Archive of Our Own

it takes four days for seokjin to show up.

he’s endured visits from some of the others—lectures, questions, demands that he fix whatever has been broken. he hasn’t listened to any of them, can’t. nothing they say can calm the surge of anger hiding in his chest, the beast that wants out. and maybe that’s not the point anyway, because they blame him. they always blame him.

you’re the hyung, namjoon had said, and yoongi could feel namjoon’s dark eyes on his back without even looking over his shoulder. you’re supposed to take care of him, to listen to him. whatever happened, you have to make it better.

but how could yoongi say it wasn’t his fault this time? that no matter how many little missteps he’s taken over the years, he wasn’t the one to finally kick out their legs from beneath them?

he won’t talk to any of us, hoseok had said—through the crack in the door, because yoongi wouldn’t let him in. i don’t know what’s going on, but please, hyung. we’re worried. about both of you.

but what would worry do now? what would any of their concern do for two people who had always been self-destructive to the point of becoming black holes, to the point of dragging everything in around them, to the point where not even light can escape? not even hope, not even want?

somehow, he knows it’ll be different with seokjin. so when there’s a knock on the door again, only hours after namjoon came and was turned away with radio silence, yoongi tenses from where he’s lying on the bed—the left side of the bed, because that’s his side, always is, even without anyone on the other side, and that’s—wrong. everything feels so fucking empty.

the knock comes again. “yoongi-yah,” says seokjin, sounding vaguely tired. “it’s me. open up.”

yoongi considers it. consider what opening that door will do, what letting seokjin in will do. and yet—in all of the years they’ve known each other, the one thing they’ve all tried to teach him is that it’s okay. he can let people in, can let himself be loved. can admit that he wants that love and that care. he spent so long running from letting people want him that it’s merely an ingrained habit now, always one foot out the door. even now, it rears its ugly head, fear and more.

he considers it. and then yoongi gets up and unlatches the chain from the door, opens it enough to see seokjin leaning against the doorframe. their eyes meet.

“what do you want?” asks yoongi, voice rough.

“i want you to let me in,” says seokjin.

“are you going to yell at me?”

“yes.”

yoongi takes a step back and opens the door wider, allowing seokjin access. when he enters, it’s slowly, eyes taking in the room—the bed with only one side slept in, the coffee table with two mugs, two tea bags, two packets of sugar. the familiar flannel shirt hung in the closet, the only extra piece of clothing yoongi has with him.

he shuts the door behind them, leaning against it as he watches seokjin inspect the room. “nice place you got here,” seokjin comments dryly, as though humor will make the situation any more bearable. as though they both don’t know what he’s really here for. “why are you staying in a shitty motel anyway?”

“where else would i go?” asks yoongi.

seokjin gives him a hard stare. “you act as though you’re so alone, yoongi,” he says. “like the past—what, eight years of our lives mean nothing to you. i have a perfectly good spare room. jimin and hoseok have a bed. namjoon and taehyung have a lumpy sofa that they’ve probably fucked on a million times, but it’s better than this. and here you are, holing yourself up. punishing yourself.”

“i’m not punishing myself,” argues yoongi, crossing his arms as seokjin takes a seat on the bed. “it would have been too awkward to stay with any of you, not when—” he stops, pursing his lips. “i just needed to leave for a while.”

“so it’s your fault, then.”

“no, actually, it wasn’t. this wasn’t my fucking decision.”

“then why are you here, yoongi, and not there?” snaps seokjin. “why aren’t you fixing this?”

“what the fuck am i going to fix?” asks yoongi. “he told me i’m a terrible person. told me he couldn’t take all of my goddamn problems on top of his own and all we do is fight and then fuck to make it better and it’s not worth it anymore. i’m not worth it anymore. so if you think i can somehow magically change his mind, then i don’t know what to tell you.”

seokjin doesn’t seem surprised—and maybe it’s not surprising, that they’ve finally come to this point. yoongi can no longer remember a time when he and jeongguk weren’t fighting about something, weren’t trying to mend something neither of them knew how to hold. they’ve always been so good at breaking, until they finally broke each other. broke whatever beautiful thing they were once so sure of, when life might have been bearable.

“i just want to know what happened,” seokjin finally says. “we all want to help.”

“we broke up,” says yoongi. “that’s it. we’re terrible people and we’re not good for each other and life fucking sucks and then you die. that’s what happened.”

“don’t get angry at me,” says seokjin. “i’m concerned for you and your well-being. i’m concerned for him and you should be, too.”

“of course i’m concerned for him,” says yoongi. “i fucking love him. just because he suddenly decided my shit is too much for him doesn’t mean that’s going to change. but i’m—i’m angry, hyung. i’m angry at him, at myself, at the fucking world for being such a goddamn horrible place where nothing good can ever stay for long. so i just… i need to be here. i need to sort out my own feelings.”

it was one final argument that ended it all; they’ve been arguing more and more frequently in recent months, often about simple things that needed no anger directed at them: yoongi leaving his shoes out, jeongguk forgetting to call about staying over at a friend’s. now, yoongi can no longer remember what set them off that final time, only four days ago, only knows that they both screamed things they shouldn’t have, and maybe yoongi threw a chair. all he remembers is the anger and the pain and jeongguk looking at him with angry tears in his eyes, remembers the way he said, “i don’t think we should be together anymore, yoongi- hyung. we’re not good together. i don’t think we have been for a very long time.”

now yoongi almost wants to laugh, wants to ask when we were ever? he knew from the beginning that they were barely functional, that jeongguk looked up to him too much, put too much pressure on him. and yoongi was always so quick to run away, afraid of those feelings that festered the longer jeongguk hung around.

don’t you know what you mean to him? seokjin had once asked.

yes—and it fucking scared him. it still does. it scares him what jeongguk means to him, the way they learned to rely on each other in the years they grew from friends to something more. they were always something dysfunctional, always something teetering on the edge of unhealthy at the best of times. co-dependent.

sometimes, it was good. sometimes, yoongi would wake up to soft morning light filtering through the curtains and jeongguk curled into his side, nose pressed into the love bites he left from the night before. sometimes, yoongi would grin up at the ceiling and think that they were almost normal—

“i know you need your time,” says seokjin, softer now. “and i respect that. i respect anything you need, yoongi-yah, but for the love of god, don’t isolate yourself. let us help you.”

“what can you do, hyung?” asks yoongi. “i’m angry and i’m in pain and i just want—i just want him. but he’s right. we’re not good together.” it’s the toughest bit to swallow, to realize—jeongguk isn’t wrong. but he always thought that they both knew that and were prepared to deal with it, to deal with the consequences that might arise from forcing their own happiness and comfort. yoongi never considered that one day, jeongguk would decide he wanted something better.

wanted someone better.

“i don’t know what to do,” says seokjin. “but at least let us talk to you, or feed you, or give you a room to stay in where you don’t have to drain what little money you have. i don’t like seeing you suffer.”

“well, get used to it. i’m not a happy person, hyung.”

“neither am i, but at least i recognize when my own friends are trying to show me support and accept it.”

“this is why i don’t want your fucking help,” snaps yoongi, finally pushing off of the door and angrily pacing before seokjin. “all you do is patronize me. can’t any of you just let me be angry in peace?”

“jesus christ,” says seokjin. “no wonder jeongguk can’t put up with you. it’s like talking to a brick wall.”

“did you come here to help me or to make me feel like shit?”

“listen to me, yoongi. i know you have your problems and jeongguk has his. and i can’t pretend to know what it feels like to deal with them together and i don’t know what was said in your fight. and i don’t know if you’re good for each other or not, but… whatever happened, it doesn’t have to be like this. we’re all hurting for you. talk to us if you won’t talk to him.”

yoongi shakes his head, reaching for the lighter in his pocket. it calms him somewhat to have it in his hand, absently flicking it on and off as he avoids seokjin’s gaze, feels anger and impatience skitter up through his spine. “we’ve said our pieces,” he finally admits. “jeongguk isn’t going to talk to me.”

“not yet,” says seokjin. “you just need some time to cool down.”

“but he’s right, hyung,” says yoongi, looking down at the tiny flame from the lighter. he lets it go out, nothing left in its wake. “all we do is hurt each other.”

“that’s not true, yoongi. weren’t you happy?”

yoongi has begun to believe that happiness is not a marker for a successful life. maybe the correct question is—weren’t you able to breathe easier? or weren’t you willing to suffer just to see him smile? or weren’t you okay with living this goddamn awful life just to spend it with him?

he sinks down onto the bed, the opposite side from seokjin, just so he doesn’t have to look and see all of that concern, that love. “i don’t know,” he admits. “i just don’t know anymore. i’m afraid that cooling down and spending time apart will make me realize that we’re better like this.” he flicks the lighter, hand against his knee. yoongi’s eyes swim with fire. “i don’t know how to do anything without him anymore.”

there’s a gentle hand on his shoulder, just a touch. “maybe this can be a good thing, then,” says seokjin. “maybe you just need to spend some time apart to understand yourselves better, to figure out what it is you want. and when you’re ready, you can talk about it and you’ll be good together again.”

yoongi closes his eyes. there, he sees jeongguk’s face, always so lovely but now torn apart with anger at yoongi, tired with the same old shit every goddamn day. yoongi is tired, too. but it was always enough just to be tired together.

