lovestrippedbare | 𝕞𝕠𝕕𝕦𝕝𝕒𝕥𝕚𝕠𝕟

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yoongi

𝕞𝕠𝕕𝕦𝕝𝕒𝕥𝕚𝕠𝕟

The last time Jungkook had touched the keys of a piano was well over a year ago. Pianos were temperamental instruments, in a way. Even if the strings were perfectly tuned, the music would not come without the right touch; a piano would easily reject anyone who abused its keys, rough and tinny to the ear.

For months, Jungkook had pleaded with the little piano in the back of their classroom, stumbling over chords and measures that were once so familiar. He knew he was pressing all of the correct keys in the right time, in the right order, but there was a certain dissonance to the sound, vibration cutting deep into the jaw. But never once did Jungkook lose patience with the instrument; it wasn't the piano's fault, after all. Day after day, he carefully shut the lid. Week after week, he would wipe away the dust which had settled over the weekend.

In many ways, the piano and Yoongi were one. Inseparable. And so Jungkook felt that he could not leave it, not over the summer, not even when his absences became obvious to the teacher, and the classroom the first place they would search.

He had come on his birthday, the bench creaking slightly under his weight, though he could not bring himself to touch the keys that day. Instead, he waited until the last stream of light failed to stream through the dirty panes of glass.

But the last time was after that, when Jungkook had worn his teacher's patience too thin. The first hit knocked him to the ground. And finally, the second hit landed, as it should have all those months ago. A third, a fourth — just as Jungkook had always suspected, not a single one hurt.

I was right. You shouldn't have protected me. And where are you now?

The last time was over a year ago, and now Jungkook stands in front of a small music store, staring at the silhouette of a piano tucked away in the back. Years ago, they had talked about visiting a shop. Talked about making the rounds to hear each piano's unique tone, talked about finally getting a chance to feel what it was like to press the keys of a grand. How they would be dressed up, but only a touch more than usual — showing their aspirations without getting ahead of themselves.

They never made it.

It's been years, long enough that there are days when Jungkook almost forgets. Days when he wakes up, and all that lies in wait is the monotony of his alarm's buzzing, the ache of his shoulders as he hefts his backpack. But then, his thumb brushes against the band still worn around his pinky finger.

There are days when Jungkook almost forgets, but most days are more of a mix between fear and anger, different shades of grief that all leave Jungkook struggling to breathe. What drove him away from the piano was guilt, but what keeps him from coming back is the growing sense of futility.

He can't visit his father's grave for fear that Yoongi might be waiting there too.

Anger wins today's tug of war when Jungkook's gaze drops, finding a rock by the sidewalk — or maybe it's a piece of concrete from all the construction in the area, Jungkook isn't sure and he doesn't care. All he knows is that the surface is rough, digging against his palm as he picks it up, tossing it a couple of times in the air before throwing all his force into a throw.

The glass cracks, and then it shatters, spilling across the pavement and glittering under the streetlights. (Jungkook remembers — splintered glass, bright green; Taehyung wasn't aiming at the street, not really.)

Eventually, when the tinny alarm doesn't draw any flashing lights or police sirens, Jungkook climbs over the window's ledge. Walks towards the back of the store and lets his hands act for him — gripping the familiar edge of a piano bench, the legs shuddering as they drag against the carpet. Even now, he lifts the lid carefully, exposing polished lengths of black and white; his fingers stop trembling the moment the tips rest against the keys.

This time, when Jungkook pleads with the piano, it answers. Soft and solemn, Jungkook leans in, eyes sliding to a close as he seeks out the melody, plaintive treble keys bright against the reassurance of the bass' rolling chords. Pathétique leads Jungkook with its steady rhythm, serene until it's suddenly not — until it chases after bright optimism, and Jungkook's fingers stumble.

And he can't continue.

It's the first time that he strikes the piano without precision, standing suddenly from the bench as his palm slams down, fingers stretching over the octave, notes clashing into noise.

Regret spills forth immediately, breath punched from Jungkook's lungs as he sits back down, the bench letting out a low groan under his weight.

"I'm sorry," he whispers, sniffing and letting out a slow exhale. "You didn't deserve..."

He tries again from the top, but this playthrough lacks any of the calm from the first, fingers getting ahead of Jungkook's mind, falling into muscle memory. But muscle memory captures so much more than the perfect performances — it also takes every repeated mistake and etches it into the brain, taking it from misstep to flaw.

Jungkook flinches when he hits the wrong key, chord still pressed in his left hand.

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Some nights are easier than others. Yoongi sits in his cheap room and reads whatever he can get his hands on and he can breathe.

The thoughts are never far away, though, even when he's immersed in a book.

Some nights are easier. This isn't one of them.

He doesn't know where he's going, only wandering, hoping the chill night air might calm him. Or, perhaps more correctly, hoping it will numb him further, take him from restless misery into a steady ache he can almost pretend away. He's wound up down here several times now, walking through the construction site, finding his way to the music shop where he only stares through the window now. They're closed at this hour, but that doesn't change anything. He wouldn't play if he were in there anyway.

