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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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?

Even though their hands are linked, Jungkook finds himself always half a step behind, so different than how their dynamic used to be. Once, Jungkook remembers adjusting his steps, pace a little shorter, clip a little slower, to make sure that he matched Yoongi's natural rhythm. Of course, Yoongi noticed — to say that he entirely met Yoongi at his level probably isn't entirely accurate, so much as they found a means of meeting halfway. Now, he feels slightly numb, unfamiliar with the area, and it's all that he can do to try not to trip over himself as he follows after the soft tug of Yoongi's hand.

Maybe a few paces over two years isn't all that bad.

As soon as Yoongi's answered his question, Jungkook finds he's not sure if he's glad for the knowledge. It was easier to think that Yoongi had traveled somewhere distant, somewhere where the connection was faultier, where it would have been harder to keep in contact. Somewhere like the bay, or the countryside, or any of those places they used to talk about back when they were younger. Places that wouldn't be so hard to keep up with financially, but that would be all the more comfortable somehow. More breathing space. More opportunity to spend time with one another, unlike the toiling schedules of the city's salarymen.

But Yoongi stayed here. He stayed here, and he never stopped by. Never called. And for all that Yoongi seems grateful to have Jungkook back now, Jungkook wonders how much longer they would have been separated, had the music shop not brought them together. Would Yoongi have come back for his graduation?

His hand twitches, briefly squeezing Yoongi's own.

"Have you been eating?" Jungkook asks, finding himself at a loss for what to say. To ask more about the time that's elapsed seems to be inviting sadness. Perhaps it's better to focus on Yoongi's needs now, even if he has only the faintest idea of what they might be.

He misses their old silences. It used to be that, when quiet fell between them, it was easy, comfortable. On the days things were harder than not, Yoongi could stay silent, let himself drift away in Jungkook's arms, secure in the knowledge he didn't have to say a word if he didn't want to. It felt as if everyone else meant to make him talk, to say stupid useless things because they couldn't handle silence.

Now it's less that he doesn't know what to say as it is that he doesn't know where to begin again, how to speak without hurting Jungkook further.

This question, for example. He doesn't want to lie to Jungkook anymore, not more than he absolutely has to, but he knows the truth isn't all that palatable. Then again, he reasons, anyone could look at him and see the answer. "Sometimes," he says, quietly wry. Sometimes he simply can't afford to. Other times, he's too tired and miserable to stomach anything. Looking at Jungkook, he suspects the same is true of him, and that makes him want to cry, too. "I try." Sometimes.

He rubs his thumb gently along Jungkook's hand, his stomach tight with anxiety. "It's hard to get much work."

The answer comes as no surprise, though it aches nonetheless. Yoongi looks leaner, the very shape of his face different than before, cheeks thin and almost hollowed. There are little protests that immediately surface in his mind, old habits applied to new circumstances. Wanting to tell him that he should stop spending money on cigarettes, then. He must be smoking a fair amount, after all, if Jungkook was able to taste it on his tongue, smell it on his breath.

It's suffocating, besides. Much like the staggered silences between them now. All that Jungkook can do is continue holding on to Yoongi's hand, trailing after him as they walk down the path, eyes occasionally skirting up to where skeletons of buildings stand, untended to and wild.

Once, a sight like this would have been exciting. Reason to pull Taehyung along, coloring gray walls with bright colors.

Now, it's...

Jungkook tries to imagine how he would have felt two years ago, running by Yoongi's side. What would have happened had the two of them run away together. No doubt, he would have seen this building as an opportunity. Warm and bright, simply by nature of being open to the both of them. He wishes it were so easy to fall back into that naivete now.

"We could get breakfast tomorrow," Jungkook mentions softly. Wonders if Yoongi would be able to tolerate having him around that long. "Doesn't have to be anything fancy."

