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because it's a meaningless dream anyway

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Soft, wandering kisses graze upon his skin, starting from the inside of his wrist, lips fluttering up his arm with carefulness, up to his collarbone where they linger to suck gently. Yoongi feels himself sigh in his dazed state, relishing in the feeling of velvet lips trailing a wet string in their path. The lips find their way slowly up his neck, gentle tugs of teeth scraping at the pale skin, until they capture Yoongi’s lips in an open mouthed kiss.

Yoongi breathes in the scent he’s been admiring the entire week, musky chamomile and the tinge of sex mixing with it, and breathes in the scent that will haunt his dreams every night for the next twenty years.

His hands come up to cup the face kissing him, letting his fingers venture into the midnight black hair with ease, a newfound familiarity to his limbs, and kisses the man above him back. The man sighs, deep and puffy against Yoongi’s lips, and Yoongi dares to open his eyes when they stop for a moment. Dark brown eyes pierce his, a flare of lust and curiosity swirling within them, and Yoongi finds his heart skipping a beat.

Yoongi closes his eyes and pulls the man impossibly closer, kissing him with more passion, and the man above him seems taken aback and laughs at the older’s eagerness. Yoongi flips them over, feeling the smile of their lips, and licks into the wet heat with a satisfied groan.

There’s a kick Yoongi’s never felt before, something different and exhilarating he’s never felt with any of his past girlfriends, and Yoongi praises whatever higher being there is for Jeon Jeongguk and his eye-catching lavender coat.




Yoongi hates it when emotions come running back without permission, not even polite enough to knock first.

He hates days like these, where his mind finds its way into a ditch, his limbs sluggish and down, indifference planted on his face rather than the usual scowl. He knows there’s a sadness to his eyes - he’s seen it in the mirrors he passes in his apartment - but he refuses to acknowledge it’s there, because it makes everything just a bit more real.

He hates how his body finds itself venturing to the record player like gravity, finding that one Otis Redding vinyl that he despises the most, and puts it on. He usually sits with tea on days like these, chamomile if it’s really bad, instead of the harsh and bitter taste of coffee he has on most days. But the tea doesn’t do as much soothing as he hopes it will.

Today’s one of those days, and he really wishes it wasn’t.

On goes his biggest hoodie, an embarrassing thing from Disneyland Hoseok had gotten him the first time they’d met, when he spilled coffee all over Yoongi by accident, and on goes the fuzzy socks he would claim doesn’t exist in his closet if anyone were to ask.

His feet drag his body to the kitchen, hands already itching to get the kettle on, and his conscious mind is pressed to the back of his head as his body goes into autopilot. It knows what Yoongi wants and knows the routine that’s been set and knows what he needs for this day to pass by as best as it can. Yoongi’s conscious mind sits back and distances from everything in hopes of making the ache in him dull away.

The Otis Redding goes on last, his tea ready and set on his coffee table on a coaster. He’s still aware that the piece is from the famous french artist John Pham, an unexpected birthday present he still doesn’t know who it’s from. There had been a note attached, in scratchy handwriting he knows he’s seen before, greeting him a happy twenty seventh birthday. That was a little more than three years ago, and he’s gotten more similar pieces since. But the Otis Redding record goes on, scratchy from being used too often, and the sound brings a breath of life into Yoongi’s lungs. It’s a bitter breath, but a breath he’s able to breathe nonetheless.

He’s already settled on his couch with a warm blanket and the fourth song of the set list playing, when a steady patter of footsteps come from his bedroom. Yoongi hears it, but doesn’t fully register it until the steps come closer, loud enough to overpower the lead singer’s voice.

“Otis Redding,” comes a voice, and Yoongi is now painfully aware of it. It’s the voice that rings in his ears during lonely nights, broken and bitter words in the back of his mind whenever he becomes hopeful, velvet and smooth and just the perfect tenor tone that soothes half the country’s population with just one note. Yoongi despises it to no end, and it’s worse on a day like this. He can feel how the back of his eyes are stinging, but holds his jagged breath anyways. “Is it this album?” Yoongi doesn’t dare look at the other man, but he knows Jeongguk is walking towards the record player, and he hears the cracking of overexerted knees when Jeongguk bends down to look at Yoongi’s record collection, the album case lying on top.

“Yes,” Yoongi finds himself saying, his vocal ability surprising him with composure.

“You still listen to it?” Jeongguk says, and it sounds so casual it almost breaks Yoongi then and there. Yoongi has to take a deep breath, because this is overwhelming and he has never been in the presence of another person during one of these days, much less in the presence of the very reason he has these days. Yoongi takes another deep breath. It’s shakier than the last.

But then everything changes. His vision becomes blurry and then it’s like he’s looking at himself on the couch and Jeongguk by the record player checking out vinyls from the other side of the room. And then he breathes and opens his eyes from the dream. The ceiling is an inviting contrast, but his eyes wander to the side of his bed with his lungs lunged in his throat. He’s only able to breathe when he sees Jeongguk’s still there, asleep and vulnerable, by Yoongi’s side. Yoongi inhales and exhales again, just to make sure he isn’t in another dream, and the musky scent that he knows all too well mixed with sex is present, and he knows that this moment is real.

Yoongi waits a beat, maybe two, and then allows himself to breathe normally. Jeongguk hasn’t left yet, and he doesn’t feel the sluggishness of one of those days coming.

A hand comes up on it’s own to caress the younger’s cheek, and Jeongguk lies still at the touch. A clench to Yoongi's heart comes, and his hand jolts away gently from the porcelain skin. Jeongguk looks so tired, dark circles under his deep sunken eyes, cheekbones prominent from the lack of nutrition, and hair dull from undernourishment. Ten years of this shit has done a lot to Jeongguk, Yoongi knows, and he wants to punch the gods who’ve ordered fate to do this to him.

Yoongi has to tear his eyes away to check the time. 8:23 it reads, and he technically doesn’t have anything to do today but he still hauls his body up from the bed and puts on his boxers and a new shirt from his drawer.

His open apartment is the same as it was yesterday, and crumbled papers litter the living room floor. Scrapped lyrics are on them, and doodles of a pair of lips, a pair of eyes, or a nose, or maybe the outline of a head litter pages scattered on the french coffee table. Writers block had hit him hard yesterday, and he has an idea as to why. But he doesn’t lull the thought, and makes his way to the kitchen to make tea. He should make coffee, but he knows Jeongguk doesn’t like the taste of it. Not that he’s certain Jeongguk will stay for breakfast. It’s Chuseok after all.

Yoongi hasn’t visited his parents in a long time, mostly because they’re old and prudes and have nothing in common with their youngest son, but Yoongi does send them something every year just so they know they’re not forgotten. This year he’s sent them an artefact from Thailand, a little statue of a boy with a fishing rod and a girl sitting by his feet. It had been aesthetically pleasing to Yoongi’s eyes. And a letter had come to drop by in his mail in thanks. Yoongi had skimmed it yesterday before Jeongguk had come to plant feverish kisses all along his neck, distracted him from continuing on and lead to other things instead. But now, as he stirred his green tea with a wooden spoon from South Africa, Yoongi reads the letter again.

Mom and Dad want to thank you for your special gift. It looks perfect on the shelf with the rest of your presents. We’ll send you a picture next time your brother comes up. Please do well. And don’t let your heart break anymore.

He sighs and sets the postcard down. The other side is quite nice as well, it suits Yoongi’s aesthetic needs with the coffee painting of a alleyway in Daegu, one Yoongi’s never seen in real life but knows where it exists. He likes the fluid brush strokes, and it reminds him of the few drawing he’s seen litter Jeongguk’s walls in his own apartment. He’s only been there a handful of times.

“That’s nice."

Yoongi turns to look at the young man leaning against the wall that leads the bedroom to the connecting kitchen. Jeongguk looks less tired that he did yesterday, but tired nonetheless. He’s wearing one of the very few shirts he leaves at Yoongi’s place, for the rare occurrences he actually stays. It’s old, a navy blue instead of the original black, but still hangs perfectly on Jeongguk’s broad chest and shoulders. Jeongguk’s clad in his boxers, and his bed hair looks like it’s been styled professionally - how unfair.

Yoongi pretends he doesn’t hold in his breath at the sight of him.

“Yeah,” he answers, and goes back to sipping his tea quietly. Jeongguk makes his way into the kitchen, already familiar with everything, and finds a cup and a bag of camomile tea. It’s the same cup Jeongguk always takes and Yoongi never touches.

Jeongguk sits next to him by the kitchen island, and Yoongi feels the slightest bit awkward. He thinks back to the dream he had, and feels compelled to talk about the newest Otis Redding remix’s by Kygo that’s about to come out just for small talk purposes. Yoongi doesn’t like small talk though. Especially not about Otis Redding.

There’s ringing in the background all of a sudden, Epik High’s Fly erupting from Yoongi phone in his bedroom, and Yoongi steps down from his stool and brings his cup with him, thankful to get away from Jeongguk for a little while.

“Hello,” he answers without looking at the caller ID, which was a grave mistake.

“How dare you ditch us like that?!” It’s Namjoon’s voice booming through the speakers and it’s loud enough to make Jeongguk look from the kitchen. Yoongi jerks his ear away from the phone with a scowl.

“Don’t fucking scream, dipshit.”

Dipshit?! You’re the dipshit here!” Namjoon’s voice is up two octaves in fury, and Yoongi can hear Seokjin’s voice in the background telling Namjoon to breathe and shut the fuck up because he’s disturbing customers. “You left five thousand people hanging last night,” Namjoon says quieter after a few hefty slaps to the arm by Seokjin.

