Work Text:
dyslexia
or: seoul, 4:30a.m.
i arrived
yoongi’s messages in their group chat have always been like that— short, more spread out than jungkook’s. still, an odd wave of relief finds its way up his spine, and jungkook sits straighter only to slump against the sofa again. he’s restless. he’s been restless for days, for the past few weeks, even, feeling himself shrink, overloaded with the emptiness of his apartment, his senses bothered by light, by chores, by the lack of certain things that have always been there and suddenly aren’t anymore. his mouth tastes faintly of the whiskey he had been drinking. it’s late— to most people at least. eleven-something, a time that doesn’t feel real, the in between hour that feels purposeless for him. too late to eat, too early to sleep. too late to call someone. jungkook picks up his forgotten phone anyway.
the call rings, almost for too long.
when it connects, the first thing he hears is water running, the sound almost distorted. “— you wouldn’t give up,” yoongi says as a means to say hello. his voice is full of sleepiness, low and hoarse. “i wanted to shower.”
“— did you get home safe?”
“you would know if i didn’t,” the reply seems mumbly and absent-minded, a very on brand way yoongi will let his thoughts come out when he’s not paying attention. it takes him a second longer to add, without apologising, but much softer: “i got home safe.”
jungkook huffs, the air coming out odd-sounding, almost like a hiccup. he stares at the ceiling, eyes heavy. “hyung,” he starts, heart beating unevenly. “can i listen to you shower?”
it sounds strange, when he says it. jungkook can hear it, how the words make little sense. it used to make some sort of sense. it used to be late nights sleeping in between beds and hearing the shower run and the hums of songs they had to memorise. jungkook doesn’t know why he can’t stop thinking of things that are long, long past. yoongi, despite it all, barely hums, and then his voice sounds far, echoing against tiles. “you’re on speaker.”
to be understood so fully leaves a hole the size of his fist right where his heart is. jungkook closes his eyes, then, listening to the water and yoongi’s breathing, entire body calming down from its anxious mess. he lets himself be taken by the sounds coming through his phone, the dripping and the the white noise of the aircon. he can see it, maybe, through the steam trapped inside his mind, yoongi’s back, his hair longer than before but not long enough it touches his shoulders. a faint sight comes out of him, full of something he doesn’t quite want to understand. his body has grown hot. it’s unnerving. “can you hear me?” he asks, then, to the noise.
“yeah,” the voice is far enough to almost get lost in sound waves. “— is everything alright?”
“yes,” jungkook swallows. it’s no good to lie, though. yoongi would hear it right away. “— no.”
the water shuts down, and the lack of noise feels awkward and loud. jungkook opens his eyes again, rolling his body until he’s laying down completely, phone pressed underneath his cheek. “tell me,” yoongi’s voice comes out strained from movement, and if jungkook closes his eyes, he sees it— yoongi’s feet leaving water prints on the rug, and the way water runs down his legs, the towel he quickly uses to dry out slapping slightly against skin. he can hear bottles opening after a second, closer to the phone, and yoongi’s breathing. “or not,” yoongi completes, gently.
“come over,” jungkook asks, then, warmth pooling in between his legs in an achy way. “please.”
yoongi hums before answering, not dismissive but rather softly: “no,” he exhales, the sound full of other sounds (maybe it’s facial cream, maybe it’s a hairbrush, jungkook can’t tell). “it’s late.”
“it’s not.”
“to you, maybe.” a chuckle follows. “i rather go to bed.”
“hyung,” jungkook calls, in the way that he does when wants yoongi to say yes. his face is hot, his ears burning. “please?”
“tomorrow,” yoongi replies. he’s brushing his teeth, his voice comes out full of foam through the speakers. “you won’t go anywhere, you don’t need to—“
maybe he shouldn’t, maybe it’s petty and childish, but jungkook disconnects the call. the silence of his apartment feels rather staggering. he doesn’t want to hear about what will happen soon. he doesn’t like to think of it. his phone doesn’t ring, even though he had an inkling of hope it would. yoongi isn’t like that. when they were young, he’d clash against jungkook’s moods head first, and jungkook would raise his chin in defiance only barely before finally listening. as they grew older and into themselves, dynamics shifted— yoongi dislikes conflict, so he doesn’t search for it. jungkook’s too stubborn to apologise. he groans, kicking his feet like a little kid before springing up, towards the bottles of alcohol he’s been slowly acquiring.
the one yoongi likes is halfway drank. it smells like a bonfire, that whiskey, and jungkook hates how it tastes. he pours it in a glass regardlessly, pushing down his throat in a swing, cringing as it burns as it goes down. “fuck,” he complains, eyes tearing up. they keep tearing up. jungkook huffs in self-pity, rubbing his eyes with the back of a hand. “you’re so stupid,” he mutters to himself, breathing out. his body still feels warm, but it’s leftover from the whiskey. he pours another shot, staring at it.
he drinks it neat.
the lights are off aside from the faint neons of a lamp. jungkook pours another drink before turning, searching for the remote, scrolling through songs until he finds something good. it’s just him, the song, and the glass of room temperature whiskey. jungkook stares at the tv, feeling as if his insides are liquid. his heart aches. it’s not a good feeling. when the intercom rings, he startles, head snapping towards it, heart missing a beat. maybe his music is too loud. it wouldn’t be the first time. “yeah?” he says, touching his forehead to the wall.
“jungkook-ssi, there’s a visitor for you,” his porter announces, his voice always nervous whenever he has to call. “it’s— uhm, min yoongi-ssi.”
jungkook almost laughs, weirdly angry all of a sudden. “he can come in, he can— you don’t have to call when he comes over, he’s— it’s fine.”
the reply from the porter is lost in the mess of his thoughts. jungkook forces himself to exhales, his lungs burning. the knock on his door doesn’t take long to come. he moves then, embarrassed and jittery. there’s a myriad of feelings that scramble about inside once that door slides open. yoongi looks exhausted, as he did often after their flights. his hair is still damp. jungkook tries not to meet his eyes. he knows yoongi would see shame about him right away. “i got worried,” the mumbled, slightly soft tone is almost painful. jungkook swallows. he’s still holding his drink, hiding behind the door. he’s not a child anymore, he tells himself rather awkwardly. he’s almost twenty-eight. he’s allowed to drink and to brood if he wants to.
“you have the key,” he says then, because words go amiss. jungkook steps sideways, enough for yoongi to come in. he’s still unsure if he will. “you know don’t have to announce that—“
“it’s your house, i shouldn’t come in whenever.”
“i’m saying you can,” jungkook counters, and he takes another step away, waiting. his heart feels as if it’s made of glass. “— are you going to stay out there?”
“no,” yoongi sighs, coming in finally, and he leans against the wall to take off his shoes, knowing where to look for slippers, his movements automatic. jungkook likes that they are, likes that yoongi’s familiar with his things, hopes that he notices that jungkook never changes them from there, a perennial spot so yoongi can always find his way. then, by mistake, he meets yoongi’s eyes. “you’ve been drinking.”
his cheeks burn. “yeah.”
“is that why you called?”
jungkook wants to tell him they should move into the living space, but he’s stuck in the small entrance way, stepping over his own shoes. “that, too,” he admits, voice low. he raises the glass, then, trying to keep himself from trembling. “— want some?”
“i want to sleep,” yoongi huffs, but he takes the glass, sniffing at it before taking a sip. jungkook watches his throat move. “can i take the couch?”