“please leave,” he finally says. “i want to be alone.”

“yoongi—”

“hyung,” says yoongi firmly.

it takes an aching minute, but then the hand finally slips from his shoulder. the bed rises on the other side, the floor creaks with footsteps retreating. after a pause of silence, yoongi opens his eyes to see seokjin standing by the door, watching him with tired, sad eyes. and this is it, too, yoongi thinks—he and jeongguk make each other sad. but oh, they make everyone else sad, too.

after some hesitation, seokjin says, “we’re having a little get together at namjoon’s on sunday. you don’t have to come, but i think everyone would like to see you there.” it’s in three days. three days for yoongi to pull himself together enough to leave this room, to show up and see all of their friends—his friends. to either pretend that he’s fine or admit that he’s not and accept the help they want to give him.

and still, it feels wrong. it feels wrong to see his friends knowing they’re jeongguk’s too, and what if jeongguk is there? a week isn’t enough time—and yet his heart kicks in his chest as he thinks of seeing jeongguk again. now, yoongi is still angry, is still hurt. and maybe he will be in three days. but maybe there will be something more, too.

“will he be there?” asks yoongi, voice low.

seokjin almost grins. “i don’t know,” he says. “if it sways you one way or another, jimin invited him, but he didn’t give an answer either way. if you don’t want to see him, you don’t have to come, but i think it’ll do you some good to see everyone else.”

yoongi takes a breath. this is so much easier—isolating himself, wallowing in his own pain. showing up at namjoon’s means opening himself to their concern, admitting that he needs them. and despite not wanting that, yoongi feels this yearning for it—for normalcy, for a balance. he misses them, suddenly. he misses jeongguk more, but maybe he doesn’t have to cut himself off from everything.

so—“okay,” he says, finally. “i’ll try to make it.”

“okay,” says seokjin. “i’m sorry, yoongi-yah. about everything. i hope that whatever happens… it makes you happy.”

after he’s gone, the door latched behind him again, yoongi surveys the room. surveys the other side of the bed, where jeongguk should be—or maybe yoongi shouldn’t be here to begin with, should be in the apartment they’ve shared for years, where they’ve made a home. made love and maybe hate, too, made something of the shit hand they’ve been dealt in life.

he takes a deep breath, and then slowly climbs back onto the bed. squeezes his eyes shut. prays for the roof to come crumbling down piece by damning piece, just to give him an excuse to stop the pain.

♦ ♦ ♦

“hyung,” says namjoon when he opens the door, both relief and surprise colouring the words. yoongi knows why—no one expected him to show up to the get together, not in the state he’s been in for a week since the break-up. sometimes it was hard to get him to hang out with the rest of them even before, even on the good days. but here he is, anyway. maybe something seokjin said managed to stick.

“hey,” says yoongi, hiking up his shoulders as he slips his hands into his pockets. his eyes skirt past namjoon’s shoulder to the kitchen and beyond, where he can see some of the others. “is he—”

“no,” says namjoon immediately. “no, it’s fine, come in.” he steps back, is careful about it—about his tone of voice, about the way he looks at yoongi, about reaching for him and then stopping, like he’s forgotten that yoongi isn’t made of glass and won’t break at the slightest mishandling. (he is, however, made of fire and smoke—)

the conversation in the kitchen immediately dies down when yoongi enters, five pairs of owlish eyes watching him. it makes yoongi feel exposed, vulnerable in a way he doesn’t like. he knows what they’re all thinking, knows they all want to rush forward and help him, but this is a min yoongi who has hurt and been hurt. who knows just how to retreat, who knows how to run at the first sign of vulnerability or love.

so when jimin opens his mouth, maybe to greet him but maybe to ask how he is, yoongi just says, “is no one going to offer me a beer?”

it breaks some of the tension as namjoon fetches him a beer, presses the cool glass into his hand. despite feeling as though they’re all walking on egg shells, or maybe hot coals, they all go back to their conversations and drinking. yoongi, as he’s always been wont to do, sits on the edges, the peripheries. for years, he’s been used to standing just on the outskirts of their friend group, watching rather than participating.

it only takes a minute or two for yoongi to feel the loneliness about it, though, for him to realize why that was never a problem—because even on the outskirts, he was never alone. his hand clenches around the sweating bottle, mouth going dry. maybe this wasn’t a good idea—

“yoongi,” says seokjin as he takes a seat beside yoongi on one of the ratty sofas in namjoon’s living room, grin warmer than the rest. “i’m glad you came.”

“thanks,” mumbles yoongi as he takes a sip of his beer. jimin and taehyung appear to be playing some sort of ridiculous drinking game, rolling around on the floor and laughing as their alcohol ends up more on them than in them. “i’m only here for the alcohol.”

seokjin huffs out a laugh, but it’s the truth; yoongi has run out of the alcohol he bought a week ago and has no other money to spare, not when he’s still staying in the motel. here, at least, he knows namjoon won’t mind if he takes all of it under the pretense of trying to enjoy his night with their friends. here, at least, he knows the rest of them will feel better about yoongi getting drunk, because at least they’re all here to watch him, to make sure he gets home safely.

he’ll play into their hands, will give them what they want. but yoongi is really only looking to numb that anger and pain a bit; over the past three days, the fire of rage has died down into something mellow, something somber. he’s no less hurt, but now he’s just… empty. now, he just aches all the fucking time, yearning for something he knows he can’t have back.

and even though being here is meant to quell some of that, to show him that his friends still care and to give him a night of peace, being here alone is just making it worse. as seokjin sits by his side, yoongi can’t help missing when it was jeongguk instead, when they would pass a drink back and forth and make backhanded comments about what their friends were doing as though the two of them were above any of that behaviour. now, he misses when jeongguk would pull him into the living room for a drunken slow dance when a song they liked came on, or when yoongi would convince him to sneak off to the bathroom for ten minutes, just to see what they could get away with.

without that, this is just—yoongi getting drunk on his best friend’s couch. this is just yoongi missing the other half of him, the better half. this is just… yoongi. sad and alone, which he’s always been without jeongguk. he doesn’t know who he is without jeongguk anyway.

somewhere around the fourth beer in quick succession, jimin takes the space seokjin once occupied. leans against him, still breathless and laughing from the last game he played, and says, “hyung. yoongi-hyung, you should join.”

yoongi wrinkles his nose, draining the last of his drink and immediately reaching for another. “no, thank you,” he says. “i hold myself to a higher standard than whatever you’re doing.”

jimin laughs, arm hooking around yoongi’s knee. “it’s fun,” he says. “i think you need some fun.”

yoongi stiffens—he’d agreed to coming here on the condition that no one would try to talk to him about it. and maybe he didn’t tell that to anyone, merely made a promise to himself that he could run away the moment anyone tried to comfort, tried to talk him through whatever problems they think he needs to fix. and maybe jimin has always been like that, always caring and wanting to take on everyone else’s burdens. but this is something yoongi will keep close to his chest, will tuck under his heart. will let fester until it fucking kills him—if only so he doesn’t have to show anyone else. if only so he doesn’t have to let anyone else in.

“i’m fine,” he says roughly, giving jimin a light nudge away. “the beer is doing just fine.”

“hyung,” says jimin, always insistent. “please. i’m worried about you.”

“you’re all always so fucking worried about me.”

“if you just told us—”

“i don’t want to tell you anything, jimin,” snaps yoongi, lurching off of the sofa and stumbling in the process, not having realized how tipsy he’s gotten since sitting down. “there’s nothing to say. we broke up. stop trying to fucking—save me or whatever.”

he doesn’t miss the hurt that crosses jimin’s face. and maybe it’s not fair to treat his friends this way, to crucify them for trying to help him in whatever way they can, but he’s tired of it. he’s tired of this concern, of feeling like everyone wants to pick him apart when he already has his chest ripped open and exposed. there’s only so much prodding a beating heart can take.

“hey,” comes another voice—hoseok this time, coming up behind him and putting a hand on yoongi’s shoulder. “there’s no need to get upset, hyung. we’re all here to have a good time, right?”

