough that an unannounced visitor was slightly unusual.
"Who...?" he murmured to himself, half a question, half just the sound a person made when confronted with an unexpected doorbell on a quiet evening alone.
He went to the door and opened it.
...
Jungkook was on the doorstep.
He was in something casual... a hoodie, soft-looking, his hair slightly different from how he usually wore it, and he had the small, easy smile that Taehyung had, by now, come to associate specifically with this person's existence in general.
"Hi, hyung," Jungkook said.
"Oh." Taehyung blinked, recalibrating. "Hi. Junho's not home, he-"
"I know," Jungkook said. "He told me he's going to your aunt's place this weekend." A small pause. "I came to check on you."
Taehyung looked at him.
"I'm older than you," he said, with the specific dignity of someone pointing out an obvious fact, "you don't need to check on me."
"I know," Jungkook said, agreeably, the small smile widening slightly, the one that meant he was about to continue exactly as planned regardless of the point Taehyung had just made. "Just checking you're taking care of yourself, hyung."
Taehyung looked at him for a moment.
He thought about the green novel, and the hot chocolate, and the movie paused mid-splash on the screen behind him, and the bowl of potatoes sitting in water on the counter, untouched since this morning, and felt something warm settle in alongside the slight indignation.
"I'm making fries," he said. "Come in. I'll make some for you too."
Jungkook stepped inside, toeing off his shoes with the easy familiarity of someone who had done this enough times now that it required no thought.
"About the cooking practical," Taehyung added, leading the way toward the kitchen, "in two weeks. I figured I'd start practicing today, since I have the time and-"
"I'll help," Jungkook said, simply, already rolling up his sleeves as they reached the kitchen, the movement easy and unhurried.
...
The kitchen, with two people in it, had a different quality than it had with one.
Jungkook looked at the bowl of potatoes on the counter, and then at the rest of the setup... the oil, the cutting board, the general arrangement of things that Taehyung had assembled with the vague confidence of someone who had seen this done many times and assumed that watching equaled knowing.
"Okay," Jungkook said. "First thing... how long have these been in water?"
"Since this morning?"
"That's good, that's fine." He picked one up, turned it over, examining it with the kind of attention Taehyung recognized... the same quality he'd brought to the penalty spot, to the boxing ring, to the jersey numbers. Focused. Unhurried. "The water pulls the starch out. Makes them crispier. You did that part right."
Taehyung felt a small, disproportionate glow of pride at you did that part right.
"Now," Jungkook continued, drying the potato with a cloth, "the cut matters more than people think. Even thickness, that's the main thing. If they're different sizes, some burn before others cook through." He picked up a knife, and showed Taehyung, slowly, the motion... steady, even strokes, the potato becoming a neat stack of planks and then strips, all roughly the same size. "Like this."
"That looks easy when you do it."
"It's mostly just... going slow at first. Speed comes after." He handed Taehyung the knife, handle first, and stepped back slightly. "Try."
Taehyung tried.
His first few cuts were uneven... one strip noticeably thicker than its neighbors, another tapering oddly at one end. He looked at them with the specific dissatisfaction of someone comparing their work unfavorably to a demonstration.
"That's fine," Jungkook said, before Taehyung could say anything self-deprecating. "First few are always like that. Keep going."
Taehyung kept going. By the fourth potato, the strips were more even... not perfect, but closer, and he felt a small flush of accomplishment that he tried not to make too obvious.
"Better," Jungkook said, simply, and Taehyung's small flush became slightly less small.
...
The rest of it, Jungkook explained as he went... and somewhere in the explaining, the explaining became doing, Jungkook's hands moving with the same quiet competence he brought to everything, and Taehyung found himself, again, in the position of watching rather than doing, despite the fact that this was supposed to be his practice session.
"The oil temperature is the most important part," Jungkook said, testing the oil with the end of a wooden spoon, watching the small bubbles form around it. "Too cold and they absorb oil and go soggy. Too hot and the outside burns before the inside cooks." He nodded, apparently satisfied with whatever the bubbles were telling him, and began lowering the cut potatoes in, carefully, in batches. "Two-stage frying gets the best result. First fry, lower temperature, cooks them through. Then you take them out, let them rest, and fry again at higher heat for the crisp."
"You learned all this... where?" Taehyung asked, watching him work.
"Here and there," Jungkook said, easily, not elaborating.
The kitchen filled with the sound and smell of frying... that specific golden smell, warm and comforting, and Taehyung stood beside the stove and watched Jungkook work with the same focused calm he'd shown at the penalty spot, adjusting the heat slightly, turning the basket, timing everything with an internal clock that seemed to need no external reference.