Yoongi's heart aches. That's nothing new in itself. Sometimes he thinks it never stops; he just gets used to the pain, only registering it when it gets especially bad. Having Jungkook at his side again cuts through the numbness, the way only he's ever been able to do, but it does nothing to ease the pain. He gets tangled up in it, torn between gratitude and guilt. What Jungkook means is he'll get them breakfast, that he'll take care of Yoongi, and he shouldn't have to. What was this whole fucking thing for if he can't even feed them? But in the impulse of the gesture, Yoongi recognizes some semblance of their old affection, not easily turned away.

They used to make plans. Walking together, happy just to do so, talking about little things, arranging to eat together or practice together — anything, as long as it was together.

He fucked up. He knows that now. But sometimes he wonders if it was still the best thing for them both. He was always sad and wrong, and he's only gotten worse, being on his own, but who's to say he wouldn't have turned out this way regardless? Even if he'd graduated, even if he'd gone to university, maybe he would still be this, weak and broken and afraid, someone Jungkook might tire of caring for.

"Yeah," he says anyway, nodding, because breakfast together means a little more time spent in Jungkook's company, and no matter how badly it hurts to have him here, a reminder of how badly he fucked everything up, it helps, too. Makes him feel like a person again instead of just a ghost. "Breakfast sounds good." He tries a smile. It feels foreign. He's out of practice. He looks over at Jungkook and he tries anyway and he wants to pull him close, to kiss his neck and whisper promises he's not sure he has the strength to keep. "Still trying to take care of me?" It's almost a joke, though there's a whisper of sorrow and of fondness, too.

Two years ago, the logistics of spending the night would have been more difficult. Skipping class in the morning would have felt impossible — practically a spoken invitation for his father to hit him. These days, Jungkook knows that his parents have given up on him, and there's a certain amount of freedom in that. But the challenges that stand before him now are so much harder to navigate, still so nebulous. Is he happier for staying by Yoongi's side? Or is every new detail revealed simply another blow, every minute together rubbing salt in the wound?

The answer is probably that it's a little bit of everything, but Jungkook imagines that nothing would be worse than to part now. Most days, he already feels himself standing on thin ice, just the slightest crack able to plunge him entirely. Leaving Yoongi now would be unthinkable.

Jungkook watches, eyes wide, his heart skipping a beat at the smile on Yoongi's face. It's not as natural as it was before they parted, and yet — and yet he remembers something like this too, much earlier in their friendship. Before they were lovers. How sometimes, Jungkook could sense that Yoongi was putting on a facade, trying to mask what tormented him underneath.

He picks up his pace just a little, a half-step behind rather than two.

I wasn't very good at it, was I?

Wasn't it you who was trying to take care of me?

Will you let me take care of you now?

"Isn't that all I've ever wanted to do?" Jungkook asks, a small smile gracing his lips. It doesn't quite reach his eyes.

Will you let me make you happy forever? Jungkook once asked, and Yoongi, so young, so naive, said yes. He's reminded of it now, though Jungkook looks so much sadder than he did then. They were so hopeful, and he barely remembers how to feel hope anymore. He's not sure he remembers what happiness feels like either.

He doesn't understand himself, doesn't get how he can nurture impossibilities any more than he can understand why he's still restraining himself. He used to be able to tell Jungkook even the worst of it. But then, he had no idea at the time how much worse it could get.

You should get better dreams, he wants to say, but the words don't come. Maybe they're both cursed. All he knows is that it hurts to think anyone, but especially Jungkook, could want to take care of him now. It stings his pride, but more than that, it hurts to hope. Hopes, dreams, they just turn into disappointment and regret.

"Yeah," he murmurs, voice tight. "It's all I want, too." Jungkook might never understand, but that's all he's ever tried to do, Yoongi thinks. He glances back at him, squeezing Jungkook's hand, that shred of a smile already faded, begging him to understand. He's always loved Jungkook more than anything — more than he loved himself.

Jungkook slows, tugging on Yoongi's hand to bring them to a stop. For a second, he stares, slightly unfocused before he wraps his free arm around Yoongi's waist, pulling him closer, cataloging all of the differences. It's not just Yoongi's face that's thinned, it's the rest of him too, and Jungkook has to wonder now — does Yoongi's dad know none of this? Did he, too, also not care? Not once in those two years was Yoongi's line disconnected. Surely, his father would have had the means to find his son.