“yeah,” yoongi mutters, taking another drink of his beer. “if all of you would fucking leave me alone, we’ll have a fantastic time.” he wrenches his shoulder out of hoseok’s grasp, stumbling past him and into the kitchen in search of something to eat, maybe—or just a reprieve from their prying eyes, their wanting hands. he’s never known how to deal with this: affection, or compassion, or care. it sickens him.

it makes him feel—weak. and the worst part of it all is that yoongi knows he can accept it, knows that he’s been so good at letting himself be cared for in recent years. but it was always jeongguk—always jeongguk he let in, always jeongguk he let take care of him. and jeongguk could coax him into letting the others care for him, too, could open his eyes to what it means to be loved.

but jeongguk isn’t here. and yoongi feels like a goddamn forest fire.

they leave him alone after that, for the most part. he joins on the fringes of the group again once he’s downed another beer and grabbed his sixth, ignoring the worrying glance namjoon gives him. occasionally, he laughs at something someone else says, but the alcohol proves to do little more than heighten the emotions he’s already feeling—making him angrier and more agitated, leaving him burning for something he can’t put his finger on. the others try to talk to him here and there, sometimes pushing and asking about the break up, or even how he’s doing, but he shuts down any attempts as soon as they’re made.

he just drinks. and drinks and drinks, until everything begins to get a little hazy, until the world begins to move a little slower. and still, the pain doesn’t stop. and still—the alcohol can’t fill that fucking emptiness in the pit of his chest.

somewhere between his eighth and ninth beer—or maybe it’s his ninth and tenth, yoongi doesn’t know anymore, is too drunk to keep track as he pulls another bottle from the fridge—jeongguk shows up.

he doesn’t notice at first, too busy loudly complaining that namjoon just had to buy the cheapest and therefore most disgusting beer possible, and wonders briefly at why everyone in the living room has gone quiet. then yoongi stumbles out, having opened the bottle on the edge of the counter, and comes to a stop when he sees—a familiar back, a familiar head of hair.

even now, in the midst of his drunkenness, yoongi would know jeongguk anywhere.

it’s the way he holds himself—shoulders back, hands in fists at his side, like he always has to prove to the world that he’s not afraid of it, always one step away from fighting. jeongguk wasn’t always like that. he used to curl into himself instead, years of harshness from parents and teachers making him small small small—until they taught him otherwise, the six of them. until yoongi took his hand, showed him that the world was a shit place but the only way to face it was with his fists up.

it’s his voice when he says, “hyung said it was alright if i came.” that gravel to it, defensive even against their friends. and oh, jeongguk used to be soft. what has the world done to him? what has yoongi done to him?

and it’s the look on his face when five pairs of eyes look over his shoulder at yoongi, when taehyung begins with an aborted, “yoongi-hyung—” and jeongguk twists around, their eyes finally meeting. jeongguk is already drunk, yoongi can tell. it’s the haziness in his eyes, the slight upturn of his lips, but only at one corner—always makes him look crooked, something a little off but all the better for it.

yoongi hasn’t seen him in a week, not since jeongguk wouldn’t stop screaming in his face, not since yoongi slammed the door behind him as he fled—like you always do, hyung. why don’t you just fucking run away from this, too?

he thought, perhaps, that that simmering anger would ignite again. thought it would burn him down the moment he laid eyes on jeongguk. but maybe it’s the alcohol, maybe it’s the numbness that slowly keeps spreading. whatever it is—yoongi just takes a sip of his beer, leans against the wall, and says, “s’joon’s party. he can invite whoever he wants,” and then brushes past jeongguk as he enters the living room, returning to his spot on the sofa beside hoseok.

it’s—silent for an awkward minute, no one sure how to proceed. yoongi keeps his eyes trained on jeongguk, like he’s waiting for jeongguk to protest, to say something. but he’s not looking for a fight. not tonight, not anymore—suddenly, yoongi is just tired. he’s so fucking tired.

he sips at his beer again. namjoon clears his throat and finally gets up from his spot on the floor, asking jeongguk if he’d like a drink. seokjin goes back to telling everyone the story he was in the middle of.

as jeongguk accepts a beer from namjoon and hangs on the outskirts of the group—like they do, like they both do—yoongi tears his eyes away.

jeongguk is wearing his coat.

♦ ♦ ♦

taehyung has always maintained that the stars are brighter outside of namjoon’s apartment. they used to joke that taehyung just wanted an excuse to stay at namjoon’s rather than anywhere else, but as yoongi sits on the front step of namjoon’s porch and looks up at the night sky, he thinks taehyung might be right. or—he’s drunk. everything always feels a little more when he’s drunk.

bringing his cigarette to his mouth, yoongi inhales deeply, lets the smoke curl up within his lungs, find a home. when he breathes out, the smoke drifts up into the night air and then disappears; it’s too cold to be outside without a coat, but he needed a reprieve. an escape. even without speaking or even looking at each other, having jeongguk here is too much.

he sees the good alongside the bad—the bad so much more than the good these days, and maybe it was always like that. it’s not the first time they’ve broken up. it’s always been push and pull with them, neither of them sure how to exist in a stable relationship. there was the car accident, the weeks in which yoongi didn’t visit the hospital. there was their fight over what they wanted years ago, who they wanted, and jeongguk on the roof, and yoongi calling him at the last second, almost by accident—habit, fingers always aching for that touch, ears for that voice.

something feels different about this one, though. they always found their way back so quickly, breaking from whatever resolve they were sure they had. realizing that they were better together, that they needed each other. and maybe they still need each other. but sometimes needs go unmet. sometimes a broken thing cannot be unbroken.

they did have good things together, though—the rare moments of love and laughter and happiness, of nothing more than that. the days when both of them were on a high, had a little more money than they anticipated, were sure they could live in each other for the rest of their lives. those nights when they did nothing but sleep side by side, tangled limbs under the sheets, laughing into each other’s mouths.

there were good days. but now yoongi can’t remember the last good day, can’t remember anything but arguing and making jeongguk cry and coming home to an empty bed, only a note to let him know that jeongguk was out, didn’t know when he’d be back.

maybe it was inevitable. maybe both of them have been clinging to those last good days for so long, always believing that the next was just around the corner, if they could just hold on long enough.

but maybe—yoongi still loves jeongguk. and he knows that jeongguk still loves him, because that doesn’t just go away in anger or in pain. he wants so badly for that to be enough.

he smokes until the cigarette is nothing more than ash, and yoongi lets the last smouldering ember fall to the stairs below. then—the door behind him opens and closes. he knows, just from the breathing, who it is.

yoongi closes his eyes, steadies his heart. it shouldn’t be surprising; they’ve always been drawn to each other. it’s how they fell together in the first place, how they became something closer within their friend group and then something closer still. it’s how they fell in love. maybe it’s how they’ll fall out of it, too.

he doesn’t say anything as jeongguk takes a seat beside him on the step, hands shoved deep in his (yoongi’s) coat to keep warm. still, jeongguk shivers, and yoongi kills the urge to reach out and tug him in, to rub a hand along jeongguk’s arm and warm him up. he would—he wants to. he’s drunk enough not to fucking care, and yet—

“got a light?” asks jeongguk, and when yoongi looks at him, he’s holding up a cigarette.

even as yoongi reaches into his pocket for his lighter, he mutters, “shouldn’t do that. it’ll fucking kill you.”

“yeah, wonder who i picked that up from.”

irritation sparks through yoongi. they used to joke about it—all of these things they’ve traded, all of these things they’ve learned from each other. sometimes it was just funny: a phrase, an accent. but so many of them weren’t good: the smoking, the reckless driving, the retreating. it’s not a joke anymore.

yoongi takes the lighter back from jeongguk, shoving it into his pocket before he huffs out a, “just another problem i have that you don’t wanna fucking deal with.”

of course, it’s not a good idea. it’s never a good idea—this volatile fighting, this spark waiting to burn them both down. but the alcohol surges through him, makes him angry and searching. he wants to know why—why now, why this. what makes jeongguk think that either of them will be any better without the other? yoongi doesn’t know who he is without jeongguk anymore. he’s grown up like this, inextricably tangled with starshine eyes and honeysuckle lips. what good is any of this?

and jeongguk stiffens, the end of his cigarette glowing in the darkness. he takes a drag, lets the smoke escape them both. then he says, “your problems are my problems now, hyung. that’s what i fucking hate. you always make them my problems.”

“i don’t make you do shit,” says yoongi. “you take them on yourself, wanting to—to save me, i don’t know. i didn’t ask you to do anything.”

“that’s what you do when you love someone,” says jeongguk. “you try to help them.”

“yeah. you sure do a lot of helping, jeongguk. showing up here and acting like nothing fucking happened, pretending we can just—do this.” yoongi brings his lighter back out, flicks it once, twice. nervous habit. he wants to burn.

“do what?” jeongguk asks.

“you broke up with me,” says yoongi. “this is your fault.”

“my fault? after everything you’ve put me through?”

“i’ve tried, jeongguk,” snaps yoongi, flicking the lighter faster now, on off on off onoffonoff—“i’ve tried so goddamn hard to be good for you, to deal with my own shit. and i fuck up sometimes, you know? so do you. and i’ve tried to understand your feelings in this, too, to respect what you want, but i don’t—i can’t get it. and i’m just angry and tired and i don’t wanna fucking see you here when i’m trying to—to—” he stops, groaning with frustration.

the wind howls through them. “they’re my friends, too,” says jeongguk quietly. “just because we broke up doesn’t mean i can’t see them.”

“why did we break up, jeongguk?”