“no, the bed,” jungkook offers, and he looks away, forcing his legs to move, to drag his feet on the carpet, toes curling. “you’re tired, take the bed. i can sleep here.”
he stops, though, feeling the back of his shirt held, his collar pressing on his windpipe uncomfortably. “you forgot your glass.”
“— i don’t want to drink anymore.”
“then wash your cup,” yoongi mumbles, letting him go to cross to the kitchen. jungkook stands still, following yoongi only with his eyes, hearing his mumble under the noise of the water. it’s a familiar min yoongi, that one. from countless of years, through countless of memories. jungkook feels a variety of emotions— nostalgia, a sense of loss, a pit in his stomach. he walks towards yoongi, then, unable to stop himself, wrapping his arms over his waist, pressing his nose at the nape of his neck, inhaling on shampoo smell. yoongi doesn’t move away, nor does he flinches. “did you want me to come over to clean after you?”
“no,” jungkook mutters, relieved to be close like that. “i can clean up after myself.”
his hands find skin too easily, under the shirt yoongi’s wearing, and jungkook sighs, enjoying the feel of it, the softness of the frame, the ridges of ribs. “— you shouldn’t drink this late.”
“i’m an adult, hyung,” the complaint is weak. yoongi’s breathing gets slightly shallower. “i don’t drink that much— i promise.”
their bodies sway, and yoongi leans forward against the counter, hands keeping himself steady. jungkook can’t help it, then, dragging teeth over the crook of yoongi’s neck. “i don’t say these things to control you, i know you’re an adult,” yoongi says, quietly. “i just worry.”
being controlled has always been one of jungkook’s fears— he grew up being taught restraint over things, over a regular life, over his feelings. yoongi knows those things because yoongi knows him intimately; as a friend and as a friend that sometimes meets him halfway in bed. but (and jungkook knows the thought means more than he can guess right then) somehow, for some reason, relinquishing control to yoongi sounds all too good. “hyung,” he calls, lazily, resting his head on yoongi’s shoulder, pressing him tighter. “— let’s have sex.”
“i just came in from a ten hour flight,” yoongi huffs. “i’m tired.”
“we can do it quick,” jungkook voices, caressing the flat of yoongi’s stomach, nuzzling against his neck. yoongi doesn’t reply, though, no words but a stuttered sigh. “you’ll relax.”
“i won’t,” yoongi shakes his head. “we’ll sleep together and i’ll spend the night overthinking.”
“why?”
“you know why.”
he gets pushed away so gently it feels almost wrong to feel hurt by it. but he does, jungkook always does because his heart is fickle, and sensitive, and greedy. he wants everything at all times, and not being granted his wish bothers. it’s a childish, immature feeling he can’t seem to get rid of. yoongi walks ahead, towards the sofa, grabbing pillows. “hyung, take the bed,” jungkook offers, pained. yoongi looks at him, but it doesn’t last. “please, i— i’ll sleep here. you’re tired.”
“you’ll be uncomfortable.”
“i won’t,” he steps closer, but not enough to touch. yoongi nods, and he puts the pillows down slowly. “i don’t sleep until morning, anyway, i can— i’ll make you food, once you’re up.”
at this yoongi smiles, a small thing, pretty. jungkook stares at him and sees him as the eighteen year old he met once, the one who would wordlessly wake up earlier than anyone else in their dorm to make sure jungkook ate before school. that small, fragile jungkook, his heart was fickle, too. he swallows, sniffling, and the dull ache in his chest spreads out. yoongi doesn’t notice, or if he does he chooses not to comment on it. he walks around the sofa, and jungkook lets yoongi pull his head down enough he can kiss the side of his temple. jungkook’s eyes close. “come to bed if you get tired.” then, after a second: “to sleep.”
“— yeah.”
and then yoongi leaves, like he’s left before, and jungkook watches him go, the back of his head, the buzz of his cut. yoongi knows the way to the room, which door is it, and it closes behind it. jungkook sniffles, and he rubs his eyes, feeling them wet and bothersome. when he picks up his phone again with damp fingers, he thinks of opening a live, of spilling out the stream of anguish that seems to eat his insides slowly, but— if yoongi somehow woke up, it’d put him in trouble. jungkook’s the last to go, and yoongi’s the first to be put in an office position in seoul, no military facilities, no strict rules but enough to feel suffocating.
at that very point in time, there’s only the both of them and no one else. jungkook puts the phone down, then, and sits on the sofa, and looks at the ceiling until it starts getting dark.
(
he wakes up at two. the leftover smell of sesame oil permeates the refurbished air of the aircon. jungkook blinks heavily, then remembers— i’ll make you food, once you’re up. his heart skips. he messed up. turning around, he sees the faint colours of the sunlight that comes out from his door, dripping out into the darkened corridor. yoongi’s gone.
jungkook finds the note on the kitchen counter, scribbled behind the receipt of some old take out. i made you food. eat well.
the portion of stir fried noodles is in a container, still warm to the touch. all the dishes are drying. jungkook leans down on the counter, resting his forehead on the cool marble. he closes his eyes, breathing out. )
/
when the concert ends, jungkook goes backstage wordlessly. he walks past crew, not seeing them, a fixed polite smile on his face, his ears ringing with white noise. he feels so out of place that it physically aches, and jungkook doesn’t respond to a manager’s question, and he brushes past the video recording crew with nothing more than a nod. the door to his changing room doesn’t have a key, but jungkook closes it resolutely, blocking out all the noise. it’s only then he notices he’s trembling, and that he feels sick, and he gags, pressing the back of his hand against his mouth, eyes watering.
the thing is: the faces in that stadium haven’t changed. they’re the same for the past decade, a sea of wondrous, fierce love, given freely. and when jungkook stepped onto that stage, over two hours before, he wasn’t followed by anyone else. the missing parts of everything were as loud as the crowd. jungkook performed, because he has to, because it’s his way of giving, and he needs to give— but everything inside him was crashing down fast. alone, finally, he feels gutted. jungkook forces himself to breathe through his nose, inhaling, exhaling, remembering the exercises given to him by his therapist. he’s never felt fear before, not once in his life. now it eats him from the inside out. someone tries to open the door, but jungkook holds the knob. “i’ll be out soon,” he manages, weakly. “i just need a minute.”
“there are some reporters waiting,” his manager’s voice sounds far away. jungkook nods, even though he can’t see it. “— take your time, alright?”
“yeah.”
it takes him a moment to move, but he does so, he walks in staggering steps to the small toilet, and his throat burns as he throws up. jungkook feels ashamed, and he feels like crying, but he doesn’t. he wipes his mouth, and he flushes, and he stands, lightheaded and sickly. yoongi’s waiting with his back against the door. jungkook stands under the threshold, and stares at him as if he isn’t real. maybe he’s not. maybe jungkook’s going crazy. “you’re pale,” yoongi comments, his voice soft. his mask is pulled down to his chin, and the short of his hair is hidden under a beanie.
a flash of that strange kind of anger brews inside his chest. “why didn’t you tell me you were coming?”
yoongi doesn’t look any hurt by his accusing tone. jungkook feels ashamed almost immediately. “— i didn’t know if i would be able to, i didn’t want to make a fuss.”