“Sorry,” Yoongi says with indifference. He walks away from where Jeongguk is staring at him, and takes the small staircase up to the open floor above his bed. “I had,” he looks at Jeongguk sitting in the kitchen, gracious in the movement of sipping his morning tea, before Yoongi disappears up to his make shift office “other things to do.” He doesn’t mention Jeongguk. He never does.

“I swear, if you’ve gotten yourself a girlfriend and you’re not telling us, I’m going to punch you in the throat regardless if you’re older than me or not.”

“I have not gotten myself a girlfriend.” Yoongi sits by his computer, fiddling with a pen he’s found by his keyboard.

“Then why the fuck are you bailing out on us?!” Namjoon whisper-yells, “Jiho and Mino are getting pissed by this shit you’re pulling. What the fuck is happening with you?”

Jeongguk is happening to me.

And it has been happening for years.

When Yoongi doesn't answer, opting to play with the pen he’s suddenly very interested in, Namjoon sighs loudly and Yoongi can just picture the younger man holding his head with his thumb and index, just like he always does when he gets frustrated.

“Hyung, why do you always do this?” Namjoon sounds slightly broken, as if he knows something isn’t right with Yoongi, and Yoongi supposes that it’s not odd Namjoon thinks that.

“Just….things aren’t going so well for me,” Yoongi settles for, because he can’t tell Namjoon the truth, doesn’t matter how good friends they are. Namjoon sighs, and it breaks Yoongi’s heart just a little at the sadness and disappointment it just one breath.

“Have you written anything new at least?”

“No,” Yoongi admits. There’s a long silence that follows, and Yoongi imagines Namjoon’s face turning red in mixed fury and discomposure.

“I’ll see you after Chuseok. Don’t call me.”

And then the line is cut. It’s a rather abrupt ending, one Namjoon never pulls unless he’s really hurt or angry, and Yoongi’s guessing he’s a little of both, or maybe a lot. He feels a little shitty after the call has ended, and his arm falls slightly limp when he drops the phone from his ear.

He truly is sorry to Namjoon, to Jiho and Mino, but he’s weak, and can’t talk about what’s really on his mind other than the cryptic words he spills through his lyrics. He sighs too, closing his eyes as his shoulders droop. Hopelessness. That’s what he feels.

When he comes back down and goes to his kitchen, his tea cold in the cup he’s carrying, Jeongguk looks up at him from where he sits. “Did you have a show last night?”

Yoongi throws out his tea in the sink. “No,” he answers. “I was here. Thought you’d remember. You were here too,” and he knows Jeongguk’s rolling his eyes at him.

“Okay,” he sounds mildly annoyed, and Yoongi can’t help the half smirk stretching across his lips. “Were you supposed to have a show last night?” he rephrases.

“Maybe,” Yoongi answers, rinsing his cup to make a new one. He thinks he should just stick to coffee because tea always spoils his day, it seems.

There’s the sound of a deep breath behind him and Yoongi imagines Jeongguk’s cocking his head at him in mild disappointment. “You should’ve said something.” He doesn’t sound nearly as disappointed as Namjoon had, but, rather, empty instead.

“Why should I have?” Yoongi poses, just because really, and turns around to face the younger man. Jeongguk sits with grace, years of training holding his body up as if there’s always a camera fixed on him. Technically, there always has, but not here.

“Because,” Jeongguk responds with the same tone, and Yoongi hates it when they banter like this, mildly but enough to make Jeongguk smirk behind the rim of his cup. Twenty-five and the kid is still a kid.

Yoongi scoffs, but gives in to Jeongguk, because he always does. He can never not. “I didn’t want to bother you with it.” He crosses his arms with a sharp breath through his nose.

Jeongguk doesn’t answer, and the smirk is gone and replaced by a fine line that Yoongi’s all too familiar with. Yoongi scoffs again, because he just knows that a moment of real emotion is never a lasting one when it comes to Jeongguk. Why is Jeongguk even here?

“Don’t you have work?” Yoongi moves on, a slight bitter taste in his mouth when he says this. He hates acting like he doesn’t care, because he knows Jeongguk doesn’t and will take his bait to leave. He always does.

Until recently, says a voice from the back of his brain but he shoves it farther back than where it had come from. He can’t afford to get hopeful here, because whenever he does, those days are more frequent and lyrics flow from every direction with nothing but pain and disappointment.

“No,” Jeongguk says, picking his phone from the charging stand on the kitchen island, as if to check his messages from his manager. “It’s Chuseok.”

“You don’t visit your family?”

“You don’t either.” The reply is cool, almost too cool to sooth the burn it had brought with it. Of course Jeongguk would divert from a question like that. It was too personal, and Yoongi isn't worthy enough for that kind of information.



Jeongguk was fifteen when he had first seen him - sheen with sweat, pulsing with anger, and eyes shut tight to burn the feeling of being on stage into his memory. Jeongguk had watched from the back of the club with admiration, respect for creation so raw and scarce. He had been lurking around by the bar the whole night, awkward with the whole situation of being in a club. In his hand had been a gin and tonic, disgusting and bitter, and he had barely touched the alcohol.

They had dragged him to celebrate his debut, the older hyungs in the company, excited to see such a talented young boy finally reach his dreams (in reality they just wanted a reason to go out and drink, and news of Jeongguk’s debut had been a perfect excuse).

His hyungs were out on the floor, jumping to the rhythm of Suga, Korea’s rising underground rapper. He was good, Jeongguk had to admit, better than anything Jeongguk had ever seen or heard. The passion and emotion the rapper had was impeccable, something Jeongguk was rarely ever praised for. Jeongguk envied the way Suga could make the crowd bounce with the rhythm of his voice, and when the break down came, everyone stood still to listen to the hefty speed of his flow and lyrics, and when the base dropped, the whole club filled with ‘oooohh’s of excitement. It was sick, Jeongguk felt it cursing through his body, his eyes constantly fixated on the shortest rapper of all on stage. Suga was short, not much taller than fifteen year old Jeongguk, but his presence was the biggest. The club filled with his aura, and he was undeniably amazing.

Jeongguk had bought every mixtape Suga released after that, and took time into his newly tight schedule to find everything the rapper had ever released to listen to. Jeongguk wasn’t obsessed, he just appreciated well written lyrics and a slight lisp that later went away, which is a shame, because the lisp had added to the persona. But everyone changes, Suga changed, and Jeongguk changed the most. He grew into himself, grew taller, grew better, and grew more famous over the course of ten years, but Jeongguk was undeniably still in love with the lyrics Suga presented, new and old, and listened at least one track every day.

Jeongguk had of course been to more shows after the first, but not one after at least six years, this time at the least bit an adult and legal enough to go drinking at some club in Hongdae. It was much like the first time, hype and emotional, base rattling every bone and muscle in Jeongguk’s body. Suga was the same, energetic with that laid back style, smirky and raw and filled with passion in his lyrics, but Suga’s lyrics had matured, going from criticising society and hating his parents and standing up against norms, to that of finding the beauty in a rainy day and kissing someone with a gentle breeze.

They didn’t officially meet until a year after that, three years ago.

That’s when a drastic change happened in Suga’s lyrics.

Suga became descriptive, deep and shallow at the same time with his words. He never flat out revealed anything, and everything was in codes only Suga could understand. Yoongi uses more poetry with his beats, but there’s pain and happiness and a rawer passion that Jeongguk has never heard before present in Suga’s songs. Jeongguk thinks this is when Suga and Yoongi become one, the real identity behind a musical genius, but Jeongguk doesn’t really know.

It’s 10:43 am. Jeongguk’s left alone in Yoongi’s apartment as the older is out….doing something. He hadn’t said anything specific, which Jeongguk guesses should be fine because, really, there’s no obligation to tell either of them anything they do. But that doesn’t mean Jeongguk doesn't feel at the least bit left behind.

He’s strolling through Yoongi’s apartment, taking time in looking at the personal space. It screams Yoongi, the feel of it all, and Jeongguk wonders how this man doesn’t know he's wonderful. Well, if you give Jeongguk enough time, he could muster up just about a thousand and one reasons why Yoongi is wonderful, about half of them music related, and the other half sex related. Maybe a hand full of reasons would be about Yoongi’s demeanour, but Jeongguk wouldn’t actually know because he doesn’t know Yoongi on that kind of level.

Jeongguk sits on the couch in the open living room, and stares at the pieces of crumpled paper and sheets strewn across the space. He doesn’t stop himself when he goes to pick a sheet up.

It’s a sketch of a partial face - eyes, bridge of a nose, and ears and beginnings of hair, all drawn with finesse and realism. Yoongi excels in all fields of art, it seems.

There’s words scribbled in the top right corner in practiced handwriting, and Jeongguk squints to see.

Rose petals shattered from your warm embrace,
I wonder to myself if you like to see me brake,
because torture is what you constantly put me through,
I fucking hate you, my heart fucking aches

And it’s crossed out harshly with one stroke of a pencil, deep and thick with rage, and Jeongguk feels his heart swell with anxiety and pressure, because he feels pain and anger from Yoongi’s words. It’s the kind of words Yoongi would never use in lyrics, because they’re too straight forward rather than metaphors to cover up real messages, and they’re directed at Jeongguk from a million miles away.

Jeongguk’s not stupid. He knows Yoongi writes about him, only about him, and he knows Yoongi is shattered and tattered and broken by the tug-of-war going on between them, but circumstances have made it impossible for them to have anything but what they already have. They’re already playing a dangerous game as it is, and they both know what would happen if the press found out.

But as much as Jeongguk tries to step as far away from Yoongi emotionally, he still finds himself stuck in mud, endless running without actually getting anywhere and it frustrates him to no end.