“because,” says jeongguk. “we’re not g—”

“good together, yeah,” sighs yoongi. he flicks the lighter once more, letting the flame stay this time. “i know.”

and maybe this is just the proof—yoongi is upset. he can’t put words to his feelings, has never really been able to. but jeongguk has too many words, always has the most hurtful things to throw at yoongi when he wants. and yoongi doesn’t have words now, either, doesn’t know what the stuttering of his heart means. it just—hurts.

but here are the words he wants to say: i miss you. i love you. come back, come back, come back.

instead—they sit in silence. they’ve always existed best like this: together, simply. is it better to have him close but not close enough? to have what he wants within his reach but know he can never have it, knowing his fingers will merely slip through this illusion when he tries to grasp it?

and still, he loves jeongguk. still, somehow, this feels better than the distance. the anger burns through his drunkenness, but he doesn’t want to go back to that fucking motel alone. doesn’t want to go back at all, not when jeongguk is here. and maybe they’re not good together. maybe they fight too much, maybe jeongguk doesn’t want that anymore.

but yoongi would take this pain over any other, if only because jeongguk hurting him means jeongguk is here, means jeongguk is paying attention. means jeongguk can’t quite let go of him either, no matter what he says.

he knows nothing will become of this. they can sit on this step for hours and still have nothing more to say to each other that won’t cause an argument. they’ve never been good with words. and yoongi doesn’t know what to do anymore, doesn’t know what he wants from jeongguk. doesn’t know if he wants him back, if he wants to push him away further. there’s just—so much. there’s so much inside of him, threatening to overflow, to drown them both in sorrow and want.

it used to terrify him, what he feels for jeongguk. and loving jeongguk is never easy. but it’s always been worth it.

now—

“sorry,” yoongi finally whispers, spurred on by a spinning mind and the stars, late late late. “i’m sorry, jeongguk, if that’s what you want to hear. for hurting you, for not being good for you like you wanted me to be.” he pockets the lighter at last, pulling himself up from the step and wobbling only slightly before he turns to head for the door. “i know it won’t change anything, but my feelings for you haven’t changed at all. i think you need to know that.”

he hesitates, looking up at the stars for just a fleeting moment, wishing for more—and when yoongi’s hand closes around the doorknob, pulling open the door, jeongguk says, “yoongi-hyung?”

it sounds small, uncertain. devoid of all of that anger and pain, the things that jeongguk has harboured for these years that they have been together. they’re too young for the world to be so cruel.

and he shouldn’t. god, he shouldn’t—but yoongi turns to look over his shoulder, to see jeongguk watching him with those sad, drunk eyes. “yeah, guk-ah?” yoongi asks.

“do you wanna go home?”

and it’s—home. their home. the implications of it all burn him slow slow slow, flames licking at his feet. catching on his fingernails.

there is a right answer to this. but yoongi has always been better with actions than words, so he lets the door close again. he thumbs at the lighter in his pocket, just for a second, and then returns to the step. he stops beside jeongguk, letting his hand hang between them, palm up. the stars are bright bright bright—jeongguk takes his hand.

(yoongi catches fire.)

♦ ♦ ♦

yoongi doesn’t remember asking jeongguk to move in with him. not because of inebriation or anything similar—but because yoongi didn’t ask. because jeongguk was always at yoongi’s, anyway, and suddenly, yoongi realized that jeongguk had more than just a drawer of his clothes and a toothbrush. jeongguk was everywhere, in everything: his clothes scattered around the apartment, shoes in the closet, hair products by the mirror. he cooked more often than yoongi, filling the cupboards with the cheapest versions of spices he could find. he graffitied the walls, made a home out of yoongi’s apartment almost more than yoongi ever had, and maybe they both came to the realization at the same time.

it was unspoken, mostly, when jeongguk woke up and woke up and woke up in yoongi’s bed, and then didn’t ever leave. and then it was their bed. their apartment. their lives here together, always, hardly spending a moment apart.

not long after jeongguk became a permanent fixture here, they came home from a night out and jeongguk scooped yoongi up on the doorstep, kicking open the door and carrying yoongi in bridal style as yoongi shrieked and jeongguk laughed, and it was theirs. their home.

now—

yoongi is hesitant about following jeongguk inside. it’s still their apartment, still his—his name on the lease, his clothes in the closet, his fingerprints all over everything. but he hasn’t been here in a week, left because the eye of the storm had suddenly moved elsewhere and all of that howling was threatening to tear these walls down. somehow, it feels like he doesn’t belong here.

and still—it looks the same. feels the same. he’s spent years following jeongguk into this apartment, the familiar sight of jeongguk’s back tugging him onward. jeongguk will shrug his (yoongi’s) coat off, yoongi will put his shoes on the dirty shelf. they’ll collapse into bed or onto the one ratty sofa they have, always tangled together, before someone concedes that they need food. they’ll play music as they cook, as jeongguk convinces yoongi to slow dance with him. at the end of the night, they’ll meet in the middle, their bed a safe haven from whatever else rages on outside of these walls. that’s always been it: their home is a bomb shelter. here, yoongi always knew he was safe.

but all of that has changed. he feels out of step now, unsure what jeongguk means with any of this. and what becomes of a bomb shelter when the bomb goes off on the inside?

as jeongguk stops in the kitchen, turning to look at him with glassy eyes, yoongi can’t help the morbid curiosity, wanting to know what jeongguk has done in the week they’ve been apart. has he already started picking yoongi out of his life piece by piece? he wanders through the (their) apartment as though it’s a museum, running his fingers over the books left on the coffee table in the living room, over the old records yoongi has scoured second-hand stores for. he flicks the light on in the bedroom, sucking in a breath when he sees not boxes of his clothes ready to be handed over, not all of his things ripped to shreds or burned to ashes.

it’s just—normal. everything looks so fucking normal. even the water glass yoongi left beside the bed a week ago is still there, like jeongguk couldn’t bring himself to move it, couldn’t bear to part with one of the last things yoongi left behind. if anything, yoongi might say jeongguk has been reveling in all he left behind, clinging to the ghost of yoongi—wearing his clothes, listening to his music.

he doesn’t know what to make of that.

when yoongi returns to the kitchen, jeongguk is still there, awkwardly hovering by the doorway as his dark eyes watch yoongi. and yoongi is still drunk enough to know whatever happens here can’t be a good idea—and drunk enough not to care, desperate enough to need answers to all of these questions crying out from his heart.

he just doesn’t understand—doesn’t understand why now, why this. doesn’t understand what made jeongguk change his mind. doesn’t understand how it can hurt so badly just to have jeongguk here, looking at him, those dark circles under his eyes matching yoongi’s own. but there are no words for the emotions overtaking him. there’s nothing to say, not anymore. he knows that anything out of either of their mouths will merely cause another argument, and the truth is that yoongi doesn’t want to argue with jeongguk.

the truth is—he doesn’t know what he wants. but when jeongguk reaches forward and curls his fingers around yoongi’s wrist, yoongi’s body goes willingly. he lets jeongguk walk backward into the kitchen, bringing yoongi with him, eyes never leaving his. and this is it, suddenly—jeongguk touches him and yoongi feels a different sort of fire, something electric crackling up his spine. jeongguk touches him and yoongi misses him—misses all of this, misses the unstable stability of their lives together.

and god no, they weren’t good for each other. they never were. but who cares? this is the best yoongi is going to find: someone who has seen his demons and loves him anyway, who might love the demons all the more because they belong to yoongi. someone who isn’t afraid of them, who has his own demons to conquer, or maybe just befriend. someone who makes him feel like a human most days, who can give him a reason to want to be happy at all.

jeongguk touches him and yoongi knows, irrevocably: so long as he lives, yoongi will always be chasing this one star, this one burning thing. no matter how far jeongguk runs from him, no matter if jeongguk finds someone else, there will never be anything but this for yoongi.

so yoongi goes willingly, as if his heart has been attuned to anything else but jeongguk since he was a teenager. they stumble to a stop, toes knocking together, and maybe there should be words for this—something to say, something to ask. but yoongi just closes his eyes, heartbeat thrumming through every nerve of his body as jeongguk circles his fingers around yoongi’s other wrist, keeping him there.

as he feels jeongguk lean closer, as he feels jeongguk’s forehead resting against his. like this, yoongi can feel his breath—can feel his very heartbeat, and how it still sounds like something staccato, something in tune with yoongi’s own, its harmony. like this, yoongi has to squeeze his eyes shut because he doesn’t want to see, doesn’t want to face reality and admit that this isn’t who they are anymore.

but it’s so easy, isn’t it? to slip back in, to pretend otherwise. yoongi aches for him, for jeongguk’s hands and his lips and his blinding smile, the poetry he could write for yoongi if he tried. yoongi tilts his head, nose brushing against jeongguk’s, and still, he pretends. still, it’s almost easy to forget anything has been broken between them at all. the alcohol clouds his judgment, heightens his want.

jeongguk lets out a puff of air against his lips, turning his head until they’re a mere hairbreadth apart, until yoongi can feel the warmth of jeongguk’s lips without having them on him. and he wants—he wants. he shouldn’t, can’t. yoongi almost lets out a frustrated groan, instead lifting one of his hands and curling it around jeongguk’s neck, thumbing at his cheek as he pulls back enough to open his eyes, to see—

jeongguk, wrecked. his eyes are so dark, swimming in desire and drunkenness and regret, maybe. they’re trained somewhere near yoongi’s mouth before they rise to yoongi’s own eyes, something pleading in them now as he tugs on yoongi’s wrists again. they’ve always been better with actions rather than words.

and still—yoongi knows what they need now is words. it was words that broke them, and it must be words to fix them. he has to know what jeongguk wants. for so long, he’s simply known, has simply been able to communicate with jeongguk without words. but maybe that’s been their downfall, too, maybe that’s why they’ve gotten here in the first place—they’ve always just assumed.

yoongi wants to touch. wants to spread this fire in his veins to jeongguk, too, wants to set them both alight and watch them burn together, the way they’re meant to.

he presses the pad of his thumb into jeongguk’s cheekbone. whispers, “jeongguk-ah, what am i doing here?”