But he didn't even try.

And that aches, too. Aches in a similar way that it did to have his own mother turn on him, casting her child out as weak, perverted. Aches as much as it did to find out that his father — his real father — abandoned them both.

In this whole world, have either of them really had anyone else who cared? But it was fine, then. It was fine, because the love they received from each other was enough to make up for any lack elsewhere.

If that love never went anywhere, never diminished or faded, then shouldn't there be a way to make it work again?

Jungkook's hand tightens around Yoongi's waist, bringing him closer, brow knit before he leans in and presses his lips to Yoongi's once more. Doesn't chase after a memory. Just kisses him, desperate and searching, a quiet whimper behind the contact. Years of want and longing crashing together in this very moment.

For a few moments, Yoongi expects Jungkook to tell him off — not because he sees any sign that Jungkook is prepared to do such a thing, but because he can't fathom any of this going the way he wants it to. But then Jungkook wraps an arm around him and pulls him close, and Yoongi doesn't know what to say or expect. He just gazes back, wondering what Jungkook sees now. Nothing good, he's sure. He's too old for his age, worn thin inside and out, too sad, too angry, for anyone to keep around for long. The boy he was must not be entirely gone; Jungkook recognized him in the shop, after all. But if he's there still, he's close to death.

The warmth of lips against his own catches Yoongi by surprise, but he returns the kiss readily, a hand coming to rest at Jungkook's jaw as he presses against him. Out here, on this dark, decrepit street, they might as well be the only people in the world again. Heart beating wildly, he holds Jungkook close, lips parting for him. He doesn't quite dare to believe that Jungkook really understands why he's done the things he's done, but it doesn't seem to matter either. Not right now, at least, not with Jungkook kissing him like this. This time, it starts to feel right again. There are differences, but Yoongi doesn't try to catalog them. He just lets himself melt into Jungkook's embrace, the way he's longed to from the moment he left.

"Gguk," he murmurs, fingers tracing reverently along Jungkook's cheek, following down along the line of his jaw. This is a mistake, the voice warns him. You can only disappoint him. But Yoongi pushes it aside for now, pressing another soft kiss to Jungkook's lips. His voice falls to a whisper. "I missed you. Every second."

It shouldn't be so hard. It shouldn't have to be so hard — when Yoongi says that he spent every second missing Jungkook, Jungkook wants to echo those exact words. There wasn't a single night where Jungkook was able to slip into sleep without wondering where Yoongi was. Wondering how long it'd be until Yoongi came back. If he'd come back. Missing Yoongi was like a constant ache, was like having a piece of himself carved out, a wound festering.

So why is it that having him back hurts just as much? It used to be easy to summon strength. It used to be easy to be there for Yoongi, whenever his eyes carried the same weight that they do now (no, not the same; it's deeper now, the shadows under the eyes darker than before). But Jungkook still isn't sure how to hold himself up, let alone be another person's strength, though already he can feel himself wanting to try.

It's easier to lean into the comfort of Yoongi's fingers, his brow furrowing and eyes sliding to a close as their lips meet again.

"I missed you, too," he says, and the words still come out slightly broken, pieces that Jungkook is too clumsy to gather quickly. He lifts his gaze again, concern writ in his features as he lifts one hand to gently trace along the contour of Yoongi's cheek, the way he used to. Palm brushing along the side of Yoongi's neck, as he always did before. It's all still achingly familiar. "You promised... that one day, we'd never have to be apart again. Do you remember?"

Yoongi nods, awash with guilt, with shame. This is his fault. He's the one who broke his word; he's the one who abandoned Jungkook. If things are different now, well, he expected that, but that doesn't make it any less painful. After all he did, after how long he's been gone, he's known things would change. He just thought it would be different, that Jungkook would push him away. Instead he touches Yoongi with as much care as ever before, and he doesn't know how to respond. Maybe this is his punishment, the way even the most loving of gestures make his heart ache.