By the time the second fry was done and the fries were resting on paper towels, golden and visibly, audibly crisp, Taehyung had contributed: the initial soak, four unevenly cut potato strips, and moral support.
"I should be the one cooking," he said, looking at the finished fries with a complicated expression. "This is supposed to be my practice."
"You'll cook next time," Jungkook said, salting the fries with an easy, practiced shake. "When I'm here." He glanced at Taehyung, the small smile present, something gentler underneath it. "Just don't do fire and oil things alone, hyung. Okay?"
The okay landed soft. Not a command, not really even a request. Just... a small, specific care, offered plainly, the way Jungkook offered most things.
Taehyung felt his face do something warm.
"Okay," he said, quietly.
...
They carried the fries to the living room... a plate each, and Taehyung had grabbed two cans of something cold from the fridge along the way, and as they approached the couch, Taehyung suddenly remembered, with the specific jolt of someone recalling something they very much did not want recalled in present company, exactly what was currently paused on the television.
My Fault. Pool scene. Noah. Water. The specific tension of the frozen frame.
He moved fast.
"I'll just-" he said, already crossing the room ahead of Jungkook, plate balanced in one hand, and grabbed the remote with the other, pressing buttons with the urgency of someone defusing something, and the screen blinked... away from the paused frame, back to the home menu, and then, with slightly desperate speed, into something else entirely. Something safe. Something that did not require explanation.
A Perfect Date loaded onto the screen... bright, colorful, the poster art unmistakably and reassuringly a romcom, the kind of thing that announced its genre from across the room and asked nothing further of anyone.
Jungkook arrived at the couch a beat later, sitting down with his plate, and looked at the screen.
"This one?" he asked.
"Yeah," Taehyung said, settling in beside him with the studied casualness of someone who had absolutely not just performed an emergency content swap. "Heard it's good."
"Okay," Jungkook said, easily, no further questions, and reached for a fry.
Taehyung exhaled, quietly, and pressed play.
...
The movie played... light, easy, the kind of thing that asked very little of its audience and delivered exactly what it promised, which was, after the afternoon Taehyung had had, something of a relief. They ate the fries... which were, Taehyung had to admit, genuinely excellent, crisp outside and soft inside, exactly the way the good ones from restaurants were and his attempts at home never quite managed... and the evening settled into something easy and warm, the TV light flickering across the living room, the blanket shared loosely between them at some point without either of them commenting on it.
"Tomorrow," Taehyung said, partway through, remembering, "I'm going to a game parlour. With Seokjin-hyung and Namjoon-hyung. And the others, probably."
"Yeah?" Jungkook glanced over.
"Seokjin-hyung basically ordered me to come," Taehyung said, with the specific tone of someone who had given in but wanted credit for the resistance he'd put up beforehand. "Evening. Six."
"Sounds fun," Jungkook said.
A small pause.
"We should..." Taehyung said, and then stopped, because he realized what he'd been about to suggest and felt the warmth arrive in his face slightly ahead of his words, "...I mean. If you want my number. For... in case. Things."
Jungkook looked at him.
"Yeah," he said, softly. "I'd like that, hyung."
They exchanged numbers... a small, ordinary moment, phones passed back and forth, Taehyung typing his name in carefully and then, after a brief hesitation, adding a small heart next to it before he could think too hard about whether that was too much, and then handing the phone back before he could see Jungkook's reaction to it.
Jungkook's phone buzzed in Taehyung's pocket a moment later... a test message, just to confirm the number worked, and Taehyung looked down at it.
Jungkook: hi hyung
He looked up. Jungkook was watching him, the small smile present, warmer now somehow, in the low light of the television.
"Text me when you reach the parlour tomorrow," Jungkook said. "I'll bring some good dumplings for you, hyung. There's a place near there."
Taehyung looked at him.
"You don't have to-"
"I want to," Jungkook said, simply, the same way he said most things. And then, after a small beat, with the smallest curve of teasing at the edge of it: "Unless you don't want dumplings, hyung."
"I want the dumplings," Taehyung said, immediately, with great feeling, and Jungkook laughed... the real one, short and bright... and the sound of it filled the warm, quiet living room, and on the screen the movie continued, light and easy, and Taehyung sat there with a fry halfway to his mouth and a new contact saved in his phone and felt, in the specific golden glow of the television and the evening and the company, something settle into place.
He smiled.
He didn't try to stop it.
______________________
Also, quick question: have you watched My Fault? And if yes… did you like it?