“i miss you, hyung,” whispers jeongguk, tilting his face into yoongi’s hand. always asking for more. “i miss you so much. i don’t know how to do anything without you, don’t know how to—to exist. i don’t know who i am without you.”

and that—should be a red flag, maybe, should simply prove to yoongi that they need to be apart. but this simple confession wraps around his heart like a vice, squeezes until it’s hard to breathe when he knows—it isn’t just him. the distance has served neither of them well, has made them both homesick. oh, isn’t that just it, he thinks—he’s so fucking homesick.

and here is his home, in the hands of a boy with stars in his eyes and steel in his blood, in the heart of someone who has never known how to care for it but has promised to try. and isn’t that enough?

the choice should be easy: they’re both drunk, unsure of what they’re saying or what they want. yoongi should let go, should walk away. he should tell jeongguk they need to talk when both of them are sober and more awake, when they’ve had enough time to think about what they really want. but yoongi doesn’t want that. he’s spent so fucking long denying himself what he wants, running from the desire making a home in his chest and now—now he doesn’t fucking care anymore.

so when jeongguk looks at him like that, gives a tiny tug on his wrist again, yoongi stops thinking of the shoulds. instead, he takes a breath, pulls jeongguk in, and kisses him.

it’s wet and heated from the start; there’s something feral breathing just under yoongi’s skin, needing more, needing jeongguk in a way his body can’t get across. but even as he kisses jeongguk hard, jeongguk must know—from the way he kisses back, hands letting go of yoongi’s wrists to curl into his hair instead, to tug him closer, stumbling until they hit the edge of the kitchen table, skin on skin, teeth on teeth—

it’s been a week. it’s been a week and god, yoongi is still so angry, so tired—but he misses jeongguk more than all of that, nothing but desperation clawing through him as he licks into jeongguk’s mouth and tastes everything he’s missed. but jeongguk always tastes the same: tastes like home. tastes like ash. yoongi could burn up from his touch alone, bodies moving together as their lips slide together, breath coming harder.

when jeongguk reaches for his shirt, yoongi is far from protesting. the small part of his mind reminding him that this is a terrible idea is immediately drowned out by a combination of alcohol and lust, something heavy igniting in his veins as their hands scramble together, tearing at each other’s clothes. they separate just long enough for yoongi to tug his shirt off before meeting in the middle again, lips already swollen and bruised as jeongguk’s hands trail down yoongi’s front, tugging at his belt as yoongi rapidly pushes jeongguk’s (yoongi’s) coat off his shoulders and then pulls off his shirt, too.

they’ve had it like this before, yoongi thinks—desperate and raw and fuelled by need. but this already feels different, feels heavier. in the back of yoongi’s mind, he’s aware of a singular thought: this might be the last time. or, perhaps—it might be the time that convinces jeongguk to stay.

when yoongi’s hands fumble with the button on jeongguk’s jeans, jeongguk lets out a growl, kissing him harder as he breathes out, “jesus, hurry up.”

“m’fucking trying,” yoongi huffs out, and what are they afraid of? what if the alcohol wears off and they don’t want each other anymore, what if the regret sets in—but it doesn’t matter. it doesn’t matter when they’re here like this and jeongguk is kissing him with bruises and thorns and things that hurt, things that bleed. the hardness between yoongi’s legs almost hurts when he finally gets jeongguk’s jeans open and shoves them down.

even with the intention of stripping them fully, jeongguk is too impatient—he merely makes a grab for yoongi’s cock, stroking it dry as yoongi hisses into his mouth, and still, jeongguk kisses it away, bringing yoongi’s hand to his own cock. soon, all yoongi can do is pant into jeongguk’s mouth, eyes closed as jeongguk touches him—touches him just how yoongi likes it, because jeongguk is the only one who knows that. because no matter how far they wander from each other, they’ll never be able to forget the most intimate parts of each other, their bodies fitting back together like pieces of a worn-out puzzle—

“miss you,” jeongguk sighs again, no less rushed or desperate. “miss you, hyung, want you so bad—”

“how do i make it better?” yoongi asks, unsure if he means this or something else, unsure if he’s just asking jeongguk how to fix their relationship so they can be together again, but—“tell hyung how to make it better.”

and jeongguk sighs into his mouth, swiping his thumb over the head of yoongi’s cock to collect the pre-come there. says, “fuck me.”

it’s hurried, desperate—yoongi turns jeongguk around with firm hands on his waist, pushes jeongguk against the table as he presses their hips together and grinds his hard cock into jeongguk’s bare ass. jeongguk lets out a strangled moan, leaning over the table and pushing his ass back against yoongi’s hips, always seeking more—always knowing that yoongi will give in, every time.

he could get off just like this, the expanse of jeongguk’s skin before him, but he knows neither of them have the patience for it. so he grinds against jeongguk a few more times before leaning over and pressing a kiss to the back of his neck (habit, always a habit, doesn’t matter if they’re technically broken up now) before murmuring, “wait here,” and then leaving to grab supplies from their bedroom.

yoongi throws off his pants at last on the way and by the time he returns to the kitchen, jeongguk has discarded the rest of his clothing, as well, and is leaning over the table, looking over his shoulder at yoongi with pupils blown wide. yoongi sucks in a breath at the sight of jeongguk waiting for him, has to remind himself not to get down on his knees and worship jeongguk’s body like he wants to.

every bit of this is ingrained in him—the desire to touch all over, to kiss every inch of jeongguk’s skin until he’s covered in yoongi’s love. the need to voice all of it, to tell jeongguk just what he feels and thinks and wants. but there’s no time for it now, and jeongguk knows anyway. of course jeongguk knows. the need for yoongi to be inside jeongguk is greater than any of it, anyway, as he returns to the table, dropping a condom beside jeongguk’s hand before uncapping the lube and slathering his fingers in it, wasting no time in getting his hand between jeongguk’s legs and teasing at his rim.

jeongguk groans again, widening his stance as yoongi rubs his finger over his rim again and again, making sure it’s wet enough before he sinks his first finger inside. he smooths a hand over jeongguk’s ass at the same time, moving over the small of his back, up and up his spine to where jeongguk’s shoulder blades are a jutting out, head hanging low as he pushes back against the slow slide of yoongi’s finger.

“fuck, go faster,” jeongguk breathes, on the verge of whining. normally, yoongi might tease. normally, if he wasn’t drunk and desperate, if this didn’t feel like the end of everything—so he does as jeongguk asks, pumping his finger in and out of jeongguk’s entrance at a steady pace. he knows when jeongguk is ready for another by the way he starts grinding back more thoroughly, brushing against yoongi’s cock and making him hiss at the sudden contact.

but he adds a second, sliding both fingers into the heat of jeongguk’s body and opening him further. jeongguk moans again, almost under his breath, like he’s trying to hold it in. and suddenly, yoongi can’t help it; he leans down and kisses the middle of jeongguk’s back, and then a little further down, leaving a trail of kisses as he scissors his fingers inside of jeongguk. he feels more than hears the hitch in jeongguk’s breath, the way his body tenses—but yoongi can’t help it. every act toward jeongguk is always one of love, no matter how angry he might be. no matter how they’ve fought, no matter what has been said between them. yoongi will always be so fucking in love, will always find it oozing out in his words and his hands.

he’s never been able to separate the act of fucking jeongguk from the art of loving him.

so—he’s clumsy with drunkenness and still gentle as he opens jeongguk up, sliding in a third finger along with the first two as he continues to press open-mouthed kisses to his back. his fingers are quick, precise until he feels jeongguk jolt in his grasp, finally brushing against his prostate. before his eyes, he sees all of the times they’ve taken their time, all of the hours they’ve lazed around in bed, exploring each other’s bodies like this—yoongi sees himself making jeongguk come untouched, sees jeongguk taking him apart bit by bit.

this feels like a culmination of everything, and he hates it—hates how his heart aches to be with jeongguk even as he’s here, in the most intimate way possible. hates how this feels like a hello and goodbye all at once, hates how every part of him wants to cry because jeongguk doesn’t think this is good anymore. he doesn’t think this is worth it.

