"It'd be hard to forgive you if you ever stopped," Jungkook threatens, though his tone is playful. The truth is, he's watched Yoongi enough times while he's composing to know that sometimes, Yoongi needs a break from it all. Being creative may be its own form of release, but it's also exhausting at best — the penance for breathing life into art, for drawing music out of worn wooden keys. Jungkook would never want to saddle Yoongi with the burden of churning music out on demand.

But more often, Jungkook thinks the problem lies in Yoongi's struggle to see his own music as worthy. It's easy to think it lesser than the great compositions of centuries past — that it pales in comparison to the savants, the Mozarts and the Chopins of the world.

It's true that Jungkook feels every swell of emotion from Chopin's nocturnes and Beethoven's sonatas, but he likens that to being touched by poetry. His own thoughts aren't nearly so well-formed. In that respect, the melodies that Yoongi draws from the keys when he thinks no one's listening, those are the most honest, the most raw. Jungkook plays those songs over and over in his head, lines and measures repeated as he leans in, both hands settling on Yoongi's hips as he catches that exhale, breathing Yoongi in.

"I love you," Jungkook murmurs, nudging Yoongi's nose with his own, squeezing Yoongi's sides underneath his palms, skin dragging against skin. "You make me love being alive. Min Yoongi. Love of my life."