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The warm sun filtered through the kitchen window. Seokjin cooked in silence, moving with precision. Every gesture spoke of habit, of an old love: cutting the vegetables exactly the way Yoongi liked them, preparing the noodles without spices so they wouldn't upset his stomach, placing his cup right next to his own.
And yet, as he sat across from him, he only received a murmured "thanks", no look, no intention.
Yoongi ate in silence, out of obligation, only as much as his body could stand. As if he were merely fulfilling one more duty.
It had been weeks like this. Maybe months. Seokjin had stopped counting, but every day he felt the weight of what went unsaid more clearly.
The elder felt guilty for not noticing the progression of his husband’s decline from the start.
Yoongi was quiet, yes, but mostly with the outside world; in the comfort of their home, he always had something to say when he was in the mood to talk. The two of them could talk for hours.
Seokjin thought Yoongi's silence was something fleeting, that perhaps he was just dwelling too much in his own mind in introspection.
At one point, he thought perhaps Yoongi was tired of their marriage. With a heavy heart, he initially gave him space, thinking that was it, since the younger avoided him every time he tried to talk. He assumed they would discuss it, eventually.
He felt guilty for focusing so much on work and his own conclusions, and for not noticing how his beloved was withering away day by day.
Until he realized that Yoongi wasn't getting up, wasn't eating, wasn't bathing, wasn't brushing his teeth. He was no longer bothering to live.
Yoongi didn't know at what point he had burned out.
It wasn't sudden. There was no catastrophe. Just a fatigue that became permanent. A nameless sadness. A feeling of being a burden, even when no one told him he was.
The days began to pass, and he felt like a pathetic spectator to them, waking up every morning wishing for the night to return. Intrusive thoughts whispered that perhaps his presence wasn't necessary.
Perhaps he began to stare too long at bridges every time he went out, at tall buildings, perhaps some pills... he devised ways from time to time in his tired mind.
The one that hurts the least, he thought.
However, the energy he had was so little that he couldn't even get up to disappear.
Besides, a part of him held him back. A part that knew the irreparable damage he would cause.
Seokjin was still there. He took care of him. He silently led him to the shower to wash him, talked to him even if there was no response. He hugged him at night, even if Yoongi didn't return a single embrace. He spoke to him in a soft voice, as if fearing he might break him.
And that destroyed him even more.
Because he knew he was hurting him. That every silence, every time he avoided his eyes, were slow daggers to the other.
But he couldn't do more.
Depression didn't scream at him. It whispered. It told him it was easier not to move, not to eat, not to speak, not to insist.
That way, he would eventually cease to exist.
And above all: that he didn't deserve the love that was still waiting for him.
That afternoon, in the kitchen, Seokjin couldn't take it anymore. Seeing him so unwell, so extinguished.
"You can't go on like this, Yoongi," he said, without raising his voice.
Yoongi left the spoon on the plate. The trembling in his fingers betrayed him.
But he said nothing; he didn't look up.
"Can you at least look at me? Can you do that for me?" Seokjin asked with a thread of a voice.
Yoongi finally looked at him and saw Seokjin’s transparent eyes; he saw the suffering the elder was carrying alone.
Seokjin could also finally see Yoongi’s evasive eyes, and he found only emptiness... a vast one.
It wasn't indifference. It wasn't a lack of love.
It was that sadness that turns you off from the inside: deep, devastating, and lonely.
"Why don't you say anything? Why do you evade me every time I want to help?"
"It’s not that I want to," he replied, his voice hoarse. "It’s just... I don't know how. How to come back."
Yoongi lowered his head. The urge to cry burned in his throat, but it wouldn't come out; he didn't even have enough in him to weep.
"Because I'm ashamed. Because I feel like I'm dragging you down with me. Sometimes I feel it’s better if... you leave."
Seokjin approached him slowly. Not with anger at those words that hurt, but with extreme gentleness.
"I would never get tired of you. But I need you to let me be there. As your husband, your partner. Let me help you, my love," he placed his hands softly on the younger man's shoulders. "I won't leave while you’re hurting, never. No matter how hard you try."
The hug was slow. Yoongi let himself fall into it as if his body could no longer hold itself up.
And for the first time in a long time, he cried.
Seokjin said nothing more. He just held him and stroked his back gently. Like someone who knows that love is also this: waiting at the door of pain, with the patience of one who does not leave, who knows the storm will pass eventually.
He wasn't cured that day, but he moved forward.
However, that night they slept in each other's arms. And the next morning, Yoongi asked him not to go to work. To stay. To have breakfast together. And he looked him in the eyes for the first time in weeks.
Small gestures.
Small beginnings.
Because love doesn't always heal everything.
But it can be the first step toward living again.
The first time he went to therapy, Yoongi hardly spoke.