“hyung,” jeongguk says quickly, breathy and moaning, squirming away from yoongi’s insistent fingers.

yoongi knows—“okay,” he breathes, sliding his fingers out of jeongguk and straightening again. he sees jeongguk grab the condom wrapper—has to stop just to lean over jeongguk’s body and kiss the back of his neck again, waiting until jeongguk hands him the condom over his shoulder, tossing the wrapper onto the table. yoongi is uncoordinated when he rolls it on, when he slicks himself up with lube, but he can no longer tell if he’s drunk with alcohol or lust or maybe just love, maybe that’s all his life has ever been since jeongguk, and what will become of him without jeongguk, what if he can’t--

“hyung,” says jeongguk again, sticking his ass out. “want you inside me already, god—”

yoongi almost growls, desire surging up inside of him anew. he pushes a bit on jeongguk’s back until he gets the message, jeongguk leaning over. from there, yoongi grabs the back of one of his thighs and hikes his leg onto the table, exposing his stretched hole. there’s no teasing about it, not as yoongi rubs the head of his cock over jeongguk’s wet entrance, as jeongguk lets out a breathy moan and drops his head again, pushing back against yoongi’s body.

when yoongi finally pushes in, sinking his cock into the delirious heat of jeongguk’s body, he wonders how it could have only been a week since he’s seen jeongguk, touched him—yet it feels as though he’s lived lifetimes, crossed worlds. feels like his body has missed jeongguk’s body for eternities, feels like something in him wants to latch on and never let go.

but he pushes it down, fire crackling beneath his fingertips as he grasps jeongguk’s waist with one hand and the meat of his thigh with the other, and begins thrusting at a steady pace. jeongguk lets out a moan that mingles with yoongi’s own, tipping his head back as yoongi fucks into him. he feels lightheaded already, overwhelmed with how good it feels—the drag on his cock, the feeling of jeongguk’s body under his hands, being close close close.

and yet somehow—not close enough.

yoongi huffs as he snaps his hips faster, fingers digging into jeongguk’s skin hard enough to bruise. and maybe he wants that—maybe he wants to leave marks all over jeongguk’s body, wants jeongguk to wake up for weeks with the reminder of yoongi everywhere, unable to escape no matter where they go from here.

he doesn’t know. can’t think through the haze in his mind, even as jeongguk straightens up a bit, one hand clasping around yoongi’s wrist just to have something to hold onto. when yoongi drops his head, his forehead rests against jeongguk’s back, closing his eyes as he fucks in faster, harder, the slap of their skin reverberating through him.

“miss you,” he breathes, turning his face to press his mouth to jeongguk’s skin, to leave the words there. “love you so much, guk-ah—”

“fuck,” jeongguk groans, threading their fingers together against his waist. “hyung—”

“love you,” yoongi repeats, words punctuated with a moan as he shifts a bit to get a better angle, pounding into jeongguk now as though he’ll never have this again—and all at once, he gets it. all at once, yoongi realizes that he still wants to be with jeongguk. that they’re not good for each other, not all of the time—sometimes they fight and hurt each other and sometimes it’s hard. but god, it’s always worth it. the world is a shit place but jeongguk makes it easier for yoongi to breathe, makes him want to breathe at all. and he loves jeongguk, knows that the rest of their lives will never be what other people might get to have. they’re not the lucky ones.

but he’s lucky to have jeongguk. he’s lucky to be loved by jeongguk. and he can’t let that go, not when it hurts so badly to have him gone. he wants to be with jeongguk for the rest of his fucking life, wants to fight for the home they’ve made together and of each other. yoongi wants to burn anything that might keep them apart, wants to hold and hold.

he feels tears stinging the backs of his eyes as it washes over him, movements becoming sloppy. he wants jeongguk so badly it makes his bones ache, and he holds on tighter, pressing a hot kiss to jeongguk’s sweaty skin as though it can say everything he needs.

“hyung,” jeongguk gasps again, dropping his head. “right there, shit—” yoongi slams his hips into jeongguk’s harder, feeling the way jeongguk tenses and keens against him, knowing he’s brushing against jeongguk’s prostate. he aims for that spot again and again, like if he does, jeongguk will ask him to stay. like if he can just make this good enough, jeongguk will change his mind.

and still—he feels jeongguk pushing back against him, letting yoongi’s cock slip further inside. he wants and wants and wants, heart lodging in his throat with the force of it. his hips stutter again, mind clouded with too many things, and he whispers his love into jeongguk’s skin, all he can think of before jeongguk twists a little in his grasp, says, “wait, hyung—” he’s breathing hard as yoongi stops, burying himself inside jeongguk as he finally opens his eyes and sees the mess they’ve already made of each other.

“wanna see you,” breathes jeongguk; his hair is sticking to his forehead, face red with exertion. and god, it’s a terrible idea, isn’t it? to give himself the chance to fall in love all over again, to give himself the hope that jeongguk will change his mind, too. will realize that they’ve both made a terrible mistake, to take it all back.

and still, yoongi pulls away, slipping out of jeongguk so that they can change positions; jeongguk turns around, pulling himself onto the table before spreading his legs and reaching for yoongi at the same time, pulling him back in. it’s so easy, isn’t it—to make this something it shouldn’t be. to slip back inside jeongguk, to watch the way jeongguk’s eyelids flutter with it, mouth dropping open for a moment before he focuses on yoongi again.

to let jeongguk wrap his arms around yoongi’s neck and pull him in, to hold his legs open as jeongguk presses their foreheads together. yoongi begins thrusting again, slower this time—deeper, rolling his hips into jeongguk’s as he keeps his hands pushing on jeongguk’s knees. he keeps his eyes open this time, trained on jeongguk’s mouth—his holy, goddamned mouth. jeongguk could tear a hole in the sky with that mouth.

could tear a hole in yoongi’s heart—and has. and still is, when they breathe into each other’s mouths, when jeongguk finally whispers, “love you, too. love you, hyung, can’t stop; i tried, i wanted to—” he shudders when yoongi rolls his hips harder, beginning to thrust in properly as the heat doubles in his body. he hates the way jeongguk has always had such control of him, of his heart. one look and here he is. one word, one thought, and here yoongi is—willing to get down on his knees and offer jeongguk anything he wants.

yoongi kisses him, hot and slick, hips snapping into jeongguk’s as jeongguk curls his fingers into yoongi’s hair. against his lips, jeongguk keeps talking—murmuring how much he loves yoongi, how much he wants him. how good it feels, how good yoongi always feels, and yoongi hates that, too, how he’d give anything to hear those praises one more time. to know that his body still knows jeongguk’s body, to feel infinite in his grasp.

“shit,” yoongi curses as he feels heat pooling in the pit of his stomach, knowing he won’t be able to stave off his orgasm for much longer. jeongguk has always felt too good, has always known how to drive him insane—and jeongguk bites at his bottom lip, tugging at it, trying to roll his hips into yoongi’s thrusts. and yet, he doesn’t want it to end. he fears for it, fears for what it means when they come out of this haze. once the moment is over, it’ll just be yoongi holding out his heart, waiting for jeongguk to change his mind.

and what if it’s not enough? what if jeongguk thinks he’s never going to be enough?

he kisses jeongguk again, trying to chase the thoughts from his head as he chases his release, fucking into jeongguk faster and sloppier. and jeongguk tugs on his hair, breathes into his mouth, whispers, “please, hyung.” and yoongi doesn’t know what he’s asking for—just knows he’ll give and give and give until jeongguk gets tired of taking.

with several more thrusts, he finally buries himself in jeongguk one last time and comes with a moan, the sound swallowed by jeongguk’s insistent kisses. he shakes with it, with the want of it—and then reaches between them, immediately beginning to stoke over jeongguk’s neglected cock. jeongguk lets out a gasp, tugging painfully at yoongi’s hair, but yoongi just kisses him—kisses him with everything he knows he’ll never have the words for.

kisses him stay. kisses him come back to me. kisses him i know my love can’t be enough, but i’ll try. god, just let me try.

when jeongguk comes, it’s with a stuttered gasp, spilling into yoongi’s hand and over his own stomach. and for a time, the both of them stay like that, breathing harshly into each other’s mouths—close, unwilling to let go. yoongi fears that if he lets go, jeongguk won’t ever come back to him. fears that the alcohol has worn off enough to give them both a clearer understanding of any of this.

but he can’t let jeongguk go. can’t accept that somehow, they’ll be better apart. but it isn’t up to yoongi alone.

eventually, jeongguk lets out a noise, says, “can you—” and yoongi is spurred from his thoughts, pulling away and out of jeongguk. and he hates this, too, how everything is a routine that they fall into—yoongi throwing away the condom and getting a wet cloth to wipe them both down, handing each other articles of clothing they tossed somewhere in the kitchen. it’s automatic, the way yoongi wanders toward their bedroom, weak and tired and looking for nothing more than this feeling of home.

it takes too long for jeongguk to join him, though. yoongi snaps out of his mindless actions when he remembers that this isn’t normal anymore, that he has no idea where to go from here. he sits on the edge of the (their) bed as reality begins to set in again, so soon. they’re not together—not right now, at least. and sleeping together isn’t an answer to anything.

when yoongi looks up, he finds jeongguk standing in the doorway to the bedroom, clothes haphazardly thrown on and hair a mess. there’s a dark mark on the side of his neck, one that yoongi doesn’t even remember giving him.

and there’s—hesitation in the way he holds himself, making his body smaller like he used to, when he was afraid of confrontation and taking up space in the world. yoongi’s heart sinks.

“hyung,” begins jeongguk, but yoongi already knows.

“jeongguk-ah, c’mon,” he says, furrowing his brows. “don’t—don’t do this.”

“i just don’t think it’s a good idea for you to stay,” says jeongguk quietly. and how different it is from a week ago—now jeongguk is gentle with the way he handles yoongi’s heart, as though he’s afraid of hurting either of them. a week ago, it was all teeth and bone and harsh words. now, with no anger to fuel them, they’re just two broken people trying not to cut themselves on all of these jagged edges.

“baby,” breathes yoongi.

“don’t call me that,” whispers jeongguk.

it hurts more than any of those yelled words, somehow. yoongi curls his hands into fists and then smooths his palms over his knees, looking down at them rather than at jeongguk. “just for the night,” he says. “just—let me stay for one night. it’s late and i’m—i’m still kind of drunk, and—” and if i leave, you won’t let me come back. he swallows down the thought.

there’s too long of a pause, and when yoongi looks up again, jeongguk’s face is contorted in pain, looking on the verge of tears even as he must try to push it away. “then i’ll go,” he says, and yoongi—can’t believe just how badly jeongguk wants to get away from him. “we shouldn’t do this, hyung.”