“i— i wanted you to come, it wouldn’t be a fuss. i went to yours.”
they stare at each other. yoongi seems to exhale slowly, then he nods, stepping into the distance that separates them until there’s almost no distance at all (but there is, jungkook can tell). “come here,” the offer is quiet, and his arms spread just enough, enough jungkook can fit in there, pressing as close as he can get, breathing in against the collar of yoongi’s sweatshirt. yoongi massages his back kindly. “you did really well, i’m proud of you.”
“don’t say that,” jungkook huffs, but his eyes are tearing up and it’s difficult to put out words that sound sure of themselves. “don’t.”
“jungkook-ah,” nails scratch against the nape of neck, so tenderly they feel feathery. “i’m sorry if it’s difficult.”
it is difficult. jungkook feels irrevocably disarmed, then, feels as if the threads he’s been holding onto are all tied safely to someone he knows and trusts and needs and loves. “i smell bad,” he voices, then, because he doesn’t know how to say the things he wants to say. “i threw up.”
“i heard it.”
“i feel so stupid,” he’s too embarrassed to pull away, so he doesn’t. “— did you feel this way when you did it?”
there’s a clear memory in jungkook’s mind of not too long before, seeing the text message pop up before ten at night, a brief i think i’m going on tour :]. there was never jealousy, just— envy, jungkook thinks. envy that yoongi made it seem easy. he knows it wasn’t, but the thought rooted itself in his mind, getting thorny. “i didn’t throw up,” yoongi seems to smile, it comes out in his voice. “it was difficult.” he sighs. “i missed you, but,” it takes a minute for the complete sentence to unfold, careful and slow: “you learn how to stand on your own.”
“what if i’m not enough on my own?”
at this yoongi pulls back, and he finds jungkook’s eyes, his face slightly flushed. “there’s forty thousand people outside,” he says. “you’re enough.”
jungkook allows himself to lean closer again, not to hold this time around, but to touch their heads together, pressing his sweaty strands of hair against the side of yoongi’s temple. “hyung,” he mutters, as steady as he can manage. “later, we— come home with me?”
“you have another concert tomorrow,” yoongi huffs. his hands rest around jungkook’s waist, pressing. “you need rest.”
“you can tire me,” he can see how yoongi’s lips curl at that, how he blushes a bit, how he looks sheepish. it’s all too endearing to him. “just for company, not— i just don’t want to be alone.”
it takes a moment for yoongi to reply. “alright.” jungkook’s heart aches when yoongi leans against him, their noses brushing. it’s fast and maybe absentminded. yoongi pulls back, his hands letting go, and he clears his throat, stepping backwards, his hip hitting a chair. “— i’ll be outside.” then, with a soft kind of smile: “you should brush your teeth before you go out.”
jungkook blinks, flushing, but he nods. “yeah, i’ll— i’ll be out soon.”
outside, where the reporters wait, where his team works to pack up, where yoongi is nowhere to be seen— jungkook steps out, some five minutes later, and answers questions, and gets his make up retouched for pictures that are taken, for a bangtan bomb, for tiktok videos with other celebrities who attended the concert. it’s all fast, though. every minute spent inside that venue is costly, and just as the fans slip out, so does jungkook, waiving to the cheering fans, keeping himself up by the sheer amount of love received. yoongi’s waiting inside the car. jungkook breathes out in relief when he opens the door, seeing him there, meeting his eyes. yoongi raises the sign probably done by a fan, and it reads jungkook-ah, i’ll always meet you at the end of the road. jungkook huffs. “i thought you could use the reminder,” yoongi shrugs, his face hidden by his mask. jungkook sits next to him, the door closing and keeping the noise out. the driver is still outside. jungkook needs to be able to feel something, so he leans, and he nibbles on yoongi’s neck, earning a soft kind of grunt from him. “you haven’t changed much,” jungkooks hums, kissing skin. “you’re still reckless.”
“i’m twenty-eight, hyung,” jungkook mutters, pulling back, finally. “i’m allowed to be reckless.”
“yeah, i guess,” yoongi sniffles, and he looks away, outside. the car smells new, and smells like the cologne yoongi wears sometimes, the one jungkook can taste on his tongue now.
the ride home is quiet. jungkook puts his hand on yoongi’s thigh after a while, pressing gently into the cuts on the jeans, feeling his skin underneath. yoongi lets him, his cheeks red, and he nods off sometimes, head against the glass. jungkook watches him whenever he does, his eyelashes, the curve of his nose. it’s hard to ignore the bothersome ache inside as he focuses on the way his earrings look, the small mole near his eyebrow. jungkook doesn’t think much— he digs his fingers more urgently on the flesh of yoongi’s thigh, and he leans over, pressing his mouth right under his ear, where his jawline ends, where yoongi’s usually sensitive. there shouldn’t be any odd looks their way; jungkook has been nothing but clingy his whole life. the manager sitting at the back should know, the driver wouldn’t find it out of place. yoongi stirs, and he turns, their noses bumping, and jungkook can’t help but smile at yoongi’s sleepiness, his softness. “you’re very close,” jungkook teases, and it makes yoongi huff.
“you started it.”
a phone buzzes between them, and they pull apart, and jungkook’s breathing is shallow and weird. yoongi doesn't pick up. he usually doesn't anyway. still, the phone is held in his hand, and jungkook sees the name he doesn’t recognise, the way that name is spelled, unknown to him but close to yoongi. “— friend?” he doesn’t know why he asks. jungkook do know he shouldn’t, that they’re supposed to give each other space, that their intimacy is only shared if one allows. yoongi glances at him, then away.
“a hyung from service.”
“hyung,” jungkook repeats, the word tasting sour.
“what’s that face?”
“— it’s nothing.”
he pulls his hand back, clutching the fabric of his own pants. yoongi stares at him for a second too long before looking away. maybe they both have trouble navigating a space where there’s only the two of them. the other five would soften their edges, but now they’re raw and clashing. jungkook feels inadequate. he wants namjoon to be there, all of a sudden. his presence enough would help. he breathes out, moving slightly to fish out his phone, and he types the message fast, but his thumb hovers over the send button.
i want to go away, too.
namjoon won’t be able to see it, though. and when he does, it’d worry him— jungkook deletes the message, and he puts his phone away, crossing his arms tight against his chest, heart aching. the ache follows him home, just like yoongi does. they both follow him quietly, the ache and yoongi, wordlessly, close enough to touch but not touching. when the door closes and it’s only the two of them, jungkook almost wishes their manager followed, the driver, the porter. yoongi is familiar and jungkook knows him all too well, and yet being alone with him feels suddenly jarring. yoongi takes a few steps in, dragging the slippers on the floorboards, but he stops a few meters ahead, looking back at him. “— i thought you didn’t want to be alone.”
jungkook swallows, meeting his eyes. “why are you saying that?”
“you look like you hate me being here.”
“i don’t,” jungkook takes one step closer. he stalls, though, nervously. “i don’t hate you being here.”
if there’s anything else yoongi wants to say, he doesn’t. he only nods, and he looks over at the kitchen, and he shrugs. when their eyes meet again, yoongi’s are softer. “are you hungry? i can make you food.”
the ache subsides, at least a bit. jungkook almost smiles. “i’m starving.”
there’s enough food leftover in the fridge yoongi can whip something up, some sort of pasta with the perilla oil jungkook’s been using a lot again. they aren’t ones to eat overly spicy food, and yoongi’s careful with it, and the redness of the spicy sauce subsides as cream comes into the mix. it smells good. jungkook watches him the whole time, his hands, the way he pushes his sleeves up every other time, one time with his teeth. yoongi talks little when he’s focused, jungkook knows. he gets lost in whatever he’s doing, and aside from very mild-sounding sentences asking the location of kitchen utensils, nothing else is spoken between them. not until the food is ready and on a plate, steaming. it’s almost midnight, by the time they start eating. they don’t sit down at the table— yoongi has his hip against one counter, and jungkook sits up on it, his feet dangling. “i’m sorry if it’s a bit salty,” yoongi comments, frowning as he chews. jungkook shakes his head.