It's not like he's unaccustomed to pain, but this is another kind of hurt, as if having Jungkook back might kill him as surely as leaving him would have with time. Day to day, he feels numb more than anything, and that's a lot easier to bear than this.

"I do," he says quietly, hand falling to Jungkook's waist. "I still want that." He swallows hard, and it takes all his will not to start apologizing again. It's useless. If Jungkook can't see how sorry he is, well, that's probably on him, too. Why should Jungkook believe a thing he says anyway? "I was going to come home." His voice is thick with desperation, a plea for Jungkook to believe him anyway. Yoongi might have changed, and that scares him, that maybe Jungkook will give up on him simply because he's not the same person he used to be. But through it all, his love has never wavered.

His thumb rubs gently back and forth against the fabric at Jungkook's waist, and it's a bit of bravado, as if such a gesture could even begin to soothe him.

I was going to come home. Jungkook can't help the way his breath catches, the sudden searing pain that spreads inside his chest. Maybe it's true that in another three months, Yoongi would have returned — maybe the simple act of Jungkook finishing school would have given them enough pieces to work with, enough of a fallback to rely on. But Jungkook can't help but think that if Yoongi's plan all along was to wait until he had a home that was suitable for Jungkook, three months wouldn't have done it. That it might have been years yet, and wouldn't that just have made it all the harder for Yoongi to reach out?

It shouldn't matter. It shouldn't matter what would have happened, now that something has, and Jungkook hates the way that his lips tremble in spite of everything. Can't he be stronger and just forge through this? Every time he lifts his gaze, he can see the earnestness in Yoongi's eyes, and the pain buried there too, and even now Jungkook still feels the instinct rising in him to reach out and comfort. To search for a way to make it all okay.

"I know," Jungkook whispers with a small quirk of his lips. It feels like a lie. Is it? He knows now, he believes Yoongi now — but there were so many months where Jungkook thought he'd never live to see Yoongi's return. That promises initially made might have shifted. (Isn't that why his pinky finger is bare?) "It's okay. It's okay now."

His lips part, then press closed again, Jungkook's gaze lowering to Yoongi's mouth before rising again to meet dark brown. "I never stopped loving you."

It isn't okay, not even a little bit, but Yoongi appreciates the words all the same. There's effort behind it, and he shouldn't want Jungkook to comfort him when this is entirely his fault, but it means something. Maybe there's a chance for them still. Maybe Jungkook will forgive him in time. He thinks, maybe, that's what love is. It makes people forgive the unforgivable.

In each other, at least. Yoongi's not sure he can ever forgive himself. He hurt Jungkook. If he's thinner and sharper now, if his eyes convey a pain not easily erased, it's because Yoongi walked away when he should have stayed. Even now, though, he's not sure what he could have done differently. Had he gone to one of the others, his father would have found him easily. Yoongi might stay in touch with his dad, but he won't go back to him, not ever again.

If he can't go back, he has to let Jungkook come to him, and the thought of that comes with another flare of shame. This shouldn't be Jungkook's responsibility, and the place he has isn't fit for anyone but himself anyway. Still, he doesn't have the heart right now to turn Jungkook away.

Not when he's talking like this, not when he's saying the things Yoongi scarcely allowed himself to hope for or imagine.

"I never stopped loving you," Yoongi murmurs. There have been days when that's all that keeps Yoongi going. He's so numb to the rest of the world, but the hope and despair of loving Jungkook has never been easily turned aside, reminding him he's still alive. "I know it probably doesn't seem like it. But I..." He'd have to tear out his own heart to rid himself of this love, and he's not sure even that would work. "I never stopped. I never will."

It shouldn't come as such a shock to have the words echoed back in kind — that had always been the beauty of their relationship, Jungkook thinks, the perfect reciprocity in their feelings, both standing on even ground. Jungkook said it first, so it only follows that Yoongi would repeat the sentiment. And yet, Jungkook has found it harder and harder to believe that love can come without conditions. To have his own mother give up on him, to learn that his father never even really gave him the chance. Even Taehyung's temper has turned on Jungkook more than once, and Jungkook knows, he always knows that he too would fade into the background, were Namjoon or Jimin to ever return.