He sat on the black armchair, clutching his hands between his knees, and stared at a fixed point on the rug.
He didn't really know how to begin. He didn't know if it was his perfectionism that had frustrated him for not achieving what he wanted professionally, or the fear of failure and low self-esteem; or maybe the job he had been fired from, his distant family who didn't accept his marriage, or not feeling enough to be loved. It was a tangled thread he couldn't undo.
The therapist referred him to a psychiatrist for parallel care. The doctor prescribed antidepressants, fresh air, and some sun exposure—at least thirty minutes a day.
Seokjin waited for him outside after the first session. He didn't ask questions. He just took his hand when he came out and didn't let go during the entire drive home.
The elder said he would give him his medication day by day, and he kept his word. Every day at breakfast, he left the corresponding pills and waited for him to take them.
He took him out for walks, holding hands, making sure Yoongi got some sunlight, even though the latter wasn't very fond of the sun.
The night after the third therapy session, Yoongi was the one who pressed against his back in bed, like a quiet bundle.
And Seokjin felt, for the first time in a long time, something opening up again.
The process wasn't fast. Nor was it linear.
Some mornings, Yoongi woke up with some energy. He washed the dishes without being asked. He sat looking out the window with a cup of tea, and even allowed himself to laugh at some nonsense Seokjin said.
Other days, he couldn't get out of bed. He would just cover his head and murmur, "Not today," with a broken voice.
Seokjin learned not to push him. To sit by his side in silence, a book in his hands and his body close, as if saying:
You don't have to talk, just be alive. I am here.
One day, Yoongi came out of his session with damp eyes and trembling hands. Seokjin grew worried.
"I talked about you today."
His husband didn't know what to say.
"I told the therapist that sometimes I don't understand why you're still here... and that I'm afraid that one day you'll wake up and realize you could have an easier life without me."
The silence hurt.
"And she asked me if I had ever asked you directly."
"And...?"
Yoongi swallowed hard.
"Why are you still here, Seokjin?"
The elder stepped closer and leaned his forehead against his.
"Because I love you. And because I know this isn't all you are. Because you are wonderful. Because I love you with your lights and your shadows."
Yoongi continued to cry, but with a slightly lighter heart. He felt hope after a long time.
They started cooking together on Sundays.
Nothing sophisticated. Sometimes just rice and fish. Or seafood soups. But Yoongi began to participate. Peeling carrots. Complaining about the sting of the onion in his eyes.
Seokjin celebrated every little thing. Not with exaggeration, but with those small smiles that mend the soul.
One Wednesday, Yoongi decided to go for a walk alone.
He came back with flowers.
Small flowers. Clumsy in their wrapping, a bit crushed. But they were flowers.
"For you," he said. "They aren't the prettiest. But they are... resilient."
Seokjin hugged him without a word.
And one night, without warning, while they were on the sofa watching a silly movie neither cared about, Yoongi turned to him with eyes full of something deep.
"Thank you for not letting go of me."
"Thank you for letting me hold you, sweetheart," Seokjin replied.
That day, Yoongi slept soundly.
Not out of anguish. Not out of exhaustion.
But with peace.
For the first time in months, he dreamed of simple things. Of a garden. Of warm bread. Of Seokjin’s laughter.
And he knew that, although the road was long, he was no longer lost.
He was coming back.
To himself.
Home.
The improvement wasn't an explosion. It was a murmur.
Yoongi didn't wake up one morning saying, "I'm fine."
But he did start to notice that his body no longer felt so heavy. That the air no longer hurt to breathe. That the world, little by little, was regaining sharp edges and bright colors.
Without realizing it, he began to talk more—much more. He became interested in the things his husband told him, wanting to share his own thoughts. Slowly opening that wounded heart that had ached just from the act of living. Seokjin listened intently. Without judging, without interrupting.
His Seokjin, always there, always patient, remained as beautiful as the first day.
Only now, he could see him again.
One ordinary afternoon, while they were folding laundry in the bedroom, Yoongi reached out and touched Seokjin’s arm. Just that. A touch.
Seokjin looked at him from the corner of his eye, barely smiling. He didn't ask why. He didn't point out that it was the first time in months that Yoongi had touched him without him initiating the contact.
Yoongi looked down, somewhat embarrassed.
"Sometimes I feel like I forgot you."
"How? What do you mean?"
"Your scent. Your texture. What it was like... to touch you. Like before."
Seokjin set the shirt he was folding aside and moved closer. He hugged him from behind, resting his chin on his shoulder.
"Then remember me," he whispered. "I'm here. Always."
They didn't kiss that night.
But Yoongi rested his head on his chest, listened to his heart, and Seokjin stroked his hair for hours.
Sleeping like that was a step.