“it’s perfect.”
the compliment makes yoongi blush, jungkook can see it happen even in the dimmed white lights of his kitchen. “you’re not always this easy to please,” the sentence comes out with a huff.
“you made it for me,” jungkook offers, leaning to his left, touching his elbow to yoongi’s shoulder. “i like hyung’s cooking.”
only a hum follows, and the sound of chopsticks scraping against the porcelain of the plates. jungkook wants to say more— he should say more. his foot touches the side of yoongi’s tigh, just barely. the food makes him feel sleepy. “i liked your vcr,” yoongi starts, then, after some time, his plate empty. he puts it down. jungkook glances at him. “you grew up well if it’s easy to take off your clothes.”
that makes jungkook laugh. the vcr set was his idea; the layers of his clothes get slowly taken away, leaving him bare. not entirely, not his full body, just— enough. it’s his own self he strips, his own layers in a way, six of them if anyone’s counting. “it felt awkward filming in front of people,” he says, shrugging. “it’s easier on stage.”
“which layer am i?” yoongi looks up at him. jungkook’s heart skips. so he counted, and he understood. of course he did.
“the last,” and jungkook’s the one flushing, then, looking away. he clears his throat, picking up their empty plates, walking towards the sink. yoongi watches him. “— thank you for cooking.”
“you don’t have to thank me.”
“i do.”
“— alright,” yoongi sighs, looking away. “you should run yourself a bath, it’s late.”
jungkook’s hands drip inside the sink, and he bites the inside of his cheek, staring fixed to something he can’t quite see. it takes him a second to get out of it, his body warm. “do you want to take a bath with me?” he asks, then, turning to search for yoongi’s expression, to see if there’s any ounce of shame there. there isn’t. “you can make the water hot, i know you like it.”
“yeah,” yoongi mutters, after a second. “— yeah, i’ll start it.”
he watches as yoongi walks ahead, towards the innards of his house, knowing his way from too many nights spent there. jungkook puts the plates to dry before following, the silence of the rooms is quickly dispelled by the sound of running water. the door to his bathroom is open, the light and the sound dripping out. yoongi’s brushing his teeth. his pants are unbuttoned already. jungkook joins him.
when they first slept together, years before, they had been so drunk it felt almost surreal. sharing things so easily like that became difficult, they couldn’t talk to each other, yoongi would pull away whenever jungkook reached out. the pandemics is messing with our head, we’re just lonely, we shouldn’t be doing this at all, all the excuses kept coming out in a nervous stream, despite the fact that yoongi stayed over for days. jungkook eventually bought him a toothbrush, then another, then another. the excuses sometimes still come out. they both voice them. it doesn’t matter anyway. jungkook reaches out, then, touching the side of yoongi’s hips, fingers finding the skin under his shirt, tugging him closer. the scent of peppermint mixes with the sweetness of whatever yoongi has put in the tub. jungkook breathes in it, head feeling heavy. “i’m sleepy,” he comments, hugging yoongi entirely, pressing him against the sink.
“you performed for hours,” yoongi mumbles, seeming unaffected by the proximity, drying his hands. “go, the water is hot.”
“hyung, take off my layers.”
“you’re not wearing any,” that makes jungkook chuckle, and he nods, letting go. yoongi turns, his cheeks all red. “lift your arms,” his voice is soft. jungkook does so, staring at him while yoongi pulls his shirt off, as his hands tug the strings of jungkook’s sweatpants, pulling at the waistline. “— they’ll have to retouch it for tomorrow.”
he means the temporary tattoos over jungkook’s hipbones. he had wanted them to feel a bit sexy— a hint of something underneath, even if they don’t continue down further. “maybe i should get them for real.”
yoongi glances up, then away. his eyes blink rapidly, a very telling admission of his fluster. jungkook grins. “maybe,” he says, voice low. “water is running, we shouldn’t waste it.”
he takes his own clothes off so fast jungkook barely has time to think, and he watches yoongi’s back, his shoulder line, his ass, as he climbs in. the steam and the heat of the water makes his skin turn red immediately. it’s nice. jungkook takes off the remains of his clothes, too, leaving them to pile over yoongi’s. yoongi doesn’t meet his eyes as he sits down in the water. his tub isn’t that big, but it isn’t uncomfortably small either. their legs slot, skin resting against skin, and jungkook pokes yoongi’s side with his toe, getting splashed in return. the water is nice and hot, opaque with soap and bathing oils, but not enough jungkook can’t see yoongi’s body.
“— i won’t throw up tomorrow,” he starts, bringing back a safer topic. “i shouldn’t.”
“it’s okay to feel nervous,” yoongi offers, in his soft-spoken tone of voice, resting his head against the tiles behind him. “you’re human.”
“i know.”
“you did well,” yoongi yawns halfway through his sentence, and it makes jungkook’s cheeks hurt from smiling, his heart racing. “yah, don’t—“
“you’re always cute.”
“i am.” the smug tone in yoongi’s voice makes jungkook laugh. he raises his leg, ready to bother yoongi with his foot again, but yoongi reaches out, taking it, pressing his thumbs into his sole, right in the middle of it, where it feels painful and good at once. jungkook startles, holding back a gasp, eyes fluttering closed. “your feet must hurt,” yoongi comments, gently. “is it nice?”
“good, it’s good,” jungkook nods, tension leftover all seeping out of him until his body feels lax. “tingly.”
“is it?” yoongi huffs.
“yeah,” he sighs, drowsiness quickly building up. his eyes feel heavy, eyelids full of sand as he blinks, finding yoongi’s. “hyung,” he calls, the words barely there. “can we go to bed?”
“we haven’t even washed up,” yoongi lets go of him, then, letting his foot rest against his leg. “come on, i’ll wash you.”
“you’re spoiling me,” jungkook smiles, but he nods and he turns until he has his back to yoongi, and the water runs as yoongi washes his hair, shampooing gently, scratching at his scalp. he feels so touched-starved that it all seems too much. you’re all done, yoongi says at some point, and he kisses the side of jungkook’s neck as he does it, a strangely intimate gesture yoongi won’t often start. it flusters jungkook entirely. “— do you want me to wash yours?” he manages, weakly. the water is starting to get cold.
“no, you should go to bed, you’re tired,” the words are soft. “i’ll join in a minute.”
“— right.”
there’s no point in trying to stay— jungkook knows it’d only drive yoongi into a wall of overthinking. so he leaves, wrapped in a towel and a bathrobe, dripping on the heated floorboards until he’s dry enough for a shirt and briefs. there’s some hope he won’t need any. his bed is all too comfortable, though, and he groans against the sheets, sighing. his eyes can barely stay open. keep them open a bit longer, sex will be good, the slow chanting is stirred by yoongi’s phone ringing. it’s late now, late enough jungkook sits up, reaching for it. it doesn’t seem to be an emergency, no. it’s the same number from earlier. jungkook takes the call without thinking.