Jeongguk sets the sketch down slowly, as if scared to break it, and picks something else up. He unfolds the closest crumbled up ball, and smoothes out the paper with his fingers. Jeongguk finds his breath stalling for a moment. This is a more intimate sketch, hastily drawn with questioning strokes, as if Yoongi had been battling mentally about drawing this or not. It’s clear that there are two individuals in bed in this one, domestic and pretty with the light coming from a window behind them, judging from the shading. The two figures are spooning, an arm tightly wrapped around a waist, and the softest of smiles planted on what Jeongguk thinks must be Yoongi in this picture. But the other man’s face is blank, no features to distinguish what the character feels, and there’s a lump forming in Jeongguk’s throat.

The face is blank because Yoongi doesn’t know how Jeongguk feels.

Because Jeongguk is an expert at hiding emotions.

Especially from Yoongi.

Jeongguk gets up and away from the table. He doesn’t want to pry into Yoongi’s thoughts anymore, thinking he’ll explode or maybe do something crazy, like tweet to all his fans all of his secrets he’s been bottling up these past three years.

But God knows what they would do if they found out. If anyone found out.

Jeongguk puts on the Otis Redding record he knows Yoongi has kept all these years and settles on the couch with another cup of chamomile tea to wallow in self-load



Yoongi’s found his way to an old book shop not too far from his apartment. Hipsters with block glasses and knee high socks litter the streets outside, but thankfully he doesn’t have to deal with those inside the store. He’s been here a few times before, the aesthetic practically pulling him in every time - Yoongi’s all about aesthetics. They have decent books too, but Yoongi isn’t too fond of the idea of second hand things. When Yoongi buys a book, he wants it brand new. He wants to be the one who’s hands break the spine and creates folds in the pages. Like a sign of possession, a story told within the physicality of the book.

But that’s just Yoongi.

Yet, he’s found himself roaming the aisles of the place, fingers stretching out to play at every spine and eyes reading the titles with curiosity. He doesn’t really know what he’s searching for, or even if he is. He probably isn’t even looking for anything in particular, because if Yoongi’s honest with himself, he’s just here to get the hell out of his house.

Namjoon’s call had set him in an odd mood, one filled with annoyance towards both Namjoon and himself. Namjoon because that was just rude to hang up like that, and towards himself because, well, because of everything.

If Yoongi had been Namjoon, he would’ve grabbed Yoongi by the hair and dragged him straight to the edge of the earth and dumped him into an abyss to wallow in nothingness alone, but Namjoon is far more patient than Yoongi will ever be, and for that he’s thankful for. But Yoongi has been a dick, a careless one who doesn’t seem to give a shit about his friends or his fans or his career.

He’s walked out one too many times, left his friends to perform important events by themselves, and let thousands of people down every time. Yoongi’s surprised there are people who still like him. But he could never tell anyone why he abruptly disappears, because what the hell is he supposed to say? That he has fuck buddy that is never available except for maybe two nights a month and he just so happens to be a super famous hallyu star every woman on earth thirsts for and, consequently, a man with a dick.

Hah, what would people say then? Hah.

Moby Dick comes up once and Yoongi scoffs, harshly with the change of his mood, because that book was absolute shit. Doesn’t matter how famous it is.

Yoongi discovers a seat by the window towards the back, overlooking a very small courtyard he never thought would’ve existed. There are dried lavenders hanging upside-down from the ceiling in a neat bouquet, like mistletoe for the autumn season. Yoongi immediately thinks of Jeongguk and the first time they’d met.

Yoongi had been twenty-six, fresh off the plane from New York, with excitement bubbling in his chest. He had been happier back then, despite the news of his girlfriend cheating on him whilst he was away. He figured he hadn't care too much for her anyways. Anticipation thrummed through his veins to tell Namjoon of all the things he’d seen, and the things he’d learned.

It had been six am on the first of September and the last traces of summer had been close to gone, and Yoongi was waiting for Namjoon to pick him up, only Namjoon never did because the jackass had forgotten. Of course.

But Yoongi hadn’t been without company for long, because another man had been waiting for the same reason, and forgotten as well. Jeon Jeongguk had worn an obnoxious yet soft lavender coat over his otherwise black demeanour, so flower-boy it screamed celebrity, but Yoongi had complimented on it either way, because lavender was the new colour of the season, and Yoongi had seen that in the Cosmopolitan magazine he’d read on the plane. Twenty-two year old Jeongguk was shy, blush creeping onto his cheeks easily, and Yoongi had felt something twistingly new just from that.

Jeongguk was different - different from any guy he’d ever made friends with, and different from any girl he’d ever made love to. Jeongguk was rough and gentle and instinct had been more than enough to make the man moan.

They’d been each others’ first and only’s, and their first encounters had lasted a week in the confinements of Jeongguk’s bedroom. Yoongi can still feel the uncertain and shy touches Jeongguk’s fingers made, brushing the hair out of Yoongi’s face, caressing the expanse of Yoongi’s defined chest, tentative but curious to explore the new and foreign. There was no time to think if the things they did were right or wrong, they just did, and did, and did.

Yoongi shakes his head, diverting his eyes from the lavender flowers hanging above him, mad at himself that event he smallest of things can remind him of Jeongguk.

A heavy feeling settles in his chest and he walks straight out of the store, phone already fished out of his pocket. His heart is lodged in his throat, pounding painfully as the cognitive side of him beams for the finish line before he can back out.

Namjoon picks up by the sixth ring. “What the fuck do you want?” he bites harshly, and Yoongi would’ve scowled on most days.

“I’m gay,” Yoongi says, and it feels like the words are bubbling over themselves in anxiety and fear. He rations with himself to stop feeling so apprehensive because it’s too late. His heart pounds as silence fills the line for a long while.

Namjoon’s tone changes from angry to something else Yoongi can’t describe, and he says, “I’m sorry.” Yoongi's heart shatters into a million and one pieces, but they don’t fall apart just yet.

“That I’m gay? Why the fuck would you be sorry?” Yoongi’s lips turn upwards cynically and he clenches his fists, picking up his pace as defensive walls go up. He regrets dialling Namjoon’s number.

“No, you idiot,” Namjoon exhales frustratedly, hearing the pain in Yoongi’s voice, “because I didn’t know."

“How would you know? I’m not really open about it.” Yoongi slows his pace down, and his body feels both lighter and heavier.

“Since when?” Namjoon asks instead after a moment of silence, no evident emotion in his voice, and it sends sirens through Yoongi. His palms are itching and his fingers cramp around his phone.

“Three years?” Yoongi knows he sounds pathetically nervous, but the fuck does he care.

It’s quiet for a long while, only Yoongi’s ragged breathing from his walking and Namjoon’s shaky exhales being heard.

“It’s okay, you know,” Namjoon eventually speaks up, voice just a little rigid, “It doesn’t change anything.”

Yoongi finally breathes normally, a weight lifted off his chest and he feels the beginning of a chocked off sob. He laughs, in relief and breathes through his mouth heavily.

“I still love you,” Namjoon says just above a whisper, and Yoongi finds himself laughing louder this time, people turning their heads to look at him.

“Don’t make this gayer than it is,” he says, turning the last corner to his apartment complex.

“I just-“ Namjoon’s voice is broken and heavy, and it’s obvious he’s holding back. “I’m just so overwhelmed that you trust me enough,” Namjoon breaks, and Yoongi tries to roll his eyes, but he feels how they’re beginning to sting as well.

“Sh-shut up,” his voice wavers, and he curses himself.

It’s awkward to cry in the middle of the street with about five dozen people around you, so Yoongi tries his hardest to find his way back to his apartment before he breaks down like Namjoon. He barely makes it to the front door.

“Dont,” Yoongi tries as he hears Namjoon sob. “You’re going to make me cry,” his voice is raspy and he refuses to acknowledge that he already is crying. Yoongi doesn’t open the door because he knows Jeongguk is in there, so he slides down the outside of his door and plops down on the ground with a thud. “Please."

“We all still love you.”

“You don’t know that."

“Of course we do. You’re still you."

Yoongi cries silently as he listens to Namjoon go on and on about how it’s okay to have his preference, that society can’t say shit about what he can and can’t like. He bites back a sob when he tells Yoongi that he’ll be okay, and laughs brokenly when Namjoon tells him that he still a dick for ditching them last night but that he’s still loved. And Yoongi feels like he has enough tears to cry for a thousand life times, years of worry and anxiety seeping out with no end.

But they do eventually have to break the phone call off, Namjoon being forced by his mother to pay respects to their ancestors and dragged away, so Yoongi says goodbye, but doesn’t hang up until Namjoon reminds him again that he doesn’t have to worry, because I don’t think any different about you.

Yoongi takes a moment to recollect himself before he punches in the code and steps in to his apartment. He nuzzles his face deeply into his scarf to hide the obnoxiously red nose he’s sporting, because he doesn’t want Jeongguk to see him like this. But Jeongguk’s gone, with nothing but a small note saying ‘Am out. Be back later’ in scrawny handwriting on the kitchen island next to Jeongguk’s unwashed cup.




“Kookie, why don’t you ever answer hyung’s messages?” Jimin pouts as soon as Jeongguk steps into the tattoo shop, standing up from behind the front desk with his arms out. He looks like a child wanting to be held, and Jeongguk’s sure as hell not going to amuse Jimin with that.

“Because all you send are angry emoticons and selcas you take when you’re bored,” Jeongguk says with a smile of amusement on his lips.