And in the following days, another.
One morning, Yoongi approached in silence. He hugged him first, as if testing the waters. Then he looked up, searched for his eyes... and kissed him. After so long. As if the world were opening up just a bit more.
Seokjin felt his breath catch; it was something that used to be so natural and everyday, but now it felt like a treasure.
Desire returned like a breeze. Almost imperceptible at first.
A glimpse of his collarbones. A stray thought while watching him laugh with his head tilted back, seeing the veins in his neck. The heat of his thigh brushing against his own while watching TV in short pajamas.
The night was soft.
The air was warm, and the room was barely lit by the dim light filtering through the window.
Seokjin was playing on a console. Yoongi was beside him, lying down, head resting on his arm. He watched him with a new calm. As if after months of fog, his body was beginning to remember what it was like to live without fear.
Many things had happened.
Therapy sessions, difficult mornings, shared silences, tiny breakthroughs.
And that night, for the first time, he didn't feel guilt, and his body wanted to feel something more.
He gently touched Seokjin’s wrist. He put the console down immediately and looked at him, attentive.
Yoongi swallowed.
"I want to feel you close, like before," he whispered. "If you still want to."
Seokjin didn't answer with words. He turned off the console, not caring that he was about to pass the most difficult level of all; he simply left it on the nightstand and turned toward him with an expression impossible to describe: tenderness, longing, relief. Love, in its purest form.
He brought his hand to his cheek with a reverent slowness, as if he were touching him for the first time. He barely stroked him with his fingers, moving down his neck, his collarbone. Yoongi’s body trembled—not with fear, but with contained emotion.
"I'm here," Seokjin murmured. "Everything I am is yours, if you want it."
Yoongi closed his eyes and nodded.
Seokjin kissed him first on the forehead, then on the nose. Then, very slowly, on the lips. It was a warm, prolonged kiss, without demands. Their mouths sought each other as if recognizing one another after a long time.
Seokjin’s hands moved down, caressing the fabric of Yoongi’s t-shirt until he lifted it slightly. He brushed his abdomen with his thumb, slowly, as if asking everything all over again.
"Is this okay?" he whispered.
"Yes... keep going, I want to feel you, everything," Yoongi replied, his voice breaking slightly.
"If you want me to stop or if you don't feel comfortable anymore, don't hesitate to tell me, baby."
Yoongi nodded.
Then Seokjin kissed his skin and undressed him carefully. Not with haste, but with respect. Like someone opening a precious gift. He looked at him as if his body were still beautiful, still worthy, still loved.
And it was.
It was just that Yoongi no longer believed it.
Yoongi let himself be cared for, his breath shaky and his chest open. He felt his skin burning, not from shame, but from the unfamiliarity of that returning warmth: desire, love, trust.
When Seokjin moved his mouth down his chest, leaving slow kisses, Yoongi covered his eyes with his forearm. He felt like he was going to cry, just from the emotion of feeling desired again, of feeling Jin’s warmth on his skin once more.
Yoongi knew that Seokjin never stopped desiring him—a part of his heart knew it, just as a part of him also felt guilt for making him wait so long.
Seokjin’s hands explored without hurry. He touched him like someone remembering a texture, a lost sensation. He stroked his side, the curve of his hip, the inside of his thighs, but without rushing, without leading him anywhere. Just wanting to feel him. To let Yoongi know he still wanted him.
Yoongi, for his part, unbuttoned the elder’s pajamas to feel his skin, to nestle into his chest so they could both feel each other's heat. He slid his bare legs between his. But he didn't stop there; he made him undress completely, to feel the contact of their skin, like before.
Yoongi... let himself be touched. Let himself be loved.
"I want to feel you, Seokjin," he murmured against his bare chest.
Seokjin wrapped his arms around him, holding him tenderly as their bodies brushed, skin against skin, heat against heat.
"You will, baby."
Seokjin slid his hand between his legs and patiently stroked him. Yoongi moaned softly, clinging to his back, letting the pleasure cleanse him, renew him.
That night they didn't make love in the most physical sense.
But they found each other. They touched with everything they carried inside.
When it was over, with labored breathing and damp eyes, Seokjin cleaned him with sweetness, hugged him, and kissed his forehead.
They slept peacefully.
The light of dawn was just beginning to seep through the edges of the curtain when Seokjin woke up.
Yoongi was still sleeping, naked among the sheets, his face serene. Messy hair, calm breathing, skin still warm from the heat shared the night before.
Seokjin looked at him as if he were a miracle.
And maybe he was.
Because months ago, Yoongi could barely speak. He could barely get up. His gaze was lost, his lips were sealed. Seokjin had feared losing him—that he would go out completely, that he would decide it wasn't worth waking up.
And now he was there. Whole. Beautiful. Alive.