There are people scattered across the construction site and a fire burning in a trash can. He steps close to it, lost as he stares into the flames. How many times now has he wondered? He used to frighten himself, thinking of how she must have suffered. Now it's the temptation that scares him.

He's so distracted, he doesn't notice the oncoming car until it skims past him, almost close enough to touch, horn honking loudly even as the car disappears into the night. The fire flickers, but doesn't die.

But in the following quiet, punctuated by the pops and crackles of burning paper, he hears something, his heart seizing tight in his chest with recognition even before he knows what he's hearing. He's played this tune hundreds of times, first with his own hands, now on the little jewelry box Jungkook gave him for his birthday -- two years ago now. Time has felt so impossibly slow, but the days have passed so quickly.

He moves toward it before he can think better of it, picking up his pace when the music stops, frightened, though he's not sure why. Then there's the slam of a hand against the keys, and he thinks it might be over, they might be gone. Still he presses on, and when he stops at the window of the music store, he's not surprised, only scared.

Because of course Jungkook is here. Of course he's playing the song they were playing the day they first kissed, first confessed their love. Somehow it only surprises Yoongi that they didn't find each other sooner. Still, he wavers, watching quietly through the window, hungrily taking in the sight of the boy he loves. Time hasn't done anything to change that. He doubts anything ever could.

It's for that reason that he nearly leaves. Because the fear is suddenly too strong, the voice too loud. Jungkook deserves better. Yoongi has nothing to offer him, nothing but his love, which feels at once entirely encompassing and too small a thing to give when he's only shown it by running away. He doesn't have the strength to be what Jungkook deserves, has nothing to show for his time spent away from home. He left hoping to make a life for them, and now he's this, thinner and more frightened. He can't be the support Jungkook should have.

So he starts to turn away, but it hurts, it hurts, every inch of him aching, longing. To see him again after so long and to leave -- maybe it's the right thing to do, but he can't. Before he can think better of it, he's opening the door, glass crunching beneath his shoes as he enters.

He barely speaks anymore; there's no one for him to talk to. Face with the possibility now, he finds he has no words at all, his throat too tight for any to pass even if he could think of some. So he just stands there, heart racing, hoping and terrified that he might be dreaming.

A crack and crunch of glass, and Jungkook's fingers lift right off the keys — an abrupt end that leaves only the high wailing of the store's alarm. He almost forgot that it was there, immersed as he was in the music, but now Jungkook's lips twitch. Someone stepping into the store can only mean a couple of things — either someone's here to catch him, throw him behind bars for trespassing, or it's someone taking advantage of another person's delinquency.

Either way, there's a fight waiting for him, and it's the only thing right now against which Jungkook finds purchase. A spark that sends the earlier blaze roaring again, his jaw set as he stands. He can feel them, the stiff trails down his cheeks from where the tears have dried, and it only fuels the wry laugh forming in his throat. Jungkook stands, fingertips grazing along the edge of the keys, an apology for all that this piano has had to bear in one night.

But when he looks up, it's the impossible that Jungkook finds. His breath stills, heart leaping to his throat and chest crumpling in its wake.

And all Jungkook can think is: he looks thinner.

"...hyung."

Edited 2019-03-16 04:24 (UTC)

Yoongi doesn't want this. Doesn't want the responsibility, he tells himself, but what he knows he really means is he doesn't want the pain. He's the one who left. If Jungkook moved on, then that's on Yoongi, too. He still believes in their love, but that doesn't mean Jungkook does. That single word is so full of feeling, but there's distance there, too, and it's that which brings tears to Yoongi's eyes immediately.

He sets his jaw in turn, willing himself to stop, but it's hard to stop anything when his heart hurts like this, when his hands are shaking. All he's wanted for two years is this, the moment when they're brought back together at last; to be back in Jungkook's arms, where he belongs.

Except that, even in this dim, red light, he can see the ways in which Jungkook has changed -- how he's grown taller, but thinner, too, leaner, still handsome but with a certain hollowness that makes Yoongi ache. He wants so badly just to reach out. Instead, he hides his hands in the pockets of his hoodie to hide the way they tremble. This isn't how he imagined things going. It was always utter bliss, in his mind, or devastation, not this pained distance.

"Hi," he says, hardly more than a whisper. He barely speaks to anyone these days. He doesn't know what to say to anyone. There was a time he thought he and Jungkook would never run out of things to say to each other, that their silences would always be comfortable. He hesitates, uncertain, but before he can stop himself, he adds, "I missed you." I love you.

Out of all the possible explanations of Yoongi's absence, the kindest in Jungkook's mind has always been to believe that Yoongi moved on, because to dwell on the other possibilities for too long always threatened to break Jungkook. He couldn't let himself think about the Yoongi he loved, alone and isolated, dark days turning into months and then into years, the weight of it surely crushing. Couldn't let himself even try to put himself in Yoongi's shoes, because it would be all too easy for hope to be diminished, leaving only the pull of a quiet exit.