“You love my selcas. I bet you save all of them and secretly set them as your home screen background. That’s why you don’t ever let me look through your phone,” Jimin smirks at him, and Jeongguk laughs. If only Jimin knew that that was most definitely not the case.

Chim Chim’s Tattoo is empty at this time of day, the clock checking in at almost 12 noon, and Jeongguk is relieved. He slides a sheet of paper onto the desk in front of Jimin, and the older looks at him with a cocked brow.

“You just got something done, like, two weeks ago,” he says, and Jeongguk clenches his jaw because he knows. He can still feel the slight sting of the phoenix on his arm, the orange and reds vibrant if he just folds his sleeve up. He nudges the paper towards Jimin a little more forcefully, and Jimin sighs like he’s silently judging Jeongguk - of course he is - and takes the note. “A quote?” he says surprised, eyebrows disappearing in his fiery red hair, “You never get quotes done."

“It’s actually lyrics,” Jeongguk interjects, sliding his jacket off to hang it up by the door.

“Even worse.” Jimin turns around in his spin chair and gets off with a sigh to walk to the other side of the shop. He rummages through his work station for what Jeongguk guesses are pens and paper, and Jeongguk stays back to wait.

Jeongguk’s been to this shop almost a thousand times now, and the interior is as familiar as the inside of his eyelids. There are countless of drawings and doodles and pictures that litter the walls like a never ending collage, everything from dicks that Taehyung’s most likely responsible for, to intricate flowers and fishes that Jimin’s very proud of. There are pictures of celebrities posing with Jimin after a good session; a lot of them get their art done here, and Jeongguk smirks proudly.

Jimin let’s out frustrated noises as he keeps searching, so Jeongguk busies himself by looking at the cluttered walls. But his eyes always find their way to the picture on the far wall behind the front desk, a drawing he’s all too familiar with staring right back at him.

It’s from three years ago, the drawing, made by Jeongguk’s own hands. It’s a picture of two figures - Jeongguk knows it’s two men, but other’s might not - holding each other tightly in the comfort of a bed, soft shading to show the morning light. There's a warmth to the drawing, and the lines are sure and precise with happiness laced in the hold of the pencil. Well, that part is impossible to see, but Jeongguk’s the artist, he knows what he felt when he drew it.

It looks so painfully similar to the picture he’d found on Yoongi’s coffee table, the pose of the two individuals similar with longing and comfort, only Yoongi’s had been filled with uncertainty and pain whereas Jeongguk had been so sure of his lines.

“I can’t believe you kept that thing,” Jeongguk says loudly enough for Jimin to hear, and the older doesn’t need to look at him to know what he’s talking about.

“It’s a really nice piece, Kookie,” Jimin says comfortingly, because he knows Jeongguk only mentions it because there’s uncertainty surrounding the drawing. Jeongguk might have been sure when he drew it, but e’s become progressively less certain as time went on. Jeongguk mumbles a ‘yeah whatever’, and makes his way to where Jimin waits.

“How, where, when, why?” Jimin says on autopilot as he cleans his gun in the meantime.

“White, here,” Jeongguk points to the inside of his bicep, where an untouched expanse of skin rests ready for ink, “today, and because.”

“There?” Jimin’s got his glasses on now and looks over the rim of them at Jeongguk. “I thought you were reserving that space for your mom or something."

“I was,” Jeongguk answers shortly, not wanting to look at Jimin.


“Things change.” Jimin’s looking at him with that look that Jeongguk absolutely hates.

They discuss how Jeongguk wants it, if he wants any kind of background and what font do you want? And Jeongguk has to admit, this had been kind of a spontaneous thing without much thought, and Jimin calls him an idiot and hits him on the back of his head at that. But less than half an hour later Jeongguk’s in the chair with his arm sterilised and ready, a stencil of the words in clear purple lettering. It’s simple, nothing more than your standard font with the background the night sky. Because of course it has to fit in with the rest of the progressing sleeve. Yoongi likes the night sky, right? He’s mentioned it in his lyrics before, describing it as an eternal gateway out his thoughts, where he can venture into the depths without getting lost.

Night Sky by Suga

Coincidentally, that’s the song that plays first from Jimin’s playlist, and Jimin hums the intro as he readies his instrument. Jeongguk tenses, because of course things would play up like this. God likes to mess with him after all.

“You seem tense,” Jimin states, grazing the needle across Jeongguk’s skin with familiarity. Jeongguk knows the sting all to well and easily ignores it. “I thought you were on a break."

“Personal problems,” Jeongguk answers, trying to sound neutral. His tactic to get Jimin to shut up doesn’t work - when does it ever?

“Anything you want to talk about?"


“Relationship stuff."

Jimin lifts his foot off his pedal and looks at Jeongguk over the rim of his glasses with the same look he gave him earlier this morning. “Why is this the first I hear about it?” He sits up, demeanour like he’s been shot and deceived. Jeongguk clears his throat.

“It’s nothing really.” Jeongguk curses himself for not having a filter around Jimin. “You don’t need to worry."

“I swear, you’re going to walk around with a half done tattoo for the rest of your life if you don’t tell me,” and Jimin has a dead serious look in his eyes when he stares at Jeongguk, and Jeongguk feels uncomfortable under the gaze. Jeongguk doesn’t entertain him though, and stares back ferociously in retaliation. Jimin eventually sighs and goes back to tattooing, and Jeongguk breathes again.

Thirty minutes in and Jimin’s done with the lettering, only the background of the night sky left. It’s going to be a dark navy blue with hues of purple and green to show the nebulas Yoongi likes to talk about when he’s feeling personal at three am. Jeongguk’s pretty sure Yoongi thinks he’s asleep by then, but Jeongguk always listens, even when he doesn’t want to.

“I have this friend,” Jeongguk finds himself saying, and Jimin hums in acknowledgement, “and he’s having a bit of a problem and asked me what I would do if I were him."

“And?” Jimin’s focused on the tattoo at hand, but listens to Jeongguk.

“And I didn’t know, so, I mean, I wondered what you would do. So, you know, I could relay that to him.” Jeongguk avoids the gaze Jimin’s giving him because he’s afraid that his face might be red in exertion.

“What I would do if what exactly?” Jimin takes a break to wait for Jeongguk.

“He’s in a sticky situation,” Jeongguk says and he prays his voice is steady, but it’s not so he coughs to clear it up, “and he, uh, feels a lot for another person,” Jimin’s gone back to tattooing, thankfully, “but it’s really controversial."

“Is he gay?”

Jeongguk looks at Jimin a little taken aback, because Jimin sounded so casual about it, as if he weren’t raised in a highly conservative country, and Jeongguk hums in respond instead of actually saying anything.

“And you’re asking me…?"

“What would you do?"

“If I were gay, you mean?”Jimin looks at him quickly and for a split second their eyes meet and Jeongguk turns away so dangerously fast he has to force his arm not to jerk away from the needle. Jimin is quiet for a moment, Jeongguk can almost hear the ticking of gears in his head, before he answers. “Would it really matter? I mean, if I loved someone, would their gender really matter?"

“But society? What would everyone else say? Especially if they’re like, someone well known?” Jeongguk poses, because how can Jimin answer a question like that so casually without thinking about the consequences.

“If society can’t handle a little bit of love, no matter how ‘unusual’ it may be, fuck society right up the asshole until they can taste cum at the back of their throat for the next thirty years.” Jeongguk stares at his friend. “Is your friend exclusive with this other person and he wants to tell the world or what’s up?"

Right, this was about someone else, yeah.

Jeongguk fiddles with the hem of his white tee before answering. “They’re not exactly together but I don’t know what he wants to do, if it’s reveal everything to the public or what. He’s kinda afraid to be official with this other guy because what if they’re seen, you know, out in public."

Jimin’s stopped the machine again, this time to wipe away excess ink, and takes a look at Jeongguk. “Then that’s a matter of how much he’s willing to sacrifice.” Jimin lowers the gun and rolls his shoulder to relieve some tension, and Jeongguk looks at the older when he speaks. “Society, especially Korean society, is going to share it's opinion on that kind of relationship, no matter what, and if your friend’s a celebrity that is kinda in love with another dude, then it’s ultimately going to be about how much your friend loves this other dude. If he’s willing to sacrifice what society thinks about him for the sake of being happy with his significant other, that’s amazing, but if not, then that’s cool too. Just depends on what would bring him the most happiness.” Jeongguk stares at Jimin and readjusts in his chair. “You’re done, by the way,” Jimin says, pointing at the freshly inked skin. It’s red and irritated and most likely really tender if Jeongguk acknowledges it, but it’s absolutely beautiful, just like everything else Jimin makes.

Jeongguk finds his breath taken away at the detailing, the stars specks of white against the dark background, and the tiny nebula in one corner bright purple, but not harshly so. Jeongguk says thanks with a careful smile, and Jimin nods his head in acknowledgement, a small smile spread on his lips.

It’s only after Jeongguk’s paid and they’re sitting in a grill bar that he let’s himself think about what Jimin said. It’s easy for Jimin to think that way, like it’s just as easy as changing your preference in ice cream, because he doesn’t live the life Jeongguk does.

“Why are you so gloomy? What the hell happened?” Jimin’s staring at him with annoyance as he flips the meat. Jeongguk knows that it’s technically his duty to do that as the youngest, but he doesn’t feel like it, and Jimin is too impatient to wait when it comes to food.


Jimin sets the tongs down and looks at Jeongguk seriously. Jeongguk knows its serious because Jimin never puts food -meat- second.

“Are you okay?” It’s filled with concern, and Jeongguk feels a bit sorry towards Jimin.

“Yeah, I’m fine."

“You’re really quiet."