There are times when he thinks it might not be such a terrible thing, to have no anchor, to have no one who looks to him. Because that would mean that to end his own pain would cause none of it to anyone else. A neat exit that causes no ripples. He's considered it, time and time again, the emotions distant but the dark so easily creeping up and over his senses. Surely, he'd be forgiven for it — for letting go of his own pain, as long as it did no harm.

He wouldn't be upset if the world took him now, if the earth swallowed him up whole, left him on that cusp of a memory — what it's like to be loved.

But of course, that's not an option now. Jungkook cringes as he weeps, hiding his face with a hand, weak and ugly and how will Yoongi ever be able to love this, he was never supposed to come back to this. He expected to come back to a boy in his prime, high school degree in hand, ready to step foot on a university campus. Jungkook's not sure if he can make it there, these days.

"Am I even still him?" Jungkook asks, not sure who's meant to answer. "Jeon Jungkook."

It's a question Yoongi has asked of himself time and time again. Is he different now? Or is he just more Min Yoongi than he was before, left alone to steep in his self-loathing and pain? No one to comfort him, to whisper to him all the good still left in him. Just fear and rage eating him alive, until there's nothing left but who he really is, a broken mess of a person, a shadow, a ghost.

That Jungkook might feel himself so utterly lost, too, never occurred to him, and he feels guilt for that now. It fades into the background, though, less important than the fact that Jungkook is crying. If he's broken, too, it's because Yoongi made him this way. It stands to reason, then, that it's his responsibility to fix it, but he's terrified of that. How can he put back together someone else when he's already so fractured himself?

Still, he wraps his arms around Jungkook, a hand lifting to the back of his head as he pulls him close and presses a kiss to his hair. "I don't know," he whispers. He can't know. He was gone, and he missed so fucking much. He rubs gentle circles against Jungkook's back. "I don't know who I am either. But I love you anyway. I'm here. I'm here."

With his eyes closed and Jungkook shaking in his arms, he hides his face against Jungkook's hair, breathing him in. He smells like home, and Yoongi has to hold him a little tighter, drawing in a deep, shuddering breath. He won't cry, he tells himself. He'll be someone Jungkook can rely on, if only here and now.

He needs to stop crying. For his own sake, for Yoongi's — every second Jungkook continues feels like it's eroding the earth under his feet, threatening to leave no end of it, to sink Jungkook further and further into the depths of grief. He thought he was finished with grief, settled into a haze of acceptance, numbed to his troubles as he repeated day after day. But to have Yoongi here is a fresh reminder of what once was, and it pulls Jungkook into that inevitable human reflex of regret, asking himself where things went wrong, where things went astray.

If he had not suggested that they run.

If he had not stepped inside that classroom.

If he had not spent so much time painting the image of a perfect future that was always going to be difficult to obtain.

If he had never confessed his love.

Would things be better, then? Would Yoongi have been left relatively unscathed? All those dark days he remembers from the months they were together, surely all of them paled in comparison to this, with Yoongi left in relative solitude, breathing death into his lungs.

If Jungkook had the chance to do it all again, would he be able to stop himself from being selfish?

Jungkook draws in a shuddering breath, lets himself melt into Yoongi's embrace. He's taller now, in spite of everything; he shrinks to fit Yoongi's hold. Is this the same Min Yoongi who left? No, but—

"You're my soulmate," Jungkook murmurs, letting out a staggered exhale, hands clinging to Yoongi's shirt.

It's almost too much for Yoongi, so unaccustomed to affection, to finding any good in his life. It seems like more than he should ask for to have Jungkook in his arms again, but this, this is more than he deserves. It's as if part of him would almost prefer to be turned away. He deserves Jungkook's anger, not his tears, not to be his soulmate. He can't ever be that boy again; he was so happy, and he's not sure he's even capable of that anymore. But he wants it more than anything.