Anger was another option. That perhaps with distance and time came the ability to view the past objectively — came the realization that it was Jeon Jungkook who tore away Yoongi's future, that Jungkook was never worth losing the bright trajectory that Yoongi had otherwise built for himself. There were days when Jungkook let himself sink into that premise as well, the closest to the punishment that he so dearly believes he deserves.

Two years is too long for Jungkook to paint the picture, for him to understand the backdrop behind this — Min Yoongi, quiet and solemn, standing in front of him, distant yet alive.

Yoongi missed him?

No. With Yoongi alive, that doesn't — it doesn't work, it doesn't fit. And yet Jungkook can feel something in him break as he sinks back down onto the piano bench, panic seeping through the cracks.

"You missed me?" he asks, voice cracking as he threads fingers through his hair, tugs hard as he stares at the ground. Is any of this real, or will he just wake up again, gasping for breath and clammy sheets under his hands. "You never — you never even called. You could've — I didn't know if you were even..."

Even Yoongi's breath shakes. He tries not to show it, but he finds that he's utterly terrified, which in turn breaks his heart. He didn't want this. This shouldn't be a moment for fear. It's not like he hasn't imagined it before, worried, even half-convinced, that Jungkook must hate him for what he's done, but the possibility of it seems so real now that it nearly kills him even before he knows if it's true. It hadn't occurred to him that Jungkook might think he'd died, though in those times when he considered just getting it over with, he worried that Jungkook wouldn't know he was gone.

It's hard to tease out the panic in Jungkook's voice from what might be anger, and he doesn't know if that's good or bad. Anger and panic mean he still cares, but they also mean he's hurt him.

But maybe there was never any way around that. Maybe loving someone like Yoongi, someone weak and broken and cowardly, always meant that Jungkook would get hurt like this.

"I am," he says, though it feels like a fucking lie to call whatever meager existence he's eked out these last two years living. He steps forward quickly, instinctively, to kneel down in front of Jungkook, not daring to take the space left on the bench beside him. Staying on the floor seems more appropriate, a display of desperate penitence. "I... I'm sorry, I'm so fucking sorry. Gguk..." He doesn't dare ask for forgiveness either. He just swallows hard, not enough to choke down the lump in his throat. "I couldn't call. I would've just come home."

It's only April, he thinks. Close to the end of the school year, but not enough for him to come back yet. He doesn't know how he'll survive another separation, if he even survived this one.

Edited 2019-03-16 06:30 (UTC)

Truth be told, Jungkook didn't expect Yoongi to come back. There's been too much loss since the spring of two years ago — first with Namjoon vanishing, then Yoongi, then Seokjin. Even Jimin, who had stayed with Jungkook in the wake of all those absences, was eventually hospitalized, and Jungkook hasn't heard from him in months, doesn't know how to do anything other than expect the worst there as well. Only Taehyung and Hoseok remain, but between the three of them, all the pieces feel too fragmented to pull together.

Jungkook has learned only to brace himself for what hit comes next, and more days than not, he wonders why he even bothers going through the motions of attending class when he can't picture what life might be like beyond graduation anyway. The house he once desperately wanted to escape now feels like the only anchor Jungkook has, and a life alone in the dorms, shuffling between endless strangers — he doesn't know how he'll breathe.

And now Yoongi's here, and Jungkook finds himself no closer to that particular answer, bending over with the heel of his palm pressed against his forehead, tears falling as he tries desperately to catch his breath.

How is Yoongi so calm?

"You should've come home," Jungkook whines, voice shuddering. "I needed you." I still...

He slides onto the ground, knees awkwardly bracketing Yoongi's as his arms wrap fiercely around Yoongi's shoulders, pulling him too close for their gazes to meet. Jungkook buries his face against Yoongi's jacket, and it feels wrong — it smells wrong, like cigarette smoke and the dizzying cling of gasoline.

And there's so much more to say — how could you leave me, how could you not say anything, not even a voicemail, not a letter — but Jungkook finds that he can't find the means, body wracked by sobs.

Yoongi shudders, trying to hold back his own tears, his breath caught in a gasp as Jungkook wraps his arms around him. He's missed this, so much that he's become almost numb to the ache of it after too many nights afraid he'd never feel again the comforting weight of Jungkook pressed against him. His arms lift of their own accord, pulling Jungkook closer to him. If there's any comfort at all in this, it's the hope that this means Jungkook might still forgive him, whether he deserves it or not.

It still hurts, though, feeling the way Jungkook shakes in his arms, hearing the sobs, fractured, as broken as Yoongi feels. "I'm sorry," he says again, his voice breaking, "I'm so sorry." He's told himself so many times that he's done the right thing. His failures over the years have seemed like proof enough of that — that Jungkook could do better than him anyway, that he shouldn't come back until he has something to show for his absence, though he's come to suspect that won't ever happen.