“It’s nothing.” Jeongguk grabs the tongs from Jimin’s grasp and goes to flip the meat, anything to busy himself. Jimin gives him a look of concern as he grabs a piece of meat off the grill, still eyeing Jeongguk as he chews. It’s unnerving, the look Jimin gives him, because he’s always been able to see through the thickest of walls Jeongguk builds. Jeongguk hopes he doesn’t find the correlation between his question from before to his distressed signs he’s signalling. But Jimin takes a deep breath and moves on to a different conversation topic, one Jeongguk isn’t happy for either.

“Fine. Are you planning on going home for Chuseok?” Jeongguk stiffens a little at the words, even if he hadn’t meant to, and Jimin seems to think he’s found the root of Jeongguk’s drowsiness. “Yah, you should really go see your mother."

“It’s not like she misses me,” Jeongguk scoffs with a halfhearted smile. He flips the strips of meat again, shoulders coming up as a reflex guard. He ignores the itching of emotions coming up, and silently curses Jimin for bringing this shit up.

“You’d be surprised what the dead feels."



“Hey,” Yoongi looks up from the book he’s reading at the sound of Jeongguk closing the front door behind him, but the younger doesn’t reply. He considers calling him a brat, but the sullen look on Jeongguk’s face stops him.

Jeongguk’s changed his clothes from this morning into something more presentable - jeans, a basic white tee, and his favourite Timberlands. The man takes his shoes off rather gently, as apposed to the hectic movements he usually does every other time he comes through that door. His shoulders have fallen just a little, replacing the normally wide and structured posture with a dismal vibe. Yoongi can see the cloud above the younger’s head, dark and heavy with incoming rain.

Jeongguk doesn’t shed off his coat as he walks to where Yoongi sits on his Aberdeen couch, and plumps down with the weight of a thousand rocks next to him. Jeongguk naturally falls against Yoongi’s frame, leaning his head against a boney shoulder heavily, and he brings his legs up to his chest childishly.

Yoongi’s taken aback, his book frozen on the pillow on his lap as he looks at Jeongguk with knitted brows. Jeongguk nudges for Yoongi to raise one of his arms, and Yoongi complies just for Jeongguk to wind his head underneath. His demeanour screams in need of comfort, and it sets Yoongi’s heart into hay-wired frenzy. His body is stiff when he asks,

“Are you okay?"

Jeongguk breathes deeply out through his nose, and answers, “Don’t ask."

It nearly breaks Yoongi's heart the way Jeongguk’s voice sounds - broken and small and so incredibly far from the usual snarky tone.

“Okay,” Yoongi says and allows Jeongguk to revel quietly in his body heat.

Jeongguk doesn’t like personal questions, and hasn’t ever since that first week of them…doing things, so Yoongi doesn’t pry or ask how his day was. He never does. And Jeongguk doesn’t ask him. That’s just the way things are.

But it comes as a surprise when Jeongguk speaks up after a while, because he’s never done so before.

“My mom’s gone.”

Yoongi's aback far more than Jeongguk cuddling into him did, and he feels conjuncted inside. He doesn’t look at the other man. “I know,” he answers, and waits for Jeongguk to go on. Yoongi doesn’t pretend that it wasn't huge news to the Korean public - everyone had known about it and sent their condolences, and he tries not to think how Jeongguk hadn’t come by in over five months.

“She died two years ago. From cancer.”

Yoongi, of course, doesn’t know how to react to this new demeanour Jeongguk’s showing, and stays stiff where he sits. They’re quiet for a long time, and not even the sound of the pitter patter of the rain outside fills the air.

“I should go home to see her.”

Yoongi swallows and then hums because Jeongguk seems to be waiting for some kind of answer. A hand finds itself in Jeongguk’s hair, tangling fingers into the black locks to scrape lightly at his scalp. Yoongi doesn’t register he’s done it until Jeongguk relaxes into the touch with a broken exhale.

“Come with me.” His voice is small, barely above a whisper, and the steady caress of a thumb swipes over Yoongi’s knees, careful and timid, much like their very first touches, back in the early, early days.

Yoongi would’ve spluttered if he had been drinking coffee. Instead he just swallows hard.


“Because,” Jeongguk prompts, but doesn’t say anything further, and Yoongi feels his tongue heavy in his mouth, and he’s weak for Jeongguk so he doesn’t really say no to the request, even though it’s the more acceptable thing to do.

Yoongi feels a slight itch in his fingers, not from the proximity of their bodies, because Jeongguk and Yoongi have been in far worse conditions, but rather from the still air that surrounds them. Yoongi feels a shift and it conjures something rather unsettling inside of him. But it doesn’t matter because Jeongguk is suddenly curling his arms around Yoongi’s waist, warm and childish, looking for more comfort. Yoongi feels like a hug would suffice Jeongguk’s needs better, but one from someone other than Yoongi.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Yoongi slips. It had been more of a silent thought in Yoongi’s mind, but god forbid if the universe doesn't hate him. Jeongguk doesn’t stiffen and grumble excuses as Yoongi thinks he might, but his grip is tighter than it was a minute ago.

“No,” Jeongguk answers, and Yoongi accepts it, because that’s the way it is between them. Nothing too personal.

He’s about to go back to reading his book, lifting his hand off Jeongguk’s head, when the younger comes impossibly closer, not wanting Yoongi’s touch to fade just yet. Yoongi allows himself to spare a glance at the man, but wishes he hadn’t because Jeongguk looks….young. Impossibly so. His sad eyes scream teenage angst as if he were fifteen and hallow and his cowered body looks just about the same. Gone is the hefty man that can man handle Yoongi like a ring leader and pleasure him until he sees stars at the back of his eyes, and in replacement is purity and vulnerability in Jeongguk that he’s never seen before.

Yoongi can’t help how he nudges for the younger to shift positions, laying Jeongguk’s head on the pillow in his lap instead of the awkward bend against his shoulder. Jeongguk complies, heavy shoulders and all, and nudges his nose into Yoongi’s white tee shirt, arms coming to wrap around his waist once again. Yoongi, the weakling that he is, let’s his hand stream down Jeongguk’s back with tentative strokes, unsure of this kind of skinship. They stay like that for a long time, and Yoongi turns back to his book, pushing down his destructive thoughts and the little flare of hope to the back of his mind - an issue for another day.


Yoongi lets out the deep breath he didn’t know he was holding, and hums low in response.

“Can we go tonight?” Jeongguk’s voice is small again, muffled in the fabric of Yoongi’s shirt.

“To Busan?”

Jeongguk nods in response, but Yoongi only sees the flop of black hair moving. Jeongguk hasn’t moved in the past thirty minutes, obviously dealing quietly on his own with whatever he needs to deal with, and Yoongi’s been apprehensive since the very start. He’s read the same page about fifteen times, still not grasping what the hell the dialogue is about.

Yoongi shouldn’t really. He shouldn’t follow Jeongguk to Busan, to see his mothers grave, to buy flowers and pay respects. He shouldn’t. Because this is different, a huge contrast to what they’ve been doing for the past three years, and Yoongi-

“Hyung?” Jeongguk turns his head to look up at Yoongi, and he never really calls Yoongi ‘hyung’. It’s a rarity, enough to be plastered on the wall of a museum.

Yoongi doesn’t look at Jeongguk, he doesn’t dare to, and nudges the man off him to stand up. He puts away his book, folding the corner of the page to know his place, and brings the cup of cold coffee with him to the kitchen. He sets it in the sink with a small clank, turns the water to fill it up so it doesn’t stain, and ignores the fact that Jeongguk’s staring at him from the couch.

The nagging of some voice is in the back of his head, but he shots it down to were it had come from. He hears how Jeongguk’s steps are clawing up behind him as he ventures to the bedroom, searching for something.

“Hyung?” Jeongguk says again, but Yoongi doesn’t answer. Of course he doesn't because what he’s about to do goes against everything they’ve both tried to protect over the past three years. Yoongi’s pretty sure he’s going against the rules of this game, not that he actually knows what they’re playing in the first place.

He stumbles through his room, Jeongguk looking at him from the kitchen, as he searches for his carry on suitcase. He finds it, in the very back of his closet, and it’s not dusty but it’s sure as hell old. It’s the same one he’d used for his trip to America, the same one he had on the day he’d first met Jeongguk.

Jeongguk stares from where he stands as Yoongi goes through his essentials, digging up simple clothes to bring, extra sets of tees and boxers for Jeongguk as well, and necessities and toiletries for them both.

Neither of them say anything when Yoongi throws in the half used bottle of lube in the suitcase.



The cup in his hands is warm, almost too hot, and steam rises from the small hole in the plastic top. Jeongguk doesn’t drink coffee - it messes with his brain - and has opted for tea instead. Or rather, Yoongi had bought him the tea without him asking. It’s camomile with honey, no milk, just how Jeongguk likes it.

He mumbles a silent ‘thanks’ without looking at Yoongi and the older sits down in his seat next to Jeongguk.

It never fails to amaze Jeongguk just how small the older is. Jeongguk isn’t much bigger, but he’s more built and half a head taller and he’s also broader in every way compared to Yoongi. And Yoongi is toned and short and lean and subsequently they fit each other perfectly without being all too different. It makes Jeongguk look down at his cup instead of the other man.

But it doesn’t really serve as a good distraction, because in the corner of his eyes he sees Yoongi’s hands clasped around his own cup, seeking warmth inside this freezing train. They’re broad and large, fingers long and lanky, and Jeongguk pushes at the thoughts of how they feel so weirdly matched with his own. They don’t feel like perfect puzzle pieces filling each gap perfectly, Jeongguk’s held them enough times whilst fucking senselessly into the other to know that, and they don’t look like they’d go well with his. Like two pairs of large hands sitting together clumsily and bulkily. It’s weird and contradicting to the image of a small hand being clasped carefully in a larger hand that’s been shoved into his brain since childhood.