It wasn't that morning when they made love.
It was a few weeks later, in the afternoon. After cooking together. After a shared laugh over a mistake in the recipe. After Yoongi approached him, hugged him from behind, and whispered against his neck:
"I want to be yours again. But this time completely."
Seokjin turned slowly. He looked at him. And he saw in his eyes something stronger than desire: choice.
It was no longer fragility. It was certainty.
And then he kissed him.
The room was silent when Seokjin undressed him, this time with a burning body.
Yoongi let him, but he also touched him with a growing hunger, guiding him with his hands, with his eyes, with his heavy breathing.
And when Seokjin entered him, savoring all of his skin, entering slow, deep but trembling, fingers laced with his. Something in his chest broke.
Yoongi arched with a stifled groan when he felt him completely. He wrapped him with his legs, with his arms, with a strength that had awakened by feeling him like this, so close.
He let himself go; he let himself be filled. His husband hit that exact spot with precision, a spot he knew all too well. He touched him in a way he hadn't realized he missed. He felt pleasure again, felt complete and ecstatic.
Seokjin felt it too, in every moan, in every breathless gasp his beloved let out, in every thrust, so warm, so real, so much his...
That he couldn't hold it back.
Tears began to fall down his cheeks without warning.
First one. Then another.
Not out of pain. Not out of sorrow.
But out of love.
Out of the brutal intensity of having him like this.
For everything that was still left to live.
Because at some point, he had thought that in any moment of oversight, Yoongi would choose not to wake up anymore.
"Seokjin, love..." Yoongi said, alarmed, noticing him. "Are you okay?"
Seokjin nodded, having stopped moving inside him, eyes damp, voice shattered.
"Yes. It’s just... I missed you so much. This, everything."
"I'm here now," Yoongi replied. "I haven't gone anywhere. I'm here, I won't leave."
Seokjin lowered his face and kissed him as if his life depended on it.
And they continued. Body against body. Skin against skin.
Until they both reached their climax, clinging to each other, with short breaths and lips still joined.
Afterward, while Yoongi stroked him in silence, Seokjin kept his face hidden in his neck and cried softly again.
He too had a burden he didn't speak of; he had set himself aside to care for Yoongi. Although he would never admit it, he would never make his beloved feel guilty.
"I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't mean to scare you."
"You don't scare me," Yoongi paused, breathing with some difficulty, his heart heavy seeing Seokjin cry. "Now, I want you to talk to me too. Even if I'm not entirely okay yet, I want to help you."
Seokjin nodded and left a chaste kiss on his lips.
They both had to learn to share the burdens that made their hearts heavy. That was the only way to hold onto each other so that neither would fall.
That night they slept together, entangled. Without fear.
And Seokjin’s body, which had resisted for so long, finally allowed itself to rest.
Because Yoongi was there.
And Seokjin didn't have to fight alone, not anymore.
Epilogue
It was the afternoon after his last therapy session. Yoongi was discharged after many months. The therapist congratulated him on his great progress and for daring to make the most difficult decision: to live.
Yoongi went back to work, to writing songs, enjoying movies, hanging out with friends, watching basketball games. He went back to loving his life, even if it wasn't perfect.
But it was the only one he had.
That day, after being discharged, they went to lunch at a Japanese restaurant to celebrate. Yoongi ate with gusto, savoring every piece of sashimi and doing little "happy dances" every time he loved something.
Seokjin watched him with sweetness, enjoying the silence as his husband insisted that this time the wasabi wouldn't make him cry.
He was wrong, because it burned more than ever. But they both laughed until their stomachs ached.
They arrived home and sat together on the sofa, the afternoon sun filtering through the curtains, painting warm shadows over their bodies. A quiet afternoon, yet full of feeling.
There were no urgent words, just small laughs and a comfortable silence, the kind that can only be achieved when two people feel complete in each other's presence.
The shared silence no longer tasted like distance, but like security.
Yoongi gently took Seokjin’s hand, interlacing their fingers. Seokjin squeezed his hand with a slight gesture, a mute caress that said, "I'm here."
On the table were two half-finished cups of herbal tea, and their favorite song played softly on the speaker.
After all, love is not measured in grand gestures, but in those small everyday things: in sharing the morning, in listening without judging, in accompanying the other in silence until they shine again.
The moon would not let the stars get lost in the night. She would always be there; patient and constant.
Seokjin looked at Yoongi, so beautiful and healthy, and with a small smile full of meaning, said:
"Thank you for staying."
Yoongi responded with a smile just as sincere, his "gummy smile" in full display, without words, because sometimes what one feels is too deep to be spoken.
"Thank you for not letting me go."
They stayed there, together, knowing that no matter what came next, they had already learned how to hold each other up.
And that was enough.