But Jungkook is holding him and Yoongi is crying, unable to stop the tears scalding his cheeks or the way his breath keeps catching. It feels like panic, like he can't breathe right, and he doesn't care, he doesn't care, because Jungkook is here, and Yoongi turns his face to bury against Jungkook's hair, breathing him in, at once wary and grateful.

He wants, desperately, to kiss him, and he can't quite stop himself from pressing a kiss to Jungkook's hair, pure instinct, but he doesn't dare imagine he'll get anything more. I love you, I love you, he thinks, but he can't say it, hasn't earned the right to that. He wants to explain how he couldn't come home empty-handed, how it would have felt like this whole thing has been worthless; how afraid he was — still is — that Jungkook will reject him for what he's done. "I'm sorry," he says instead, voice cracking. "I thought everyone would hate me for leaving. That you'd hate me." Maybe he does. This doesn't feel like forgiveness yet. He wouldn't deserve it if it were.

Has he ever felt a moment of hatred towards Yoongi? No, Jungkook thinks, and yet he's not sure what else approximates the anguish that tears at his chest right now, the sudden desire to push Yoongi away, to push his palms against Yoongi's chest. Jungkook doesn't yet, the need for contact and reassurance too great as he hooks his hands over Yoongi's shoulders, clinging onto him for support — physical, emotional, it's hard to tell which.

He simply doesn't understand. They were all there when Namjoon left, and Jungkook knows that were Namjoon to have returned, all of them would have welcomed him back with open arms. So why would things have been different with Yoongi? What is it that made Yoongi believe the group would hold him to a different standard? It's such a thin excuse.

It's a thin excuse. Doesn't give Jungkook enough credit. Doesn't place the trust in Jungkook that he knows he deserves.

But for all the anger that Jungkook can feel building under his skin, he doesn't have the heart to lash out, pulling in a few wavering breaths through his nose. Wishing his chest didn't ache so much, longing for another kiss.

"Everyone's — almost everyone's gone. Namjoon hyung's still gone. Jin hyung went to study abroad, Jimin's been hospitalized for — for over a fucking year, we don't know what happened," Jungkook gasps, his gaze briefly skirting to the ceiling before he closes his eyes. As he lists them off, one by one, he can feel the strength leave his shoulders, hands sliding back down to his sides. "Without Jimin hyung, Tae and Hoseok hyung are..."

Broken. We're all broken.

Yoongi just stares at him, stricken. He can't bring himself to pull away in turn, but it stings when Jungkook lets go, when he lists off the absences. It feels, unaccountably, like it's his own fault. Maybe Namjoon was the first to leave, but he didn't think the others would follow suit.

He's known for a long time that what he's done is possibly unforgivable, that he abandoned Jungkook, but he never imagined him so alone. He'd thought at least Jungkook would have the others.

Another apology rises to his lips, but he swallows it back. He wants so badly to touch Jungkook, and it aches to not be sure if he's allowed, a hand curling tighter in Jungkook's shirt all the same. The other he lifts to wipe away his tears, gaze lowering, ashamed. "I didn't know," he says, and it feels like such an incredibly stupid thing to say that he regrets it immediately. "I — fuck." Would he have stayed if he'd known how alone Jungkook would end up? Would he have run off with him the way they planned? He'd like to think so, but he's not sure. He did this for a reason, even if it's been muddied over the years, until he's stayed away as much out of fear as to protect Jungkook. But maybe he wouldn't have had the strength to leave if he'd known.

If that even counts as strength.

Do you still love me? he wants to ask. Even thinking it makes his throat grow almost too tight for him to speak. "I thought they'd stay. I didn't think..." His breath hitches. "I thought I was doing the right thing." It's been a long time since he was sure of that, though. Maybe it was only ever the selfish thing to do.

There were plenty of opportunities, if Jungkook wanted, to drop a note about the absences to Yoongi's phone. Sending texts always felt somewhat like screaming into the void, and yet Jungkook had done so on occasion, hitting some of the major dates. He never forgot Yoongi's birthday. Never neglected Christmas, either. At some point, it had become too painful to try and reach out every week, or even every month — he was only able to handle so much silence — but to send occasional texts was like offering a lifeline, hanging onto a thread of connection.

But he'd never talked about the way the others left. Never gave any indication beyond, perhaps, the way Jungkook knew his voice wavered. (Jimin's been gone for over a year, and there's just no contact there.) Because if it really was anger that kept Yoongi away, or if Yoongi was only holding onto his life by a thread, Jungkook did not want to be the one to make things worse.

So he had spoken pleasantly, gradually building distance, even letting Yoongi out of the burden of an implied relationship. Striking down anything that could remotely serve as an excuse for Yoongi to stay away.

None of it worked.