"And you're mine," he whispers, stroking Jungkook's hair. "Whoever we are." He should have known that, shouldn't have needed to be told. Should have gone home of his own accord, knowing with all his heart that Jungkook still loved him, that Jungkook would never falter, their love too precious to fade. He should have trusted him, and he feels like shit for having doubted all their promises just because he broke a few of them himself.

Even knowing all of that to be true, though, he can only hope it's enough now — that he's still recognizable underneath it all, that there's anything at all left of the boy Jungkook loved. They were always going to change, weren't they? Growing up would have accomplished that on its own. Still, he counters himself, they were supposed to change together. Now he's not sure they can ever make up for the time they've lost.

Whoever we are.

There was a time when they posited that being soulmates meant they would find each other in every lifetime. Every universe. Jungkook isn't sure whether or not he can summon that same childlike trust anymore, as much as he'd like to — but maybe there's a little bit of wisdom to be found in that thought. Maybe it's worth seeing this as less of a reunion, and more that they're back to learning one another, to discovering who the other is.

Because if this were the first time, both of them broken and tangled in the throes of grief, Jungkook thinks he'd still be drawn to him. To the sad eyes, shadowed beyond their years. He's no longer the person who finds strength in being that knight for others, but now... maybe it's just a little mirrored, what the both of them lack. The strength that both of them need to draw from elsewhere.

Jungkook reaches for Yoongi's hand with his own — the one that's less damp with his tears, the one that he hasn't used to try and smack some sense into himself — and laces their fingers together again.

"You were taking me somewhere," he says with a weak smile. "And being modest about it."

Yoongi hesitates, glancing down the street in the direction they were headed. Should he change course and take Jungkook to a motel instead? It might be less fucking depressing than showing him where he actually stays when it's warm enough or if he can't afford a motel for the night. They'd be more comfortable in a real bed. It's not like Yoongi has anywhere for them to sleep but a narrow couch. It's not too late.

He told Jungkook, though, that he'd know where to find him after this. And maybe that's a mistake, too, letting him so close again when he knows he's not strong enough for this, that he can only ever let Jungkook down. But he said it and he's trying so hard not to tell Jungkook more lies or to make him promises he won't keep.

"Not modest," he warns, stepping reluctantly back to continue on down the street. "Seriously, it's a dump." One of these days, he thinks, they'll tear the place down. Some nights, he hopes he's in there when they do. "But it has a roof and walls, so it'll do." There have been days he didn't have even that much, when the money he'd saved away finally gave out, faster than he'd expected it to, no matter how hard he'd tried to budget well, and he still couldn't find work. The abandoned studio isn't much; it's easy still to tell that the place has been condemned for a reason. But it's shelter all the same. Even so, he's already steeling himself for the mortification of showing Jungkook the place.

He glances over, proud and apologetic at once. "Just don't expect much."

It's not a surprise when Yoongi continues to talk down the place where he stays — and in truth, Jungkook's pretty sure that Yoongi isn't trying to exaggerate. If Yoongi thought of it as a livable space, he might have come back for Jungkook. Might have been willing, at least, to text or let Jungkook know that it wouldn't be much longer. For Yoongi to have kept such a silence, Jungkook thinks, would have to be because of a combination of inertia and a true belief that Yoongi didn't have anywhere good to receive Jungkook.

But there's also the strong possibility that Yoongi's perception has been warped over time. And Yoongi has no way of knowing exactly how much Jungkook's place at home has diminished — that it mirrors far too closely how Yoongi himself must have felt two years ago. Nothing but scrutiny and distance.

Anything must be better than that.

"As long as it has you, can it really be that bad?" Jungkook asks quietly, following along as they make their way down the street, his hand starting to search for those comfortable old habits. Thumb tracing along the side of Yoongi's palm, feeling the curve of his knuckles.