“jeongguk,” says yoongi, feeling the tears at the backs of his eyes again. “this is your home. and it’s my home. and i don’t want either of us to go back to that fucking motel, not tonight. just—just for tonight, okay? let’s just… pretend. for tonight.”

he’s desperate, clinging to the belief that perhaps it’ll take the night for jeongguk to change his mind. perhaps they’ll wake up and jeongguk will realize he doesn’t want to let go of yoongi, either, and they can go back to how they were before. or maybe they can work on their issues, instead, can solve all of these things that jeongguk thinks is tearing them apart. if jeongguk will just agree to this, everything will be fine.

won’t it?

jeongguk takes a deep breath, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes for a prolonged moment. when he drops his hands again, he just shrugs, says, “okay. just for tonight.”

hope flickers in yoongi’s heart, the tiniest flame. but it’s enough, it’s enough—

when jeongguk finally crawls into bed alongside yoongi, the room doused in darkness, he stays on the other side of the bed. and it feels wrong, to have him this close but know there’s something between them. to have been so intimate mere minutes ago and know that jeongguk is already trying to retreat, trying to back out of whatever he gave to yoongi. and it hurts, of course. but it’s better than being alone in that motel. it’s better than not knowing, better than having no chance of changing any of it.

he misses jeongguk, even here. when he whispers, “goodnight, jeongguk,” there’s no reply. he slides his hand out between them, rustling the sheets. it’s what they did, do, when they fight—when they go to bed angry, because it’s happened so many times. it’s this one peace offering between them, an anchor to keep them tied together no matter the anger: it’s yoongi’s hand waiting for jeongguk’s, the missing spaces between his fingers aching for something to fill them.

but they remain empty, even after minutes, even when yoongi turns his head and sees jeongguk rolled away from yoongi, curling into a ball on the other side of the bed.

yoongi falls asleep like that, waiting. he’ll fall asleep waiting for the rest of his life if that’s what it takes.

♦ ♦ ♦

(yoongi wakes once during the night, no sunlight creeping through the blinds. he blinks up at the ceiling for a time, sleep weighing on his mind and his shoulders, on his hands. it takes him almost a minute to realize that’s not quite it.

when he finally looks down, his heart hiccups. jeongguk is still facing away from him, all of that distance between them feeling like more than the foot that it is. but maybe—maybe. the flame of hope flares within yoongi, catching on the tinder of his ribcage, the kindling of his lungs.

jeongguk is holding his hand.)

♦ ♦ ♦

when yoongi wakes, he forgets. just for a minute, just for that hazy space between being asleep and being awake, when his mind has yet to catch up with reality. this is his bed, this is his room. he can still smell jeongguk on the sheets as he makes a noise in the back of his throat, curling his arm over the other side of the bed in search of jeongguk—

only to come up empty.

when yoongi finally opens his eyes, the other side of the bed is empty. and just like that, he’s submerged in the scalding truth of it, that he’s not supposed to be here. that he has a fucking hangover from trying to drown his sorrows and now he’s woken up in a bed that was once his, still is, maybe, and he slept with jeongguk last night and now jeongguk—is gone.

the panic overwhelms the headache and hangover as yoongi hurriedly pushes the covers off of himself and stumbles out of bed, nearly colliding with the door on his way out. he knows not what he’s searching for, only that he can’t let jeongguk go—not without talking about this, not without admitting what he realized last night: that he doesn’t want this to end, that he loves jeongguk too much to simply let this be it. that he has spent his whole life waiting for things to get easier and now it knows that they won’t, but that just means he has to hold onto the things that make him want to live.

“fuck,” he swears when he gets into the hallway and bumps into the wall, fishing for his phone in case it’s in his pocket; jeongguk hadn’t answered any of his calls or texts in the week they were apart, but maybe he’ll pick up now, and yoongi finally lurches into the kitchen when he comes up empty-handed only to stumble to a stop and blink as he looks up to see—jeongguk sitting at the kitchen table with a mug in his hands, quietly sipping at the coffee inside.

their eyes meet. yoongi wills his heart to stop pounding so hard, the fear of jeongguk disappearing slowly seeping out of his pores when he finally understands that jeongguk is still here. he didn’t run away, not like yoongi has so many times before.

after a terse minute, yoongi licks his lips. says, “hey.”

jeongguk looks terrible. it might be the hangover, might be a lack of sleep—might just be all of this weight on both of them, something they’ve always promised to share but has now simply been doubled on both of them, bowing their shoulders and backs until it becomes unbearable. the way he looks at yoongi is filled with guilt and second thoughts, and yoongi knows he has to tread carefully.

“i made coffee,” mumbles jeongguk, nodding his head toward the coffee machine on the counter. “if you want some.”

“thanks,” says yoongi, although he makes no move to pour some. he should—maybe it’ll cure the hangover. but some part of him is afraid of taking his eyes off of jeongguk, as though he only exists here because yoongi can see him, has willed it. some part of him is afraid that jeongguk will run the first chance he gets, as though he didn’t have all night to do that and is still here—and maybe that means part of jeongguk wants to be here, too. wants to try again.

it’s this hope that yoongi clings to as he slowly approaches the table, sitting in the chair on the other side from jeongguk. (it used to be a joke, the fact that they only have two chairs at the kitchen table. mostly it was because they couldn’t afford more than two and the ones they have were found at different thrift stores so they don’t match anyway, but their friends liked to joke that it was because jeongguk and yoongi only ever wanted it to be the two of them. their home was their home, a safe haven where no one else was allowed. it was funny. but it was also true.)

for a time, neither of them speaks. jeongguk sips at his coffee and yoongi stares at his hands, at the stupid ring he still hasn’t taken off—a promise ring, maybe. he’s not sure anymore. all he knows is that jeongguk has a matching one, and when he glances up at jeongguk’s hands wrapped around the mug, his fingers are empty.

yoongi wishes now that he would have had time to compose his thoughts, to remember all of those drunken realizations from last night. but maybe he doesn’t have to give some grand speech for this. maybe all he has to do is admit the truth, which is that he still wants to be with jeongguk. that he wants to find a way to make this work, that he wants to do whatever jeongguk needs to make him stay.

he takes a breath, then, tapping his fingers against the wood of the table before he opens his mouth and says, “so—”

“last night was a mistake,” says jeongguk immediately. when yoongi looks at him, his eyes are trained on the mug. “i shouldn’t have… i shouldn’t have asked you to come home with me. i shouldn’t have shown up at namjoon-hyung’s to begin with. i don’t know what i was doing.”

yoongi swallows tightly. “that doesn’t change the fact that you did.”

“it was a mistake, hyung,” says jeongguk sharply. “as in, i wish it hadn’t happened. and i—i wish you would go.”

at a loss for words, yoongi just stares at jeongguk. even now, he still looks so beautiful, this broken boy that yoongi fell in love with. that yoongi has fallen in love with every day for years, that yoongi wants to continue falling in love with. he thought that perhaps jeongguk had changed his mind, too—by letting yoongi in, by letting him stay. but morning has cast an ugly light on both of them.

“jeongguk,” yoongi begins.

“hyung, don’t,” says jeongguk. “i don’t want you to think that whatever happened changes things. because it doesn’t. we’re still not together anymore.”

“but why?” yoongi asks. “jeongguk-ah, i love you. i still love you, no matter what. and it’s clear that—that we’re drawn to each other, even now. even when we’re angry at each other, we can’t stay away from each other. doesn’t that mean something to you?”

“it means we need to figure out who we are apart from each other, hyung,” says jeongguk. “we’ve been together for so long, of course we were going to end up in the same fucking bed again. and i—i miss you. of course i do. but that doesn’t mean we should get back together.”

“why not? jeongguk, we can make it work. we can work on our issues, we can solve those problems you talked about. we can—we can do it.”

“you’ve been saying that for years, though,” says jeongguk. he looks so unbelievably sad. all yoongi wants to do is reach out for him, take jeongguk into his arms. but the only way he can think to make this better involves everything jeongguk doesn’t want from him anymore. “every time we get into an argument, you just say we can work it out. you say you’ll work on your shit and i’ll work on mine. but we never do.”

“then we will this time,” insists yoongi. “life’s not perfect and we all have problems, but that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t—i dunno, help each other.”

“hyung, stop,” says jeongguk. he sets the mug down, presses his hands into his eyes. “i don’t want to fight with you again. i don’t want to do this anymore. i’m just—i’m so tired, hyung. i’m so tired of everything.”

“baby,” says yoongi quietly, trying again—this time, he does reach out, curling his fingers around one of jeongguk’s wrists and tugging gently. jeongguk lets him, allowing yoongi to pull his hand away from his face and thread their fingers together, one eye peeking out at yoongi. “i love you. i love you so much that it hurts sometimes. and i know i fuck up. and i know things are tough. but… things are going to be tough whether or not we’re together. all i know is that you make me happy, jeongguk-ah. you make living worth it. and i don’t want to lose that.”

jeongguk breathes in, and then out. yoongi thinks that perhaps his words are finally getting through to him, that his attempts to convince jeongguk to give this just one more try are actually working. and then jeongguk slowly extracts his hand from yoongi’s, hunching into himself when he whispers, “that’s just it, hyung. you don’t make me happy anymore.”

yoongi—burns.