“yoongi,” the voice isn’t familiar, even though the friendly, casual tone implies it is to yoongi. “i thought you’d come drinking with us?”
the silence that follows feels awkward. “— i,” jungkook clears his throat. “hyung’s showering. yoongi-hyung.”
“ah,” there’s a pause. “who is this?”
“jeon jungkook “ there’s no use in lying. he’s already done the stupid thing. jungkook breathes out, glancing at the bathroom’s door left ajar. the water has stopped running, he thinks. he can’t tell. “i’ll let him know you called, ahjussi.”
he thinks he hears a huff, but jungkook’s too nervous to hear anything over the sound of his own heartbeat. he looks down at his hand, picking at the corner of a nail. “right, yeah. i’m sorry.”
the call is disconnected. jungkook puts the phone down as if it’s burning. he stares at it, frowning, feeling shame and hurt and jealousy, all terrible things he shouldn’t be allowed to feel. “were you using my phone?” yoongi’s voice startles him, and his head snaps up, his chest filling up with guilt.
your phone rang. i picked up, it could be an emergency. call them back. “no, i,” jungkook sighs. “i thought your phone was mine.”
“you have an iphone,” yoongi points out, shaking his head. he lets go of his towels, and jungkook watches him as he picks up something to wear. the conflict inside him gets worse until it soothes down, as yoongi dresses in his clothes, as he climbs onto bed somewhat lazily, like a cat. “i didn’t perform tonight, but i’m exhausted.”
“— did you have somewhere else to go?”
“no,” yoongi looks up at him, adjusting his pillow. his shirt rides up his stomach slightly, as he scratches skin. “i was going to go home after the concert.”
“why didn’t you?”
“you asked me to come here,” jungkook blinks, turning to meet yoongi’s eyes. “— i wanted to come, anyway.”
they look at each other for a second, until yoongi’s fingers touch jungkook’s, pressing over his knuckles, absentmindedly almost. jungkook is sleepy and confused but the touch is enough to quiet the oddity of navigating far too many feelings at once. he climbs over yoongi’s body, straddling his hips, pushing his hands above his head. yoongi lets him. he has a curious expression on his face, his eyes hooded. “how long has it been?”
there’s a pause before yoongi replies: “over a year,” then, softer: “we don’t have to have sex.”
“why not?”
“sleeping together is enough.”
jungkook lets go of him, sliding off his body, letting himself lay down. he stares up at the ceiling. “— i thought you’d want me,” he confesses, breathing out. yoongi moves, maybe looking at him. “are we just friends now?”
“jungkook—“
“it’s okay,” he sighs. “we spent time apart, anyway, it’s not—“
“you talk too much,” yoongi’s voice is sleepy and jungkook opens his mouth to complain but yoongi’s body presses onto him, and yoongi’s mouth feels hot and tasting of peppermint still, and jungkook’s breath stutters, and he holds onto yoongi’s waist, pulling his body close, in between his legs. it feels good, the weight of him, the kiss that feels so different, as if they’re both trying to prove something. “good,” yoongi pulls back, something of a grin on his face. “you shut up.”
“hyung, you sound hot,” jungkook giggles, his chest full of butterflies. “you should talk like that more often.”
yoongi’s eyes all soften, though, thawing too easily. “— i thought i knew you well enough.” jungkook flushes, but he doesn’t look away. “jungkook,” yoongi starts, gently. “not wanting to have sex doesn’t mean i don’t want you,” they stare at each other. “i just want you to rest.”
“do you want me?”
“i think everyone wants you,” yoongi huffs. he moves as if to pull away, but jungkook holds him down, still. “i can’t sleep on top of you.”
“hyung,” jungkook calls, but his voice is small and needy. he’s being childish with all his want, he knows. jungkook’s too aware of it, all the time, lately. not only with yoongi. yoongi sighs, and he touches their foreheads together, their noses brushing. “— i missed you when you were gone.”
the day was still fresh in memory— yoongi’s eyes had been rather opaque, his usual light mood dampen. he looked like a rainy day, even though the sun was making it difficult for them to manage a picture together. they took turns, they said awkward but warm goodbyes, and when it came to jungkook’s, yoongi had raised his hand, scratching at his scalp, just behind his ear. jungkook could still taste him from the night before, could still feel the warmth of him, the shape of yoongi’s body against him. he felt like crying, then, because that was all yoongi gave him. a pat, a smile that didn’t reach his eyes, and then he was turning and going into the building without a glance back. jungkook felt like throwing up.
the yoongi in the present, hair slightly grown, doesn’t say anything. jungkook wonders if he feels regret— regret they ever slept together, regret they kept doing it, regret that he allowed jungkook to tend to a garden of feelings he didn’t know possible before. it makes the air in his lungs feel like cement. “i’m sorry.” the words mean something else, jungkook knows. they mean i don’t love you the way you love me, they mean we can’t be, they mean i’m going to leave again. “you should rest, it’s late.”
“stop saying that,” but those words also mean something else. jungkook lets go, then, and yoongi moves away, to the side of the bed that is cold. he sits up, placing his feet on the warm floorboards, head aching. “i’ll sleep in the living room,” jungkook mutters, hurt, bleeding out, he doesn’t know. maybe if he looks down he’ll see his insides coming out, all red. it hurts.
“jungkook, don’t,” yoongi says, fingers curling on the back of his shirt, holding him back. “don’t.”
“then you go.”
the coldness of his own words bothers him, but jungkook doesn’t take them back. yoongi lets go, then, after a second. the bed creaks when he leaves it, complaining. with the corner of his eye, jungkook sees him standing by the door. the room isn’t lit up well enough jungkook can tell what his expression is like. “you did well today, and you’ll do well tomorrow,” yoongi tells him, his voice that low rumble jungkook’s all too familiar with. “don’t be scared.”
he doesn’t know what to say, so jungkook only turns to look at yoongi, but their eyes don’t meet as yoongi’s already leaving, and he’s holding his clothes, and he doesn’t glance back, he never does. jungkook’s too late to follow. by the time he musters the courage to leave the bed himself, there’s nothing left of yoongi— not even a note, this time, no leftovers of his presence. jungkook stands in the too-big living room, filled with shame and guilt and love, and he swallows everything down, tasting sour at the back of his throat. then, he cries.
/
start of transcript
[interviewer] what kind of song is ‘dyslexia’?
[jeon jungkook] i wrote it as a love song, but it’s not supposed to be understood as one.
[interviewer] is that why you chose to title it like that?
[jeon jungkook] yes.
[interviewer] that’s clever [laughs] this is the first time you release a self-written and self-produced song on your own, so why a love song?
[jeon jungkook] i think love is difficult and i don’t understand it properly, so i wanted to try to pick on it, dissect it.
[interviewer] that’s a strange combination of words.
[jeon jungkook] yes. [chuckles] as strange as i feel love is.
[interviewer] did any of the members listen to the song prior to release?
[long pause] [jeon jungkook] they’re busy with service, i didn’t feel like i could bother them.
[interviewer] not even yoongi-ssi? he finished his service early.