"Yes," Yoongi says quietly. He'd like to believe the sentiment behind the question, and he knows, if nothing else, that Jungkook means it. It's all too easy, though, to imagine Jungkook giving everything up to be with him and coming to resent him for it in time. With no money or secure job, no guaranteed shelter or food, he has nothing safe to offer. Maybe they'd do better, the two of them together, but all he can imagine is continued failure and Jungkook suffering for it. If he's lost and miserable, well, maybe that was always going to be the case, but Jungkook deserves better.

Still, he holds tight to Jungkook's hand, less with hope than with desperation, his heart clouded with grief. Maybe he's making a mistake, giving Jungkook somewhere to find him. Maybe it would have been smarter to promise instead to finally answer all those texts and voicemails, while keeping his distance until he's more certain he can handle the enormous responsibility of caring for another person.

As if he'll ever be able to. As if he could ever even take care of himself. His days are an agony and he stumbles blindly through them, smoking to steady his hands, drinking to steady his mind, sleep a mere illusion. How could Jungkook want him now? Once he sees what Yoongi's become, all his pretty words won't mean anything at all.

"It's just over here," he says as the building comes into sight. Already it makes him anxious, knowing how dilapidated the place looks, the windows marked with big black Xs. Jungkook was probably expecting an apartment, cramped, but made somehow legitimate by his paying rent. It's readily apparent that no one pays to live in this place. That no one's supposed to. But he guides Jungkook through the door and down the hall anyway, his heart racing, stomach turning. Maybe this will finally drive home the reality of his situation.

The studio is, at least, a wide open space, if not especially clean. There's the piano he managed to smuggle home after someone abandoned it, a couch left to rot by the side of the road, and room to breathe. He spends most of his time here curled up on the couch and trying to will his hands to work enough to play the old piano, but Jungkook doesn't need to know that yet. He wishes he'd had time to at least clean up some of the scattered bottles, but it's too late for that. The only stroke of luck in the place is that someone forgot to turn off the electricity and he can turn on the overhead lights as they step inside, though all that does is make the room look shabbier still.

"Here we are," he says dryly. "Home sweet home." He glances away, not wanting to see Jungkook's expression turn to disappointment or, worse, pity.

The surrounding construction gives Jungkook some idea of what to expect as they turn on the street, the path growing narrower until there's only one building that lies ahead. There isn't much light in the area, and fewer people still; it's clear enough that no one really intended for people to live here, not yet, and the thought squeezes Jungkook's chest tight. Is this safe? Probably not. But it's also not the first time that Jungkook's come across a place for squatting before, not even within their old group of friends.

He knows that Taehyung often spends time huddled in places that offer far less shelter than this, when the weather is warm enough to permit it.

It makes Jungkook's heart ache, able to clearly imagine the past two years, moving from place to place whenever discovered or otherwise forced to switch. If Yoongi had moved farther out into the countryside, would things have been better?

(What's the point in speculating about that? The real problem was that Jungkook went to the classroom when there was no need, that Yoongi took the brunt of the punishment for him. It doesn't matter how viable any other place would have been to live without a high school degree — the problem is that Jungkook took away so much opportunity.)

When they step through the entrance, the first thing Jungkook notices in the cool wash of fluorescent lighting are the various bottles, some lined up by the edge of the wall, others intermittently scattered. It makes him hold onto Yoongi's hand just a little tighter, wondering. Is this how he dulls the pain? How he shields himself from the damning silence and isolation?

The space itself isn't too shabby, to Jungkook's eyes. His expression evens as he glances around — the room is spacious, if unfurnished, and in spite of the tape on the windows, nothing looks like it's structurally unsound. While it looks lonely in the light of living on one's own, Jungkook can already picture how they could live here together. Maybe a futon, some plastic shelving for clothes, and—

"You have a piano?"

Jungkook's face lights up, lips parting as he steps forward, releasing Yoongi's hand in favor of jogging up to the bench. He casts a smile over his shoulder, chest tight with what feels like hope.

Isn't this all they ever needed?

A room, a place to sleep. A piano.

The two of them.

Jungkook plops himself down on the bench, hands gripping the edge. "Play for me?"