“sometimes, you do,” jeongguk adds. “sometimes, i feel so happy that i fear i’ll suffocate with it. but those times are so few and far between, and every other day we fight and it’s so fucking hard. i’ve always clung to those good days, but i can’t even remember the last good day we had anymore. yoongi-hyung, i love you too. love you so much that i could fucking die from it, but… that’s not enough anymore.” jeongguk shrugs, finally meeting his eyes. he looks so small, but so certain of it. this time, he’s not yelling. this time, it’s clear that he’s thought all of this through, maybe even taking the week to sort out his feelings so that he can get them across to yoongi the way he needs to. to put that final nail in the coffin. “it’s just not enough.”

“then what do you need for it to be enough?” yoongi asks. “what do i have to do to make love enough? because—jeongguk, i’ll do it. i’ll do whatever you want, whatever you need. just—please god, don’t break up with me.”

“hyung, please,” says jeongguk. “you can’t do or say anything to change my mind.”

“this isn’t just about you—”

“yes, it is! this is about me realizing that i deserve more.”

“more than what? i’ve given you everything you asked for, done what i could to make us both happy, and now you’re just deciding that you’re too good for me?”

“we both deserve better, hyung,” snaps jeongguk, almost yelling now to be heard over yoongi’s own voice. “we deserve to be happy and to know where we belong. and right now, that’s not with each other. right now, all we do is hurt each other and then fuck to make it better, but last night just made me realize that doesn’t make it better. and i—i hate this,” he lets out a gasping sob, tears suddenly welling in his eyes. “i hate that i don’t want to break up with you, because i love you and you’re all i’ve known for so long and i don’t want to let any of this go, but i’m not a kid anymore, hyung. i have to do what’s best for the both of us.”

“don’t you dare say you’re doing this for me, jeongguk,” says yoongi. “all you’re doing is tearing us apart and breaking my fucking heart, so don’t act like a saint for it.”

“i don’t know what you want from me, hyung.”

“i want you to stay! i want you to let me stay, i want you to fucking love me like you used to, i want you to… to stop being stupid and realize that we can be good together and we are and love can be enough, jeongguk-ah, i swear to god it can be enough.”

jeongguk drops his head into his hands again, scrubbing at his eyes. and yoongi knows he’s crying—yoongi’s eyes are welling with tears, too, at how frustrating all of this is and how much he wants jeongguk and how he knows, even now, that he’s fighting a losing battle. jeongguk has made up his mind, and for as long as yoongi has known him, he’s been a stubborn bastard. that’s what made them work—because for years, jeongguk was stubborn about holding onto yoongi, about making their relationship work through every dark day.

when yoongi tried to run away, jeongguk always came after him. always waited for him to come home, so patient and certain that they were going to find a way through. when life threw tragedies at them, jeongguk held fast to their love, determined to come out of the other end stronger than before. stubborn boy, yoongi thinks—it’s jeongguk who held them together all of these years, who loved yoongi enough to soften him into someone who could love back.

stubborn boy—now he’s changed his mind, decided that he’s had enough. and that stubbornness will be the death of yoongi. it strikes every match in yoongi’s heart, sets him ablaze.

jeongguk is holding a torch and yoongi is so, so flammable.

eventually, jeongguk says, “please stop trying to change my mind. i’ve thought a lot about this and i don’t—” he takes a deep breath, shuddering on the way out. “i don’t want to be with you anymore, hyung. please just—please let me go.” when he drops his hands and looks at yoongi, his eyes are red and wet, matching yoongi’s. even now—even now.

yoongi just looks at him. looks at this beautiful boy that he has hurt again and again, that he has waited for, hoped for, wanted longer than he can remember. he looks at this beautiful boy that he has loved with all of his heart and all of his body and all of his soul—and it still wasn’t enough.

yoongi still isn’t enough.

he steels his jaw, grinding his teeth together in an attempt to keep himself from crying. and still, the tears come, overwhelming him as he sniffs, tongue poking at his cheek as he looks away. he tries to think of anything to say—anything to make it better, anything to save his own heart. but all he wants to do is get down on his goddamn knees, and still, he knows, it wouldn’t change anything. stubborn, stubborn boy.

so yoongi shakes his head, hastily wiping at his wet eyes before he just—gets up from the table, walks past jeongguk out of the kitchen, grabs his shoes, and leaves. and doesn’t look back. and burns. and burns and burns and burns.

♦ ♦ ♦

for a week, yoongi drinks and smokes and tries to numb the heat of the flames in his chest, licking at these open wounds that jeongguk tore in his heart. for a week, he burrows himself in motel room and pretends nothing else exists. pretends jeongguk doesn’t exist, pretends the pain doesn’t exist. and it doesn’t quite work—the drinking, the sleeping, the mindless things to keep his thoughts at bay.

because no matter where he looks, jeongguk is there. in that stupid flannel hanging by the door, in the pictures on yoongi’s phone, in the music, the smells, in every beat of yoongi’s useless heart. he has lived for so long in jeongguk’s nooks and crannies that even now, he can’t separate himself from them, can’t keep his thoughts from circulating around it—around how big and empty this bed is without him, and how quiet it is without him, and how wrong it is without him.

but as the days slowly slip by, jeongguk doesn’t call. doesn’t knock on that door, doesn’t change his mind. the others do—they text him constantly, call him and leave desperate voicemails. they knock at the door, asking for yoongi to open up, wanting to know if he’s alright. they haven’t heard from him in a while. they know what happened. they’re always so fucking sorry.

yoongi doesn’t answer any of them, just turns his face into the pillow, tries to forget it all again again again. nothing he does works. yoongi breathes and it’s—jeongguk. he blinks and it’s—jeongguk. his heart beats and it’s always jeongguk jeongguk jeongguk.

when the alcohol and the drugs don’t work, yoongi realizes they were never going to. he realizes there’s only one way he can get rid of any of this—get rid of the pain, of the thought of jeongguk never coming back, of having to live the rest of his life alone and angry and waiting for himself to stop feeling like this.

he has to burn it. all of it—all of himself.

the thought comes to him all at once, the understanding that this is the only way. that it hurts too much—and yoongi just wants it to stop.

when he finds the container of gas, he thinks of namjoon’s voice through the door earlier that day: i know you’re hurting, hyung, but please talk to us. please let us help you.

when he locks the door behind him, deadbolting himself inside, he thinks of the voicemail jimin left yesterday: he’s hurting, too, you know. we all are. it doesn’t give you an excuse to cut us all out when you know we could make it better.

when he pours the gas throughout the room, flinging it on the bed and the chairs and the desk until everything smells like it, tastes like it, he thinks of taehyung’s text from one of those first days: worried about you, hyung. please don’t do anything you’ll regret.

when he takes that stupid fucking flannel and tosses it in the middle of the bed, lets it soak in the gasoline like regret, he thinks of hoseok’s words to him months ago, when yoongi made an off-hand comment about a silly fight with jeongguk: sometimes i think you two just hurt each other more than you love each other. but you always prove me wrong. somehow, you always love each other more for having hurt each other.

and when he pulls the lighter from his pocket, one jeongguk bought for him years ago and engraved with their initials—when he flicks it on, watches the tiny flame dance before him as it’s tempted by all of that gasoline, yoongi thinks of something seokjin once told him ages ago, something all of his friends have always maintained: you’re a stubborn one, min yoongi. you’ll never listen to any of us—except for jeongguk, i guess. you would come back from the dead just to answer if jeongguk called.

but jeongguk hasn’t called. and yoongi takes a deep breath, closing his eyes as he thinks of all of this fucking love. all of this fucking love that did no good in the end, that could save neither of them. and still, he loves. still, he waits.

he counts to ten, just in case. when nothing happens, yoongi opens his eyes, looks down at that little flame—and then tosses the lit lighter onto the bed.

somewhere in the midst of it all—the room going up in crackling flames, heat caging him in on all sides, red and orange and yellow dancing around him in a myriad of screaming memories, yoongi wonders if he’ll regret it. if he’ll regret trying to end all of it—not just the pain, but himself along with it. and still, he knew it would always come to this: to burning. to burning for jeongguk, because it was jeongguk who set his heart aflame years ago. because maybe he’s right—maybe love isn’t enough.

and then—yoongi feels his phone vibrating in his pocket. even as he stands in the middle of the room and watches the fire lick at the walls and the ceiling, waits for it to consume him, he feels his phone vibrating. slowly, yoongi pulls his phone out of his pocket, looking down at the familiar picture on the screen alerting him that he’s receiving a call.

and there, because love isn’t enough and their timing was never very good to begin with—is jeongguk’s name. yoongi stares at the picture he set as jeongguk’s contact ages ago, a photo of the two of them from the night jeongguk turned twenty-one. they’re sweaty and delirious, drunk on alcohol and love. yoongi is kissing his cheek, nose mashed against jeongguk’s cheekbone as jeongguk laughs, open-mouthed and happy—and it was like that, once. yoongi made jeongguk happy, once.

you would come back from the dead just to answer if jeongguk called.

yoongi almost grins.

(he burns.)