Jungkook's eyes close at the touch of Yoongi's thumb to his cheek, achingly familiar, the memory one he'd long since buried. Only once Yoongi pulls away does Jungkook open his eyes again, reaching out to gently brush his knuckles over Yoongi's own cheek, smooth and warm.

"Are you back now?" he asks quietly. "Or is this..."

He'd hoped that coming home would be better — that he'd fall back into Jungkook's arms, the both of them relieved and happy. Yoongi never really believed that would be the case, not when Jungkook felt so far away, in distance, in spirit. But he'd hoped. This might not be what he wanted, but he finds himself grateful and frightened all at once. Jungkook didn't have to ask that question. He could have just let him go, too angry or else not caring enough to keep Yoongi anymore. He didn't have to touch Yoongi like that, gentle, familiar, a benediction he doesn't deserve. No one's touched him like that since he left, not since Jungkook.

He should say no, not yet. He should ask for more time or at least the promise that Jungkook will do as he asked and finish school if he agrees to come home. It's not like he has anything to go back to. The last couple of years have made it clear to him that his father will never understand him; they get along better with distance than they ever did when Yoongi was still home, and even then, not by much. He can't go home now.

Still, these things occur to him only faintly, eclipsed by the way his heart aches, seized unbearably tight. "Do you still want me to be?" he dares to ask, his voice a small, broken thing. He shouldn't. It's almost the same as asking Do you love me even now? and Jungkook deserves better than what Yoongi can give him now, whether he realizes it or not. But, oh, how he wants, the pain and the longing flooding him until he's made of nothing but love and regret, fear and hope. They used to talk in terms of forever, of lifetimes, but he broke that. He's not sure he can be trusted to repair it.

The question pushes a shuddering sob out of Jungkook's lungs; maybe he isn't being fair, and maybe this is simply Yoongi's way of asking permission to slip back into Jungkook's life. He's being reasonable — as much so as it's possible to be, given the circumstances. But all that Jungkook feels is the impasse between them, and it hurts more than he wants to admit that Yoongi isn't fighting tooth and nail to be back together, at least not outwardly so. Jungkook can't bear to keep his gaze raised, a surge of embarrassment driving a flush high on his cheeks.

For the first time in a while, he feels small, and indescribably young.

With his head bowed, Jungkook catches a glimpse of Yoongi's hand, the pinky finger bare where Jungkook had grown so accustomed to seeing a band. That has to be the answer, doesn't it? That, for as much as Yoongi might have wanted to return, as true as his feelings were when he first set off on his own, somewhere along the way, some of them must have faded. Jungkook wonders if it's a sense of obligation that keeps Yoongi rooted here now, guilt over having left Jungkook on his own. If Jungkook were happy, and the rest of their group intact, would Yoongi stay?

"Don't you want to stay?" Jungkook asks, pleads, working thumb against his palm restlessly. "Don't you still — I." With a grimace, Jungkook lifts his hand once more, grinding palm against his forehead. His voice comes out thin, barely loud enough to be heard. "Of course I want you back. I never fucking stopped."

There was a time when it was so easy to believe Jungkook would always love him, that nothing could ever come between them, but those days passed a long time ago, leaving Yoongi lost. There were so many days it didn't seem worth it to keep going, when he'd think of Jungkook and wish it was like it used to be, that he could crawl into his arms, crawl home, until the pain ebbed enough for him to feel whole again. But there's been no one and nothing, just this endless expanse of nothing but rubble, and some days the only thing that keeps Yoongi going is that he's too fucking tired to stop.

But being alive hurts.

The words are so faint, Yoongi's afraid he imagined them, the air knocked out of his lungs all the same. He barely dares to believe it. For so long, the only voices that have really talked to him have been the ones in his head, the ones he knows are only aspects of himself, impossibly cruel, and they've made it abundantly clear that Jungkook could never want him back after what he did. But he does.

Yoongi reaches out impulsively to take Jungkook's hand in both of his own, partly to feel the warmth of his skin again, partly to see better how Jungkook responds, if he's imagining this. "Of course I do," he says, almost choking on a sob, his shoulders shaking as he tries to restrain himself somewhat. It's utterly useless. He gave up the only luck that ever came his way long ago; he'd thought he'd given it up forever. It's hard to believe he could have even the smallest sliver of good fortune still. With Jungkook's hand between his, he feels the smooth surface of Jungkook's ring, still in place, and he can't help the tears that start again. "I never stopped," he echoes. "Never. Fuck. Gguk..." He trails off, helpless.

It should be enough. There were so many days when Jungkook allowed himself to dream, and evenings where he couldn't stop himself from doing so, and all of them started with Yoongi's return — a dizzying, whirlwind reunion that left the both of them clinging desperately to one another, fevered kisses, hands roaming over his skin. Nothing stands in the way of Jungkook bringing those visions to fruition, and yet he finds that he can't. That something's still torn and bleeding inside of him, and he's not sure what, not sure how to stem the flow. All he knows is that having Yoongi back still hurts for so many reasons he can't even begin to articulate.