[jeon jungkook] no, he didn’t listen to it before it was released.
end of transcript
dyslexia is a strange thing, too. jungkook stares at the words he means to read and some of them make little sense, and then he lifts his eyes to see yoongi standing there, and it makes little sense, too. the radio show is almost over. the music is playing on his headphones, the camera is still on him. yoongi raises a hand, waving from behind the soundproofed glass. jungkook thinks he’s imagining outcomes that aren’t true. a tap to his shoulder startles him. “— since it’s the first time ‘dyslexia’ is playing out, we thought we’d get yoongi-ssi to listen to it,” the host smiles at him, her face familiar and pretty, the fine lines on her eyes only making her expression softer. a former idol, she was, a once-someone. jungkook wonders if it hurts. “we thought of it as a surprise.”
“yeah,” jungkook swallows, bowing his head. “— thanks, noona, i—,” he smiles, too, but his is different. “i appreciate it.”
they bring yoongi in, then, and jungkook knows the audio is muted despite the cameras being on, and he knows there are thousands of people watching as they meet on camera for the first time in a couple of years, and it’s the first time they meet again in person since the argument, months before. jungkook went on to do the asian leg of his tour, yoongi— yoongi stood still, working with other people, as unwieldy as jungkook himself. his eyes have no hurt in them, though. yoongi reaches out, touching jungkook’s hair before patting his shoulder. they sit down.
in the mess of that recording booth, the crew adjust their mics, make up artists adjust their hair, and there’s a cacophony of conversation that muffles yoongi’s voice when he speaks, finally: “— have you been doing alright?”
“why are you speaking formally?” jungkook notices, glancing his way. yoongi blinks, then swallows. he repeats his question, softer endings now. “i’ve been alright.”
“you’re speaking formally, too.”
“I guess,” jungkook huffs, and his head hurts. he wants to leave. “why didn’t you tell me you were coming here?”
“noona asked for a surprise.”
“you’ll hate it,” they look at each other, now. “the song.”
a small thing of a frown knits yoongi’s eyebrows, and he snorts, as if jungkook had said something amusing. “you’re one of the most talented people I’ve ever met,” yoongi pauses, shaking his head. “there’s nothing you can do that I’ll dislike it.”
“— yes, there is.”
“no, there isn’t.”
maybe is his tone, or the way his voice raises just slightly, or his expression— a few people turn their way, glances are shared, and one of their managers walk closer, tapping yoongi’s shoulder, a fair reminder that they’re not alone and shouldn’t be arguing on a live show. jungkook’s cheeks are burning. there’s no time to let the awkwardness settle, whatever song that has been playing ends and the host opens the segment again and jungkook barely has the time to brace for a crash that only happens inside his chest. “ah, our fans watching at home can already see our mystery guest, but please introduce yourself,” her voice is sunny. this time around it doesn’t reach her eyes. she took notice of the way they’re sitting, and not looking at each other, stiffly, maybe too stiffly. again, former idol. she’d know.
“hello to everyone watching, this is min suga,” yoongi says gently, the low timbre of his voice sounding clear in jungkook’s headset. “it’s been a while.”
start of transcript
[interviewer] have you listened to ‘dyslexia’ before?
[min yoongi] no, i— our jungkook has been busy, and i’ve been travelling. there hasn’t been a lot of time.
[interviewer] jungkook-ssi looks nervous.
[jeon jungkook] [chuckles] i am. i am always nervous when the members listen to my solo songs.
[interviewer] we hear from a source that suga-ssi is straight-forward, but softer when it comes to you.
[min yoongi] [laughs] what source is that?
[jeon jungkook] hyung’s soft all the time, but he takes music seriously— so i think he’d let me know if the song isn’t good enough. [pause] you would.
[min yoongi] everything you do is good enough for me.
[interviewer] [a long woot] waah, suga-ssi! that sounded like a line in a drama.
[min yoongi] i’ve known jungkook long enough i can praise him like that.
[interviewer] for our listeners who cannot see our live streaming right now, let it be known that our jungkook-ssi is currently red-coloured.
[jeon jungkook] noona, let’s— let’s listen to the album* .[t/n: he misspoke here, but cutely]
[min yoongi] i’m curious.
[interviewer] is it midnight already? [a pause] it will be in a few seconds, and then you will get to listen to the global release of ‘dyslexia’ with suga-ssi for the first time—
end of transcript
dyslexia (english translation)
written by jungkook, prod. by jungkook
[chorus]
i forgot how to spell the word you
if i try it becomes mine and ours and then just me
the wrongdoings pile up like a crooked alphabet
why is the love i feel dyslexic
the car smells like the electronic cigarette jungkook nervously drags from. they left the radio station building together, despite not voicing anything out, it just happened— yoongi glanced his way, holding the key to his car. jungkook nodded, then muttered something he can barely recall to their manager. i’m going home with hyung, we’re going for a drive, we’ll be fine. something of the sorts. it’s almost two now, but seoul truly never stops. the scent of nearby food stalls crawls in through the open moonroof of yoongi’s car, alongside the chilled breeze. smoke spirals, strawberry-flavoured. jungkook looks up, at the square lights of too-tall buildings, wondering if they can see them all the way down, small and hidden behind tinted windows, parked lazily against the curb. “is that any good?” yoongi asks, then, and jungkook looks at him, exhaling.
“— i like it,” jungkook shrugs. “you always smoked,” he adds, because jungkook isn’t certain he can manage a conversation without hurting yoongi anymore. his chest feels compressed against the seat. he clicks his seatbelt off. then, quietly, offering: “you can take a drag.”
it surprises him that yoongi does so. it’s nice, the smoke curling as it comes out of him, turning jungkook’s vision hazy. “it tastes like you,” yoongi huffs, and it makes his cough. jungkook flushes. “sweet.”
“do you like it?”
yoongi meets his eyes, then looks away, down at his hands, turning the cigarette in his fingers. “your taste?”
“no, the— the cigarette.”
it takes him a moment to reply. “it’s convenient.” jungkook scoffs, nodding. he takes it back, taking another drag just to do something else that isn’t staring at yoongi’s fingers, or his profile, or his hair. it grows fast, faster than his own. “when did you write that song?”
he knew the conversation would find it, at some point, the song. jungkook shrinks on his seat just like a child that is getting scolded. he closes his eyes, exhaling slowly, letting the smoke replace the heavy weight of whatever’s inside him instead, even if only for a second. then, when the silence is too big for that car, jungkook shrugs, digging nails against his palm. “when everyone was away,” he manages. “just before you came back.”
“i wasn’t lying when i said i liked it,” yoongi tells him. “it’s a very good song.”
“but?”
yoongi shakes his head. “i just wished you’d talk to me about the things you feel.”
“i do.”
“no, you don’t.”
it’s that tone again, the same inflection to his words, the same mild anger. jungkook doesn’t shrink away from it this time. he stares at yoongi, his own misplaced anger boiling to the point of ebullition. “i don’t have to tell you everything all the time,” jungkook’s aware he’s speaking out of bounds. they’re friends, they’ve been friends for over a decade, they’ve slept together— the least he could offer is conversation. but he can’t help it. all his syllables come up accusatory. “you don’t even want to hear the things i have to say, hyung.”
“that’s not true,” yoongi looks hurt. he raises his hands, holding the wheel tight enough his knuckles turn white. then he relaxes, breathing out slowly. “— i’ve learned that it is better to say things than to bottle them and i feel like you’ve been bottling things since,” a vague gesture follows. “a while.”
“i’m not the only one,” jungkook looks at him. “you think it was a mistake sleeping together.”