It takes Yoongi's breath away, his eyes going wide in surprise, his heart squeezing tight with some mix of emotions he has trouble naming. Jungkook smiles, bright and warm and real, and Yoongi loves him so, so much. It's all he's wanted, to make Jungkook happy, and it's seemed so impossible, so far beyond him in a place like this. How could he make Jungkook happy? He's a mess, a drunken drifter scraping by from one day to the next. This isn't the life they dreamed of. It never could be, but here's Jungkook and he's smiling, and things start to feel just a fraction more possible.

Yoongi lingers near the door for a few moments, uncertain. Even with a piano in his workroom, he's gone through long periods of resistance and drought, afraid to play. It only seems to bring back ghosts when he does, reminding him of happier days. There are times when he can't bear the memories; they only remind him that such pleasant moments will never come again. That he'll never see his mother, her voice long since gone faint in his mind, even her face starting to vanish from his memory. That he'd never make Jungkook happy again, that the other boy might refuse to forgive him when they met again. But he's here now and Yoongi's heart remembers the desire to make him happy at all costs, pulling him across the room to Jungkook's side.

"I'm out of practice," he says, a token protest as he sits at the bench, a fist tightening around his heart. Could things really change? Is there a chance he can one day drag himself out of this cycle of despair? They're back at the bench together, side by side like they were meant to be. Is this the start of something? Is it fair of him even to want that?

Even so, he takes a shaky breath and lifts the lid, fingers dusting gently over the keys as he reaches for something, anything, to play. He thinks briefly of Pathétique, of the notes echoing across the construction site, drawing him inexorably back to Jungkook. When he starts to play, though, it's the Chopin prélude he learned after that. For the most part, his fingers seem to remember, only a few wrong notes ringing out to make Yoongi wince. It's a beautiful piece, wavering between hope and a dark tension. The storm starts to feel inevitable as the song progresses, a heaviness settling over the music, and Yoongi falters in places, trying to remember. He used to love this. Playing for Jungkook was always so rewarding. Now he wonders if it's just one more way to disappoint him.

When he finishes, he draws back, biting nervously at an already frayed fingernail before he glances over.

Though he may be out of practice, the fact that the piano is here says more than enough for Jungkook. It couldn't have been easy, hauling a piano from wherever Yoongi did. It's been difficult for Jungkook himself to face the piano — both in the classroom and outside of it. Though Jungkook loves music, though he's always deeply loved sharing the keys with Yoongi, he's also never been able to quite distance himself from the thought that Yoongi and the piano are one and the same. The strings of the piano form Yoongi's words; the lingering warmth of a bench, always Yoongi's touch.

Initially, Jungkook did his best to try and hold that connection after Yoongi had left. Skated his fingertips over black and white, willing any shred of warmth to reveal itself. But the sound was never right. Too clumsy, too sudden, no more control of the highs and lows. Even in the music shop then, with the piece the two of them had practiced most together, it didn't matter how well his fingers remembered where to press. Something was still missing.

But sitting here, pieces start to shift back into place. Jungkook closes his eyes, comforted already by the warmth he feels at his left side. He's always wondered if sitting on the bench would have the effect of crowding Yoongi, but if it does, Yoongi's never complained. Jungkook feels his heart skip whenever Yoongi's sleeve brushes against his arm, when he can feel the very strings in front of him vibrating, the high sprinkle of raindrops against a lake.

There are places where Yoongi stumbles, tempo slightly uneven as the piece heads into the storm — but even that seamlessly weaves itself with the feel of the piece. A little chaotic. Lost, before finding the peace at the end.

Jungkook opens his eyes when the last of the notes fade, glancing over with a soft smile. His eyes are wet, but this time, Jungkook doesn't think he'll cry, no matter how deep the ache runs in his chest. Instead, his fingers gently coax Yoongi's hand away from his lips, then lift again to rest against Yoongi's chin. He uses the touch to guide him, lingering a breath away for a few moments before closing the distance, lips offering a gentle entreaty.

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