Jeongguk tries to breathe normally.

The air around them is uncomfortable. Yoongi looks uncomfortable.

And Jeongguk understands why. It’s weird, suddenly going to Busan for something that is quite possibly the most intimate they’ve ever done, and, suddenly, it reminds Jeongguk of the first week they spent together. Back when no silent rules had been established, and everything was spilled out into the open.

“Did Mi-Ah ever get into that dance school in New York?” Jeongguk finds himself asking, hand worrying around his cup.

“You still remember me telling you that?” There’s a bitter and guarded laugh that comes and Yoongi’s shoulder’s shift uncomfortably.

Jeongguk clears his throat. “You rambled on for hours how you were worried for her.”

“That was three years ago, Jeongguk.”

And Jeongguk knows it was three years ago. “Did she?"

“She graduated last June.” There’s a proud smile tugging at Yoongi’s lips, and Jeongguk feels it tugging in his chest too.

“I’m guessing she got good grades."

“What did you expect? She’s related to me,” Yoongi smirks, and Jeongguk smiles to himself at that.

With some of the painfully awkward ice broken, Jeongguk breathes a little more normally now, but there’s a nagging voice at the back of his mind that hasn’t left him alone for the past three years and it’s pounding in his ears again telling him this is wrong, and he blindly wonders if Yoongi suffers from the same deafening pressure. He’s sure he does. Yoongi raps about too often for Jeongguk not to notice.

But all of that is forgotten, nagging voice pushed back mercilessly, when Yoongi low key offers one of his ear buds to Jeongguk, a hand nudging at Jeongguk’s side, and when Jeongguk looks, Yoongi’s eyes are fixed at the iPod in his hand like it’s the most casual thing to offer music to your in-closet gay lover on a four hour train ride down to Busan, and gosh, Jeongguk just realises now how painfully out of character this is.



Busan is very different from Seoul. It’s not surprising really.

The smell of the sea is the first thing that hits Yoongi when he steps out of the coach. It’s suffocating as he hauls their small luggage and trudges after Jeongguk. But Jeongguk seems to be relishing in it, in everything, and his shoulders slack as he relaxes in the middle of the busy station.

“You know you’re being a nuisance to everybody else right?” Yoongi says, ignoring the glares given.

“Does it look like I care?"


“Good,” Jeongguk answers, and smiles like he’s plotting something wicked, and Yoongi feels like there’s an underlying message, but he doesn’t dwell.

No time for hopes and dreams, Min.

They make it out on the street, Jeongguk leading the way like he owns the place, and Yoongi grumbles to himself following the younger. The smell of the sea is more prominent out in the open, and Yoongi might be able to hear the waves if late night traffic seized.

Jeongguk leads them to a market, and it’s overwhelmingly familiar. It’s probably all the noisy children running around or maybe the old ladies greeting in heavy accents, but whatever it is, it makes Yoongi miss home, heart-achingly and flustered.

It’s the simplest things that brings happiness to the world, Yoongi thinks as he notices the constant smile sitting on Jeongguk’s lips as he snakes his way around stalls and kids and weird looking fish that make Yoongi feel uncomfortable. He looks like a kid, young and tender and this is a different kind of childishness in Jeongguk Yoongi’s never had the pleasure of seeing.

Yoongi finds himself smiling despite how out of place he feels here. Almost twenty years in the city has made him awkward and accustomed to big city life, and he clutches his suitcase close to him, trying not to step in muddy puddles.

Jeongguk looks like a completely different person when he greets the old lady by a Pajeon stand, bowing his head respectfully, Busan accent slowly seeping through graciously built Idol walls. In his simple black coat, he looks no different than any other twenty-something year old, and Yoongi smiles when he sees Jeongguk’s face light up at the street food.

Yoongi stands back to think for himself, and watches as the younger goes from stand to stand to buy something. There’s a fire building in his stomach, not like the twirling heat that builds before he’s about to come all over Jeongguk’s hands, but more like an unsettling light that simmers in his veins. He knows what it is, is too familiar with the warm affection he feels for Jeongguk, but he hates it so much.

They lock eyes when Jeongguk glances in his direction, and the smile on his lips smalls into something awkward as he hold a skewer up for Yoongi to see, and Yoongi finds his feet walking towards him.

“They’re still hot,” Jeongguk says, handing Yoongi the stick to try. Chilli ddeokbokki makes his eyes sting and ears turn red, and Jeongguk breathes a laugh at Yoongi’s blotchy face.

“Yah, what the fuck was that?” Yoongi heaves, tongue stinging numb.

Jeongguk doesn’t seem to be done yet and goes to feed Yoongi hoddeok and vegetable patties. They’re better than the chilli ddeokbokki and tasty enough to give subtle thumbs ups to. It spreads a small, pleased smile on Jeongguk’s face, and Yoongi can’t handle the jerk in his chest each time the younger smiles like that.



They get alcohol later at the hotel, because why the hell not, and it’s not necessarily any fun like alcohol usually is. The good mood from the market is replaced by unspoken tension as soon as they get into their room, and Jeongguk tries to avoid it like the plague because he knows exactly why the tension’s there. And he’s not really in the mood to tend to it.

Turns out, Yoongi doesn’t get drunk very easily, but Jeongguk does. Three shared bottles in of Prime Busan Soju and he realises just this. His head lolls against the cushion of the hotel room’s couch, vision not quite keeping up with the action, and Jeongguk has to stop before he pukes up all the good street food they ate.

A smile plasters itself on Jeongguk’s face, wide and intoxicatingly happy.


He turns at the sound of Yoongi’s voice, who’s smirking at his pitiful state, eyes hooded from the alcohol. Jeongguk smiles back sloppily.

“How are you such a lightweight,” and it’s more a statement than a question, Jeongguk hears, and he shrugs clumsily back, turning his head to look out the balcony window.

Outside, Busan nightlife thrives beyond their building, lights flaring up into specks in Jeongguk’s eyes, illuminating districts full of happy people. Jeongguk imagines crowded streets despite the late hour; families getting together to eat Chuseok feasts, siblings play fighting over the last lantern in some stand, couples holding hands, smiling at each other without a care in the world of who sees them.

That's a luxury Jeongguk doesn’t have.

He closes his eyes to rid the thoughts, but it does no good.

“Do you ever think it’s unfair?” Jeongguk says, voice raspy from the sting of the alcohol.

“What is?” Yoongi asks in the dark. Jeongguk hears the mocking slosh of the bottle in Yoongi’s hands and then the small clank to the glass table as he sets it down.

“That some people get to live happily and others don’t."

There’s a raspy chuckle behind him that sounds more like a broken scoff than anything else. “What is happiness even?” Yoongi laughs but it’s anything but happy.

Jeongguk thinks to himself for a moment before answering. He could just leave the conversation there and not venture into something personal, but the rational part of Jeongguk’s brain is gone, and has been gone ever since he’d first said yes to staying when Yoongi had asked him. Jeongguk’s lost his mind, really. He no longer knows where the line separating right from wrong is.

“I’m tired, hyung,” Jeongguk slurs as his mind floats.

“You can go sleep. I’ll take care of this,” Yoongi says rather indifferently, and there’s a shuffle of limbs before Jeongguk reaches behind him to curl his fingers in the fabric of Yoongi’s shirt. Time stills before them, and Jeongguk inhales jaggedly.

“No,” Jeongguk says, head dipped low and eyes closed. “I’m not tired tired. I’m tired.”

Yoongi stays in place on the couch and doesn’t say anything as he lets Jeongguk continue his drunken ramble. Jeongguk stays quiet for a moment too, bringing his hand back into his lap, and sighs, deeply, desperately and brokenly.

“I’m tired of my life, hyung.”

Yoongi’s quiet, but a hand comes to curl around Jeongguk’s, warm and comforting.

“Do you ever wonder, hyung,” Jeongguk hiccups around the rim of his bottle as he brings it up to drink, pulling away his hand from Yoongi’s grip, “if things were different?”

There’s a sullen scoff from where Yoongi sits on the couch. “All the time."

“Like, what if I hadn’t been this fabricated product for the world to see, and what if I hadn’t been such a coward, and what if I had instead come to terms with who I am long ago?” Jeongguk heaves a breath, “I-I’m just tired of the constant staring and scrutinising, and the high expectations and the mould that I have to fit in constantly. It’s exhausting, hyung. And as much as I love music, it’s not worth it.”

“But you still make music,” is what Yoongi says. Jeongguk laughs bitterly at that.

“Yeah,” he says. Jeongguk loves making music, loves that it’s the only way he can express himself completely freely and openly without judgement for being who he really is. And truth is, he wouldn’t give it up for the world, but god does he want to give it up, if it means being happy, even for just a moment.

“Hyung, I wish things were different.” Jeongguk inhales a shaky breath, his throat clenched like he’s about to cry, but he doesn’t cry. Jeon Jeongguk never cries. He hasn’t cried since he was fifteen. Since he left home. “God, how I wish things were different.” He slams his head against the cushion.

“How?” Yoongi asks, voice low as he cradles his own drink in his hands.

“I-I,” Jeongguk breathes and lets his shoulders sink even further, “I wish my mom was here. She’d know what to do.”

A hand comes to rest in Jeongguk’s tussled hair, petting as if to ease the stinging in Jeongguk’s heart. But it does nothing more than make it hurt more, pounding blood into his head overwhelmingly fast Jeongguk has to tell himself to calm down.