“it was because we were drunk, not because i didn’t— i didn’t regret it, i regretted we were drunk.” yoongi’s cheeks get slightly red, and he sniffs, touching his nose, the kind of nervous habit jungkook’s all too aware of. when yoongi speaks again, he breaks into a low, amused chuckle: “you threw up on the bed, it was messy.”
jungkook can’t help it— his lips curl, and he scoffs, air coming out of his nose. he doesn’t remember throwing up, but he remembers waking up on a naked mattress, the sheets bundled together at a corner. they did laundry together, then, pretending nothing had happened, ignoring the fact they woke up tangled, sweaty and smelling of each other. “it wouldn’t have happened if we weren’t drunk and lonely,” jungkook says, though, sighing. “we would just be friends.”
“you sound like you’re the one who regrets it.”
“i don’t.”
“jungkook,” yoongi calls. their eyes meet again, and jungkook doesn’t look away, he can’t. “tell me the things you feel, all of them, good and bad.”
“only if you tell me, too.”
“— i will.”
(
seoul, 4:30 a.m., june, 2020
there’s a silence that has never been there before. not an inside silence— even though the apartment is quiet— it’s an outside silence. a stillness in the fabric of the city outside the windows. it’s summer, but no one’s out. a fan helps the overworked air conditioner spread cold air about him, and jungkook sighs heavily, chin resting on his arms, feeling the breeze seep underneath his shirt every time the fan turns his way. even the white noise seems all too quiet. jungkook feels for a second there that he’s the only person left on the planet, a single human left behind in the chaos. he cannot physically see the chaos, but he knows it’s there, in the city, eating up all of their lives. the beep of the door makes him turn, though, eyebrows lifting. yoongi’s carry-on bag makes a sound, too, but he misses it. jungkook sits up. “i thought you’d be with your parents for a while.”
“no,” yoongi goes through the now-normal-still-strange rituals at the front door. he smells heavily of alcohol and hospital corridors once he steps in, finally, leaving the carry-on behind, and his mask in the trash bin. “flights are a mess, the trains aren’t better. we were waiting in the van for hours. the company thinks it’s better if i stayed.”
“how is it outside?”
it’s an odd question. jungkook’s world has always been outside— outside, across oceans, in airplanes, in vans, outside on stages, outside where people would wait for hours to hear them sing. then the world got smaller, and smaller, and smaller. an apartment in seoul, nothing else. he’s been inside for two full months now, mostly alone. “warm,” yoongi shrugs, then he raises his eyes at jungkook, tugging at his shirt. “can i put my clothes to wash?”
“you live here, hyung,” jungkook manages, huffing. “put your clothes to wash.”
there’s a vague way in which yoongi nods, pulling off his t-shirt before walking ahead. jungkook stares at him, at the curve of his back, his shoulder blades. it hits him that he’s staring at yoongi differently, suddenly, and it comes out of nowhere, the thoughts, and they make him frown and blink and cough. he scoffs, pressing his palms against his face, feeling them sweaty. when yoongi walks back, jungkook only sees glimpses of him through the crack of his fingers. maybe the world ending shifted his perspective on the people he lives with. maybe cabin fever and the collapse of life as he knew it left him too aware of curves and gestures and skin blemishes and shapes. jungkook doesn’t let himself think much. yoongi’s gone for enough time jungkook starts settling back to reality. “you’re up late,” his voice is low, and yoongi’s dressed, now, in the same clothes jungkook has seen a thousand times. his hair is damp, making the grey-ish strands look darker. the towel around his neck is damp.
“i get lost in time.”
a small smile curls yoongi slips. “yeah, i know.”
“i thought you’d stay at your apartment, not here,” jungkook mutters, as yoongi approaches him, sitting close. “it’s been weeks since I saw anyone else.”
“i asked to come home,” yoongi shrugs. he starts drying his hair. “i didn’t feel like being alone.”
“it’s not that bad,” they look at each other, and jungkook shrugs, too. “i’m getting a lot of sleep. and hyung leaves groceries every other day.”
“did you eat already?”
“a few hours ago.”
“do you want me to make you something?”
jungkook’s not even hungry, but he nods, because he enjoys watching yoongi cook for them, enjoys the way he gets lost in whatever is it that he’s doing, focused. it’s only packaged ramyeon, in the end, but jungkook’s grateful nonetheless. eating with someone else and not only his own reflection in the mirrored wall— it feels good. they share a couple of bottles of beer, and once everything is washed they move to soju, and they have never been ones to talk much when alone so sitting together in their familiar quietness seems enough. the living room starts changing colours around five. jungkook looks outside, at the less bleak colours that start staining the horizon. it doesn’t matter that the sun will rise, anyway. the world remains still. “this one is new,” yoongi comments, beside him, and jungkook startles slightly as fingers trace the ink on his arm. he had barely noticed the bottles of soju accumulating— there’s six of them now, all empty, and yoongi’s voice slurs at the edges.
“i need to get them done again,” jungkook says, sleepy and hazy and messy inside. he stares too long at yoongi’s fingers on him. it makes him feel hot in a way he hasn’t felt before. “i didn’t like all of them.”
“no?” yoongi hums, and he presses his fingers in the middle of jungkook’s palm, absent-mindedly maybe. jungkook swallows. “your hands are sweaty.”
“it’s hot,” jungkook manages. “— do you want to open another bottle?”
it’s only a heartbeat before yoongi says it: “yes.”
by the time the seventh bottle is up, they’re spread on the cold stone of their flooring, and the colours have changed to a warmer yellow on the walls. the wine fridge beeps, the washing machine has stopped its cycle already. yoongi has his fingers drafted against jungkook’s hair, scratching at his scalp. jungkook’s eyes feel heavy. “the room is spinning,” he chuckles, staring up at the ceiling. “do you feel it?”
“you’re drunk,” yoongi huffs. “it’s not spinning, it’s swaying.”
“yah, hyung— you sound drunk, too.”
“i’m not,” and yoongi pulls his hand back, and he groans as he sits up. jungkook stares at him, just for a bit, then he reaches out, touching just where yoongi’s shirt is lifted, brushing his fingers upwards, over his spine. yoongi jolts, and he makes a sound like a hum. “i like that,” he says with a sigh. jungkook has seen drunk yoongi before, he’s seen how he gets softer than what he usually is, his smile coming out easier. jungkook tugs on his shirt.
“take it off,” he asks, softly. “i’ll do it.”
he thinks for a second that yoongi will say no, that he will laugh it off— he doesn’t. he pulls his shirt off, instead, tossing it over jungkook’s head, making him chuckle. jungkook sits up, sliding his legs to the side of yoongi’s body, pressing his hands at the small of his back, thumbing the muscles there. yoongi breathes out. it comes out stuttery. it’s not something he hasn’t done before, it’s not something it hasn’t been done to him, either. it feels different. maybe it’s the alcohol lenses giving everything a redder hue, but jungkook feels hot, and slow, and he enjoys the feel of yoongi’s body, pressing against him, feeling his ribs and the stiffness of his muscles. yoongi’s breath has long gone shallow, hands resting against jungkook’s thighs, thumbs rubbing circles. everything feels blurry and all too intimate. more intimate than the intimacy they already share. the lover kind. when jungkook touches his mouth to the nape of yoongi’s neck, he feels the hands holding onto him grab tighter. “jungkook,” his name is called in a breathy way. yoongi doesn’t say anything else, though, his head tilting slightly, giving jungkook room. jungkook’s hands slide around his sides, over his chest. yoongi shivers.
