It hurts a little, if Yoongi's honest with himself, to know that Jungkook has the same problem he does. On nights when they're apart, or back before they were together at all, he could barely sleep for thinking, too much running through his head. It leaves him cracked open, emptied out, his heart aching, stomach twisted, until he can hardly breathe. The thoughts sweep over him so fast, he can't stop them, drowning under their dark weight. All that pain and loss and regret, all that fear that the future only holds more of the same, that he's as worthless as his father seems to think, it's like the only thing that can contain it is the gentle weight of Jungkook's arms around him. And as much as he likes knowing he can provide the same comfort for Jungkook, he hates knowing it's needed. There isn't anything Yoongi wouldn't do to protect Jungkook, even from his own mind.

He kisses Jungkook's cheek, hips shifting instinctively closer at the soft brush of Jungkook's hand. "Yeah," he breathes. He likes being on top; he doesn't know how anyone could ever get enough of fucking Jungkook, though, then again, no one else ever will. (They're young, people break up, he gets that. Not them.) But the idea of Jungkook hovering over him, pressing inside of him, filling him up — it gets under his skin, cock twitching with faint interest between them. "Eventually. Really want that."