“I’m sorry, Jeongguk,” Yoongi says, and Jeongguk wants to throw his head back in painful laughter because Yoongi shouldn’t apologise. No, Yoongi should be cursing at society, throwing his middle finger up into the public’s face, and Yoongi should be kissing him for the world to see, passionately and desperately and lovingly. And Jeongguk, Jeongguk would be right by Yoongi's side, because Jeongguk, Jeongguk could never do that. He could never defy society like that. But Yoongi could. And Jeongguk silently wishes to himself thathat Ypong actually would.

“I wish we were different, hyung,” and Jeongguk feels like crying. For the first time in years, he feels like crying, like gushing out his feelings for societies eyes to see, like he should fight for his happiness and defy the laws of gravity.

To this Yoongi doesn’t reply, and for the first time since they’d opened the bottles, Jeongguk allows himself to look at the older man. He sits next to him, up on the couch, blond hair dangling in his eyes as he stares down into his own bottle, a look Jeongguk can’t read in his haze plastered on Yoongi's face.

Yoongi is beautiful, Jeongguk thinks. He’ll never deny it, even in public. Anyone can see the softness of his face, the beautiful wise eyes, and the cat like smile that curls up into a gummy one, all contrasting with his harsh tongue and words of anger, and say that he’s beautiful. And Jeongguk’s fallen for his porcelain skin and his hooded eyes and his tender lips more than anyone else.

Jeongguk doesn’t know what he’s doing until he’s clambering up into Yoongi’s lap, slowly and far more graciously than any other drunk would. Their eyes are locked, and Yoongi looks confused in his black irises, and there’s uncertainty and fear swimming in them, and Jeongguk thinks his own might look the same.

“Wha-“ Yoongi’s lips fall open, and Jeongguk can’t help but follow them with his eyes; plump and pink and slick from the booze. Jeongguk can’t help but feel hopelessness swell within him, a heaviness in his chest he hates more than society itself, and he wonders if Yoongi feels like this every day when he realises over and over again that they aren’t meant to be. His heart breaks at the thought, and his hands instinctually come up to hold the older’s cheek, fingertips brushing ever so slightly at the smooth skin. Yoongi’s eyes follow his hand before rushing to look Jeongguk in the eye again.

Both of them are fragile - colourful glass windows seconds away from turning into shards under the pressure of their own minds. Jeongguk refuses to cave in any longer, and takes a leap of faith that he might regret later on. But who the fuck cares? Who the fuck should care? Jeongguk sure as hell doesn’t anymore.

“I love you,” Jeongguk whispers, and he’s unsure if he’s even said it out loud, but it doesn’t matter, because he's leaning down to capture Yoongi’s dry lips in between his, softly, carefully. The taste of soju is almost unrecognisable, just the familiar taste of Yoongi is present. Yoongi doesn’t respond at first, most likely stunned by Jeongguk’s overly tender actions, but moves his lips against his eventually, tentative and unsure just like the first time they’d ever kissed.




Slow and steady, full of fear and passion and carefulness is what the kiss is, and Jeongguk cherishes the way Yoongi’s hands find their way to Jeongguk’s face, cupping it with shaky hands, and suddenly Jeongguk’s become hyper aware of them both and how much their bodies crave each other, how much their hearts ache to be close like this.

Jeongguk’s lips are swollen. He can feel how bruised they are and he doesn’t think he’s ever been kissed like that before.

Yoongi’s eyes are closed next to him, and Jeongguk’s perched on his arm to look at the man in his bed.

The first man in his bed.

Their legs are tangled under the covers, and Jeongguk feels the prickly hair rubbing against his own, and the sheets end right below their abdomens, enough to show that neither of them have voluptuous curves for breasts. Instead, there’s the expanse of a sculpted chest steadily breathing and toned biceps staring back at Jeongguk, and it should, it really should be unsettling to him.

“You’re staring,” Yoongi’s low voice startles Jeongguk slightly.

“How do you know?” Jeongguk prompts with a slight tint of mischief, just like he’d normally do to any of his lovers.

A smile spreads across the man’s face, gummy and equally mischievous. It’s expected, Jeongguk’s former lover’s usually do the same, but it’s still different, still unfamiliar and exhilarating and new.

“I can feel it,” Yoongi answers, and Jeongguk can’t help but smile widely back. It feels like it’s been years since he’s smiled like this, like no one’s watching. And it probably has.

Jeongguk shifts closer to Yoongi’s body and he can feel the body heat of the man, slightly warmer than a woman’s. A tongue comes to lick at the smooth expanse of skin of Yoongi’s stomach, the faintest indentions of abs tensing under the skin, and Yoongi’s breath becomes rigid.

Jeongguk trails his tongue up, up, up, until he’s found a collarbone to indulge. He kisses the spot with an open mouth, sucking gently as he listens to Yoongi’s reaction. A hand comes to slide up Jeongguk’s side, coarse but soft and larger than what he’s used to, and it ignites fiery tingles under Jeongguk’s skin. They snake around him, stopping at his left pec to slide a cautious thumb over his nipple, and it draws a small gasp from Jeongguk.

Jeongguk’s lips hover over the skin of Yoongi’s neck, breathing in the scent of a man - musky and tangy and miles different from a woman’s flowery smell, and it smells a thousand times better than anything Jeongguk’s ever smelled. It’s laced with sweat - sex - from their first round, and Jeongguk might just indulge them in a second.

He pulls his head out of the crook of Yoongi’s neck to look at the man, and it sends waves through him that he doesn’t understand. Then Yoongi laughs, wholeheartedly and raspy from over usage.

“What?” Jeongguk feels himself smiling. Yoongi chuckles before pulling Jeongguk’s face down to meet his in a short, chaste kiss.




The beginnings of morning hues stain the sky orange and lilac beyond the horizon. Busan is still under the realms of the sandman, quiet and untouched by the waking sun. It’s too early in the morning for anyone to be awake and too late for clubbers to be roaming the streets, so Yoongi breathes in the salty sea air into his lungs in peace.

A cigarette lies in his fingers to break the smell of the ocean, but remains untouched by his lips. It just lies there waiting to be taken advantaged of, but Yoongi can’t bring himself to indulge in it. He hasn’t smoked in three years, but the packet sits in his breast pocket for moments like these, moments when he’s not at home to entertain one of those days.

His shoulders lie hunched over the railing, upper body strained to look at the bay. He doesn’t feel like entertaining the thoughts running in his mind.

What are you doing here?

You’re nothing more than a fuck buddy.

Get a grip over yourself.

Why did Jeongguk even invite you?

He stiffens at the last thought, even his heart stops beating for a moment. He swallows the lump in his throat and tries to breathe through his mouth. It doesn’t really work, the agitated feeling of confusion doesn’t go away, so he closes his eyes to clear his mind.

He focuses on the feeling of the breeze that waves by like a motherly touch, then the feeling of humidity against his skin. He hasn’t slept at all after their talk. He hasn’t been able to. And Jeongguk had knocked himself out cold before any confrontation could be made. So Yoongi’s been dwelling, and stalling, and waiting, for the last five hours.

It’s the feeling of hands snaking around his midsection that brings him out of his thoughts, and he knows it’s Jeongguk barely pressing against his back. There’s a timid feeling in the ghosting touch, asking if this is okay, and Yoongi finds himself responding yeah, it is by leaning back into the embrace.

Jeongguk’s lips are parted against the shell of Yoongi’s ear, and he can hear the jagged breath of relief when Yoongi presses into his chest.

Yoongi doesn’t know what to say. Is there anything he can say?

He feels how the swell of the once irritating hope starts in his stomach, but he doesn’t find himself pushing it back this time. After- After last night, he stands still in his emotions, in his actions.

The feeling of Jeongguk’s lips press against his shoulder, small and tentative, and Yoongi’s body responds to the touch, goosebumps rising as cold air hits the wet trail left behind. Jeongguk tugs with his teeth at a spot behind Yoongi’s ear, no doubt sucking a small bruise, and Yoongi exhales through slightly parted lips.

This drill is all too familiar, but Jeongguk’s touches are softer, careful as if Yoongi might break under the pressure of his fingers, and Yoongi can’t help but reciprocate his unsure touches, no matter how many times they’ve explored each others’ bodies.

Yoongi turns around in Jeongguk’s arms, the balcony railing digging into the small of his back, and takes a good look at Jeongguk’s face. Sharp lines and soft skin, Jeongguk’s face is award winning, even without the layers of stage make up. Jeongguk is imperfectly perfect, with scars and tired eyes.

And Yoongi leans in to capture Jeongguk’s lips, sultry and desperate, like the past the three years haven’t been enough for him. It’s overflowing with passion, open mouthed and lazy, and Jeongguk’s hands hold him close until their body heat is practically one and the same. Years of exploration has left them experienced to each other, but this time it’s different. The usual snarky kisses is now replaced with careful licks and dominate fighting tongues are replaced with tentative slick slides. Yoongi sighs into the kiss, a thousand years worth of pain fleeting away.

Jeongguk leads them back into their room, and pushes Yoongi carefully down to the bed as he sinks in between his legs. Yoongi’s hands come up to tangle themselves into the raven black hair, pulling at the nape that earns him a low hum back, before before they break apart. Brown eyes that swim in waves of emotions stare back into Yoongi's and it’s the first time Yoongi's not met with impenetrable walls. He breathes a shaky breath.

When they take off their shirts, it’s not hastily done and haphazardly thrown away. It’s slow and careful, and they stare at each other as they do one and then the other. Hands don’t find themselves rushing to get to heated skin, they take their time to explore each and ever depth and rise of muscle and bone, with a mixture of careful and sure touches.