Starting with how he's already bracing himself for Yoongi to leave again, as soon as Yoongi's decided it might be better for Jungkook. Already, this reunion isn't going how either of them wants, Jungkook knows. The quick glance over Yoongi's face, cheeks hollowed now in a way they had never been before, suggests Yoongi hasn't found any sort of reliable place for the both of them to land. And Jungkook never needed that to begin with — never needed anything stable, never needed anything so secure — but he wonders what will happen when Yoongi decides it isn't enough. When Yoongi decides he needs to protect Jungkook again.

Never mind that this has always hurt Jungkook most of all.

Can he handle it? Brace his weight against this pillar that might vanish again? Jungkook's fingers close around Yoongi's hand, gripping it tight. "Take me with you," he begs, the words quiet, sentiment that he's been holding onto for the past two years. Jungkook stares at their hands, at the pale skin covering his own. "Yoongi."

At the sound of his name, Yoongi closes his eyes, letting it echo in his mind, bittersweet. It's been so long and after messages where Jungkook only called him hyung, it should be a relief to hear, and it is, but one undermined by the plea attached to it.

If he says yes, the last two years were for nothing. He wants so much better for Jungkook than he can have now. He left to give him a chance at that; he can't take it away now.

If he says no, he's not sure what he'll do. The thread holding him to this world has been so fragile, so tenuous, he's not sure he could survive turning Jungkook away. There's so little of him left as it is. How could he possibly let him go again?

He lifts Jungkook's hand, holds it to his chest, as if Jungkook might vanish at any moment without something anchoring him to Yoongi. For years now, he's dreamed of being able to say yes, of finally sweeping in to steal Jungkook away. So often, the dreams have been ruined by the possibility Jungkook wouldn't want that anymore, but he's here and he wants that and he still — he must — loves Yoongi, and it's the only thing he's ever really wanted. "Stay with me tonight," he says, desperate for a compromise that will let him keep Jungkook with him. "You'll know where I am, and then when you finish school, we can go anywhere you want."

There are so many reasons not to take this offer. Even as he sits with a faint buzzing in his ears, Jungkook can already picture the reactions of the other boys. How fiercely angry on his behalf both Taehyung and Jimin had been, and how hesitant either of them might be to encourage Jungkook to put his faith in Yoongi again. How hurt Hoseok had been, how wary he'd be of someone who had already abandoned them once with barely a word to some, and not any to the others. It's not enough, Jungkook imagines they would say, for Yoongi to happen across Jungkook and expect the younger to follow, when even their reunion was something not planned at all.

But the worst doubts are Jungkook's own. How he can already feel the lump in his throat, feeling how similar this offer is to the last, how they would spend the time together and put the details off until later. Part of Jungkook wonders, if he were to spend the night, if he'd wake only to have Yoongi gone again. If not in one day, then perhaps a week. Whenever things got tough.

And aren't things always tough?

Yet Jungkook doesn't think he'll ever have it in him to turn Yoongi away, especially not now, when the sheer touch of Yoongi's hands to his own has his heart picking up pace, his eyes and touch focused on the beat of Yoongi's heart. So he nods, dabbing at the corners of his eyes with his free hand and focusing on the pace of his breathing.

Yoongi lets out an exhale, sharp and quick, squeezing Jungkook's hand. He can feel his heart racing; Jungkook must, too, only thin fabric between them. He'd expected anger, maybe, knowing the offer is a weak one compared to what Jungkook wants from him. That he agrees leaves Yoongi grateful beyond words, and he lifts Jungkook's hand to his lips, letting his kiss linger.

He wants to kiss him, giddy with what feels like just a hint of hope, but he doesn't dare. Not yet. Not without permission. Instead he lifts a hand to Jungkook's cheek again, thumb tracing over the almost invisible line of a scar. Even in the eerie red light of the shop's alarm, even lean and hard in a way he never was before, Jungkook is beautiful. That Yoongi should be allowed to touch him seems almost impossible.

"You're real," he murmurs, reverent, trembling. He's imagined so many reunions he's started to see them in his dreams. They rarely end well, even when he means them to. That Jungkook hasn't just left him here is more than he deserves. "You're really here." He'd started to think they would never see each other again. There are so many questions and apologies racing through his mind, he doesn't know where to start, awestruck and uncertain he has the right to ask anything at all. They should probably leave before someone shows up to check on the alarm, but he can't bring himself to say it, his breath catching as he leans forward to rest his forehead against Jungkook's. "I'm so sorry."

He's real. Of course he's real, Jungkook thinks — he's been waiting all along, waiting long after it stopped making sense to. Waiting for any word, for the briefest sound of Yoongi's voice. If anyone should have doubts about this moment and its veracity, it should be Jungkook himself, still reeling from how a chance visit to this tiny music store somehow brought him back to Yoongi. Or Yoongi back to him.

It's unclear which.