there’s a small portion of his mind that understands what they’re doing shouldn’t be happening— not drunk, not close to six in the morning, not in the living room of their apartment. but jungkook’s too far gone to stop, now. he feels the weight of yoongi’s body against him as he rubs over nipples, and yoongi squirms just lightly, head falling back against jungkook’s shoulder. if there’s a portion in yoongi’s brain that is also questioning it, it’s the weakest one. he only breathes as jungkook’s hand presses over his stomach, and down, over the fabric of his pants. jungkook closes his eyes, suddenly embarrassed. he knows yoongi, his body. but he doesn’t, not like this. his head spins, the room does, too. “hyung, i—,” yoongi’s hand touches over his own, needy, maybe, keeping it there. they’re both too far gone now, past any points of return they could have had. jungkook bites his shoulder. “do you want to have sex?”
it’s only a heartbeat before yoongi says it: “yes.”
jungkook’s bed is unmade, he hasn’t made it in weeks. the sheets are clean, at least, and they aren't as coarse as the stone flooring as they lay down. for some reason, it feels more real in bed. yoongi leans over him, staring. jungkook swallows. “i haven’t done it with a guy,” he says, quietly. “not all the way.”
“are we doing it all the way?”
“yes,” he doesn’t think when he says it. yoongi flushes. “— i’m drunk, it’s— it’s easier like this.” jungkook feels heavy, all heavy, but he manages to lift his head, just enough their noses touch, and it’s the closest he’s ever been to yoongi. yoongi’s lips open, and they brush against jungkook’s, wetter, less chapped. kissing is odd at first. it’s tentative, and careful, and jungkook frowns throughout, trying to understand how yoongi works, what he likes. when they pull apart, yoongi’s eyes are wide. jungkook lays down again, and he huffs out a laugh. “hyung, you look stunned.”
“i just kissed you,” the words are small. “i am stunned.”
“do it again.” )
/
the bed in his room isn’t unmade, but jungkook wishes it was, as it’d be easier to tug off the sheets. his hands grab about them, though, as his pants are pulled down in a manner less gentler than yoongi usually is. his shirt is only unbuttoned halfway. jungkook watches yoongi’s expression, the way he looks down at him. “we’re not drunk,” he says, then. it was their variable. alcohol, loneliness, a dark room. it’s how they coped, and then later, when the chaos settled, how they met halfway. drunk, and needy, so late at night it’s barely night anymore.
“no, we’re not,” yoongi agrees. he touches the insides of jungkook’s thighs, nails scraping skin. it feels good. “— tell me again, what you said in the car.”
jungkook looks away, feeling himself grow hot. “i’m in love,” he voices, heart beating loudly in his ears. “i fell in love.” yoongi’s staring at him when he finds his eyes again. “you said you’d tell me how you feel and you haven’t yet. we just drove off.”
“i feel gutted,” yoongi tells him, softly. “i love you and i love you and i don’t know how to do both without fucking it up.”
he blinks, breath getting caught in his throat. “you love me?”
“i’m sorry if i made it hard to see, it took me a while, too.”
“and— that other person,” jungkook tries. his whole chest aches, burning up inside. “from service, he—”
“he’s,” yoongi sits back, shaking his head. “he was a mistake.”
jungkook knows how that feels like. he’s been there, searching for things in other people, things he hasn’t been able to find in anyone else but one (and sometimes other five, too). he sits up, too. they look dishevelled, both of them, shirts tugged, unbuttoned, hair messy. the blowjob yoongi gave him in the car left stains on his shirt. “what do we do with it now?” he can’t help but ask. their reality isn’t that different from that one in 2020. years have passed, some slower, some fast, and they circled back into those same empty apartments, and while the front door rituals have almost all been replaced, the loneliness hasn’t. jungkook hates it. “— i have to go soon, and you’ll—”
“i’ll wait,” yoongi smiles at him, lifting his hand, patting his hair the same way he did on his entrance day. “it’s only a couple of years.”
“it’ll hurt,” he says. “being alone again.”
“you won’t be alone,” his hand is taken, and yoongi tugs on it, until their heads touch, their noses. “you can go out sometimes,” jungkook smiles at the touch on the back of his neck. “i’ll be here.”
it’s different, sex without alcohol. it’s oddly slow, jungkook thinks, pushed against the mattress, legs spread, yoongi in between them. he feels more of everything— the way their skin brush, yoongi’s harsh breathing, the burning down his stomach, the pressure of fingers on him, of nails. it’s languid in a way, and searing hot, and jungkook moans, holding yoongi’s waist to keep him from stopping. “hyung,” he calls, after a while, the word in itself coming out whiny. yoongi raises his head, their hips stopping. jungkook’s toes curl. his mind feels hazy. maybe he is drunk. “— take off,” he asks, blinking slowly. “the condom.”
“— are you sure?”
“yeah, i trust you,” jungkook swallows, tossing an arm over his head. his throat aches. he feels when yoongi pulls out, the sensation dizzying in a way. “ah—,” the careful way yoongi adjusts himself against him leaves his chest aching. “it feels good like this.”
“it does,” yoongi’s voice sounds laboured. he lets his head rest against jungkook’s chest, breathing heavily. “i won’t last like this.”
it doesn’t matter, neither lasts long, anyway, and it doesn’t matter, because lasting or not lasting doesn’t truly make them stop, and jungkook feels himself getting all too inebriated with the salty taste in yoongi’s mouth, and the gentle way they move, the neck kisses, the words muttered when something feels too much. it’s sex, but it’s spelled differently, or maybe he’s never learned how it was supposed to be written in the first place. yoongi kisses the side of his forehead, pushing his hair behind his ear, and jungkook’s still heaving, feeling sticky inside and out, feeling drained. “i can’t go again,” he mutters, breathy. yoongi chuckles, bringing him closer, and he’s still inside, their legs tangled. the sheets feel damp. “— my ass hurts.”
“yah, jungkook-ssi, don’t say that,” yoongi’s chuckle turns into laughter, and he gives jungkook’s buttcheek too soft of a pat. “you should have more stamina then i do.”
“i do, just not now,” jungkook grins. “i’m sleepy.”
“i’ll run you a bath.”
“thank you.”
another soft kiss is placed on his forehead, and yoongi pulls out, leaving him a towel before walking out of the bed towards the bathroom. jungkook watches him go, and it’s not the first time he’s done so, but it’s the first time he watches yoongi with the certainty he’ll turn and look at him. he does, by the threshold, his cheeks flushing. they smile at each other, and yoongi looks away, shaking his head, disappearing into the bathroom. his feet make sound against the tiles. the water starts running. jungkook sniffles, eyes getting wet. he’s still smiling.
translation from Vogue Japan, january 2020
when jeon jungkook is asked about the kind of love he hopes to feel one day, he doesn’t reply right away. for a second, i think our video call is frozen, but his voice comes out, softer than before, as if he’s in thought. i think i’ll have a hard time knowing love in a pure form, because i think love is in the little things, he replies, then, at the mighty age of twenty-two, almost twenty-three. it’s running a bath after a long day, and making them food. i think that’s love, in my head. it sounds so genuine, that i find myself stopping in thought. it’s not the first time a member of BTS has left me with food for thought, especially with all the conversation i’ve had with leader RM. their youngest seems to hit a very poignant point inside of me, though— maybe i didn’t see love before, as well, maybe i’ve missed it.
here’s hoping you won’t, jungkook.