Yoongi shivers at the cold feeling of slicked up fingers circling around his hole. They’re used to this, he should be used to this, but Jeongguk’s going slow, slower than they’ve ever gone, and Yoongi exhales a long breath when the first finger finally presses past his ring of muscle. Yoongi has his arms around Jeongguk’s neck, fingers digging into the toned back, and his legs are spread wide for Jeongguk.

He can feel it as Jeongguk curves his finger right before adding another digit, and Yoongi moans at the feeling. He loves it too much, the feeling of scissoring fingers working him open, but as they stare at each other, Jeongguk’s lips parted in a slight pant, Yoongi can’t help but feel overly sensitive to everything. He’s hyper aware of everything Jeongguk, from the hard erection pressing against his thigh to the beads of sweat starting to form at his hairline.

When the third finger stretches him, Yoongi has to bite his lip to keep himself from moaning Jeongguk’s name shamefully loud. His back arches into Jeongguk’s chest and he can feel the rapid heart beating above him and his legs spread wider to give him more leverage.

“God, you’re going - ah - to make me beg, aren’t you?” Yoongi’s lips hang open as a silent cry comes when Jeongguk’s fingers brush up his prostate, and Jeongguk smiles like he’s going to haunt Yoongi’s dreams.

Jeongguk leans down to kiss Yoongi slowly, his fingers working him open at the same pace. Yoongi finds himself sighing against the younger man’s lips, indulging himself in the sweet taste. His hand slides down the expanse of a firm chest, feeling the tight muscles tense underneath his feathery touch, until he wraps his hand around Jeongguk’s shaft. Yoongi’s slow pumps make Jeongguk’s lips stutter against his own and spill a sound that has Yoongi smiling.

Yoongi’s already feeling it and rocking back onto Jeongguk’s fingers when Jeongguk the Little Shit pulls out, and Yoongi finds himself whining at the loss.

Slicked up and achingly hard, Jeongguk’s blunt tip presses against his hole, and Yoongi sucks a chilled breath in. But before he presses in, Jeongguk lifts Yoongi’s chin up and forces Yoongi to look at him. There share a still moment, maybe two, of just staggered pants and anticipation thrumming in their veins, and Yoongi knows Jeongguk’s making him look at him because this is different. This time, they’re doing things differently, and Yoongi thinks about this when Jeongguk’s cock pushes in slowly. Yoongi’s lips fall open and he wants to close his eyes to relish in the feeling of being slowly filled, but Jeongguk’s eyes are telling him a story that Yoongi aches to listen to.

One of Jeongguk’s thumbs draws circles against Yoongi’s hip bone, a gesture that sends tingles down Yoongi’s spine, and Yoongi finds his voice betraying him in a low, dragged out moan. Inch for inch Jeongguk stretches him slowly, until hips are rubbing and Yoongi feels filled to the brim with pleasure.

Jeongguk doesn’t move and captures Yoongi’s lips in a kiss so chaste it’s almost unfitting, but Yoongi deepens it by pulling the younger man impossibly closer and nudges for him to move.

Slowly, ever so fucking slowly, Jeongguk’s hips rock back and forth, and his cock slips in and out in deep thrusts that make Yoongi pant against Jeongguk’s lips. It’s groundbreaking and earth shattering to Yoongi’s nerves, and they breath in each other’s mouths in concentration. There’s nothing else right in this moment. Only them. Intimately. Passionately. Desperately.

Jeongguk changes the rhythm, going for fast thrusts that hit Yoongi deep within, and slow pull outs to savour the friction, and Yoongi thinks its too much. Jeongguk’s panting above him, his bicep straining against the side of Yoongi’s face, and Yoongi doesn’t think he’s ever seen anything so beautiful - sweaty with hair bouncing to the rocking rhythm, eyes hooded dark and sultry with passion, and red swollen lips parted in exertion.

Yoongi moans Jeongguk’s name in worship.

He flips them over, Yoongi does, and presses a firm hand against Jeongguk’s chest to keep him steady. He feels the need to drag this out, to make this worth while and keep them both feeling like they’re the only ones on earth, because this is different.

His hand snakes around Jeongguk’s length to line it up against his hole, and locks eyes with Jeongguk as the tip presses in. Yoongi takes his time sinking down the length, letting out a low moan as he’s filled up again, and Jeongguk groans at the feeling of Yoongi’s tightness. The new angle lets Jeongguk venture deeper, his tip grazing Yoongi’s prostate as he takes him in, and Yoongi’s voice falters at the feeling.

“Jeongguk,” he breathes the name like oxygen, and Jeongguk’s hands plant themselves on his hips, thumbs circling again at his hip.

Yoongi rolls his hips when he’s accustomed to the new position, and set a slow pace matching their previous one. There’s no reason to rush. Hands find their way down to Jeongguk’s, and Yoongi pulls them off and over Jeongguk’s head, lacing their fingers together like it’ll bring them closer. He eyes the freshly stained skin on Jeongguk’s bicep and feels his heart stop for a shuddering moment.

i appreciate the masterpiece that is you
because your existence alone is art
i imagine this all night every day
because it’s a meaningless dream anyway

Yoongi dips down to kiss Jeongguk with everything he has, and lifts his hips just to sink back down against Jeongguk’s length slowly, loving the burn of the friction. Jeongguk moans into his mouth, and Yoongi swallows it desperately like it’s water.

The tip of Jeongguk’s cock digs into Yoongi’s prostate each time he grinds his hips down, and it leaves Yoongi heaving for air in ecstasy. He relishes in the feeling and breathes in everything Jeongguk. Riding Jeongguk feels a lot like floating amongst the stars, and Yoongi thinks he could do it for years if Jeongguk’d let him.

“Yoon-gi,” Jeongguk groans in broken syllables, and Yoongi knows he’s close, so he slows his pace, leaving to gently rolling his hips, deep thrusts making Jeongguk gasp into his mouth, and god, does Jeongguk fill him up perfectly, and god, Yoongi could stay like this forever, with the picture of Jeongguk slowly falling apart under him.

A hand unclasps from his, and then Jeongguk’s got his hand sliding up and down Yoongi’s painfully hard erection. He’s leaking pre-cum over Jeongguk’s fingers and Yoongi draws in a sharp breath. The familiar coiling of blood rushes to Yoongi’s lower abdomen, and he says Jeongguk’s name for every roll of his hips, and Jeongguk’s grunting as he grinds back up, and the hand in Yoongi’s clutches a little bit tighter. It’s when Jeongguk runs his thumb over the slit of Yoongi’s cock that Yoongi finds himself locking eyes with Jeongguk, coming harder than he’s ever done in his entire life, like a volcano erupting from a million years of sleep. His insides tighten around Jeongguk’s swollen cock, and that’s enough to send the other’s hips stuttering and him coming hot spurs into Yoongi. Jeongguk’s hand doesn’t stop stroking at Yoongi’s cock, and Yoongi rides Jeongguk through his after shocks until it’s all too much and they collapse in a heap of limbs.

The usual aftermath lasts no more than five minutes to steady their breaths, then it’s hauling limbs trying to find scattered clothing and awkward hands zipping up zippers, but Jeongguk stays next to Yoongi this time. Not because it’s well into the wee hours of the morning or because he’s lazy and doesn’t want to drive home. This time it’s not the usual tension of unspoken phrases and longing on the tip of Yoongi’s tongue.

This time, this time, it’s Jeongguk staying because he wants to, because he has no where else to go, because Jeongguk belongs next to Yoongi. And Yoongi could worship whatever god exists for a flushed moment like this.

Their limbs don’t scramble to find scattered clothing, instead, they lie still for minutes, maybe hours, who knows? until the come on Jeongguk’s chest has dried up and Yoongi feels sticky everywhere.

Yoongi goes to lift himself up to head to the bathroom, but Jeongguk pulls his face back down to meet his, and a searching gaze pierces through him before Jeongguk kisses him. It’s slow, no tongue, no sensual need. It’s chaste with endless longing, and Jeongguk’s lips are swollen from abuse but soft and every nerve in Yoongi’s body responds to the kiss. They pull apart, not far, just enough to breathe each others air, and Yoongi’s eyes flickers up from Jeongguk’s lips to his eyes. There are no walls, just like earlier, and Yoongi hopes there’ll never be walls again.

“That was-“ his voice is raspy and low.

“I know,” Jeongguk says as his hands find their way up Yoongi’s sides, coming to cup Yoongi’s face. The same thumb that had traced circles into his hip smooths over his cheek, and Yoongi finds himself leaning into the touch.

This is different - Jeongguk’s still inside, and they’re taking their definite time to pull apart, to be away from each other. Yoongi can once again feel the rapid beating of Jeongguk’s heart against his chest, and his breath hitches.

Eventually, Yoongi has to haul himself off Jeongguk, groaning at the feeling of Jeongguk’s cock slipping out of him, come running down his thighs. Yoongi can almost feel himself getting half hard again just from the feeling, but his thighs burn and he’s sore everywhere. Jeongguk groans as well at the feeling, and a shiver works its way up Yoongi’s spine.

They don’t talk about it when they lather each others bodies up in soap in the shower, Yoongi doesn’t expect them too. But the air is different around them, and Jeongguk doesn’t stop looking at him. It’s weird being stared at constantly, so Yoongi finds himself doing the same to Jeongguk.

They’re simply aware of each other - each limb, each breath, each word. And when Jeongguk offers to clean Yoongi it’s not sensual touches searching for more. It’s grazing fingers and intimate stares.

Yoongi feels like the world as he knows it is collapsing under the weight of something greater. Something that should have come sooner.