And as Yoongi brushes his thumb along the scar on his cheek, Jungkook wonders at the gentleness of it, both familiar and so different than what he remembers. Love is evident. Yoongi still loves him, after all this time — there's no resentment in his touch, no anger, none of the feelings that Jungkook still believes would have been more than justified, considering the circumstances. But there's never been a need to hold him this gently before, and some of it feels like distance. Some of it feels like recognition of the fragility inside of Jungkook — he's broken, he still feels broken, and on his exhale, Jungkook realizes that he's crying again. Silent tears that slip down to Yoongi's thumb, where his soft touch brushes them to the side.

Yoongi says that he's sorry, and before that was always enough, sometimes too much. Jungkook should be extending his forgiveness, but he finds that he can't do so in words. Finds that he fears what forgiveness may encourage — space enough for Yoongi to leave again. Instead, Jungkook tilts his head against the soft press of Yoongi's forehead. His lips stop trembling when they make contact with Yoongi's own.

Yoongi doesn't expect to be told it's okay or that he's forgiven. It isn't okay and he doesn't deserve forgiveness. Even a kiss feels like more than he should be allowed yet, but he leans into it all the same. It's been so long, he'd all but forgotten how it feels, the soft press of Jungkook's lips sparking familiarity and confusion alike, his heart racing. It's the same and it isn't, and Yoongi wants nothing more than to keep kissing him until he can erase all the parts that don't fit.

It's hard not to think that maybe he never will, that he's ruined everything permanently, but he pushes that away. He can't think like that right now or he'll collapse, and it's hard enough to fend off tears of his own as it is.

He shouldn't be doing this anyway; he's only going to create more problems out of his selfishness, desperate not to let Jungkook go when that's exactly what he should do, when he has nothing left to offer him. He's too weak to support himself. How can he be strong for anyone else? He's already hurt Jungkook badly. He knew that long ago, and the tears only remind him of it now, his thumb swiping them gently away as if he could make it stop and take away the pain so easily. He's certain, though, that all he can do is make it worse.

Even when he pulls away, he doesn't dare draw back far, temple still pressed to Jungkook's. I love you, he thinks, I love you, like his heart is beating in time to the words, but he shouldn't say it. It isn't fair of him, when he doesn't intend to come home yet, when he has no home left to go to except the one he's holding now. "I love you," he whispers anyway, selfish, longing, the words slipping from his lips like they still remember the habit of it.

That Yoongi loves Jungkook is something that he should already know, yet hearing it is something else entirely. He's been waiting for those words for almost two years — waiting for that love to be enough to bring Yoongi home, waiting for that love to be enough that the pain of being separated is no longer worth the effort. Where those words were when Jungkook needed them most, he doesn't know, but to hear them now is to feel cool water trickling throughout his body, leaking through the cracks. It's not quite enough; Jungkook finds himself needing more, raising a hand until it's able to rest by Yoongi's jaw, then smoothing his palm over the side of Yoongi's neck.

The kiss itself was — different. Maybe Jungkook's memories have failed him, or maybe it was inevitable that things would shift after so long apart. That no matter how well the pieces fit before, with time and distance they were always sure to wear down. He doesn't remember kisses being so tenuous. Doesn't remember Yoongi's lips trembling, or the taste of smoke that now lingers on his tongue.

Yet in its own way, it confirms that none of this is a dream. Because in Jungkook's dreams, Yoongi's return is always a seamless one, their love as young and ardent as it was two years ago. And now, it's...

Just different, somehow. No less present, but smoldering, in need of tending to.

"I love you too," Jungkook breathes, the words a soft release. He's still in too deep; there was never any way that he was going to be able to fight this, the inexorable pull that brings them together. He'd still run, if Yoongi let him.

(Maybe he hates himself a little for that.)

It's nearly enough to set Yoongi crying again, relief tainted by guilt, as if he no longer knows how to live anywhere but on the edge of despair. He used to be stronger than this, he knows he was, but time has worn him so thin. Back then, he liked being Jungkook's protector, took pleasure in taking care of him. Now he knows he can't even take care of himself, and the prospect of trying to be someone Jungkook can lean on is daunting. But he wants it, however stupid it might be of him to try.

He should have come home a long time ago.

But he's there now, he tells himself, and he can start trying to make this right, because Jungkook still loves him. Maybe they're both fools to love each other in spite of all that's happened, but it doesn't matter. Those simple words are a tether, pulling him slowly back to life. He leans in to kiss Jungkook again, a little more certain now, fingers stroking through his hair. Jungkook loves him, and Yoongi is a mess of regret and gratitude, but he feels more real than he has in all the time he's been gone.

"We should get out of here," he murmurs, knuckles tracing gently over Jungkook's cheek. He doesn't want to move or let go, but maybe with a little breathing room and the privacy of his room, they'll start to feel more at ease. "Before someone catches us. But I don't want to let you go."

There's a little more force behind this second kiss, and Jungkook finds himself meeting Yoongi halfway, his free hand reaching out to cling onto Yoongi's shirt as he deepens the kiss. Maybe Jungkook should be grateful for the little differences in the details — in the way Yoongi tastes, in the harder line of his jaw — because they, if nothing else, help to remind Jungkook that this is real. This isn't some fevered dream during the precious few hours of sleep he manages to get at night. This is Yoongi, maybe not his Yoongi, but Yoongi all the same.

Only when he pulls back does Jungkook notice the ringing of the alarm, the entire shop cast in shades of crimson, glittering as it bounces over shards of glass scattered across the floor. Jungkook has found himself trespassing on many an occasion over the past couple of years, but the difference here lies in the broken window. He can't claim to have lost his way.

Yoongi's right. They should go.

"So don't let me go," Jungkook says softly, trying to will determination into his expression as he squeezes Yoongi's hand. "You don't have to let me go, even if we leave the store."

Even as Jungkook says it, Yoongi's not sure that that's true. He still wants Jungkook to finish his education, and he's still him. Sooner or later, he's bound to disappoint and hurt Jungkook again, and maybe this time he'll be the one left behind. For the first time in a long time, though, he dares to hope — they used to talk of forever, but right now, he thinks, he'd be thankful even to get one night. They can figure out the rest later.

"I won't," he says, a soft exhale, and, right now, he even believes it. Getting Jungkook back and losing him again — abandoning him again — would kill Yoongi now. His life might not be worth much, but this is worth trying for, he thinks, even as a voice hisses in the back of his head that Jungkook is still better off without him.

It takes him another few moments to stand, time spent gazing at Jungkook, taking him in. The boy he loves has faded, grown harder and older and sadder, and Yoongi can't help wondering how much of that is his fault. Even so, he's still there, still his Jungkook, and Yoongi tells himself there will be time later to commit to memory these new details. There has to be. So he gets slowly to his feet, reaching for Jungkook's other hand to help him up, to keep him close. "I won't," he says again, a little firmer now, an answer to his own mind as much as to Jungkook.

He tugs gently on Jungkook's hand, headed for the door and back out into the brisk night. "Come on," he says, glancing at the way their fingers lace together, the warm, smooth surface of Jungkook's ring making him regret that he's not wearing his own where Jungkook can see it, the black-striped band kept on a chain under his shirt instead. "I'm not that far from here."

The promise is given twice, the second with more surety than the first, but as Jungkook and Yoongi step into the open night, he can't help but wonder if Yoongi will change his mind when he realizes how broken of a person Yoongi's coming back to. The classes that Yoongi encouraged Jungkook to attend are a struggle, every day hazy, test scores dipping by the semester. When he should be staying after hours to catch up, Jungkook finds himself leaving to the dark alleys of the city instead, searching for a fight.

Will Yoongi still love him when he realizes Jungkook isn't the same boy he left behind? Perhaps it's all the more reason to cling to this, to a ghost of what once was.

He gets to his feet, lips still parted in muted shock as he lets Yoongi lead the way. That Yoongi walks with such surety must mean that he has a place. And that he's willing at last to let Jungkook know where he is — a place Jungkook can come back to, at least until Yoongi decides to move again.

"How... long have you been here?" Jungkook asks hesitantly, gaze occasionally skirting between Yoongi's silhouette and the ground. "Were you staying in the city this whole time?"

Hand in hand they go, and for a few moments, Yoongi can barely breathe. In some respects, what he feels now is little different from panic and despair, just as overwhelming, his heart beating too fast, his throat too tight. No one's held his hand in a long time, and if he doesn't look at Jungkook, doesn't see the changes, he can almost imagine they don't exist. Their hands still fit together, fingers entwined, and Yoongi's missed this so much. The feel of Jungkook's hand in his own is so grounding; that, at least, hasn't changed, and he needs that more than he ever did before.

He won't cry again. Not now, not on the street, never mind that hardly anyone is around. He steers them back across the construction site, headed into a neighborhood that was marked for redevelopment before plans fell through. The route is more familiar to him than his own face now; he avoids mirrors and walks this path drunk half the time. He's grateful now he hasn't had much to drink tonight, that he's at least sober for this. It might have been easier drunk, but he doesn't like the idea of Jungkook seeing yet what he's become.

"I didn't know where to go," he says quietly, and no matter how much he'd like to pretend them back into the past, he can't resist looking over at Jungkook again. There's a nervousness in his expression when he says it. He didn't want to leave Seoul without Jungkook, couldn't quite make himself put that kind of distance between them, as if the string that holds them together might finally break with enough miles. It's worn and thin enough as it is, surely fraying from being pulled so hard. He can imagine, though, that it doesn't matter if he stayed close or if he went to do the things they only talked about. Either way, he's betrayed Jungkook. "I just... went as far as I could without leaving the city. I never left."

I couldn't bear to, he wants to say. I thought if I did, I might never see you again. But what right does he have to talk about how badly he's hurt when he's the one inflicting the wounds?

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