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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In a way, it feels a bit like the first time, like they're still discovering each other. Maybe they are. Maybe they have to learn each other all over again; maybe they still have a lifetime to do so in. Yoongi doesn't dare linger on that thought for long, couldn't even if he wanted to, not when Jungkook looks and feels so fucking good. It's hard to think clearly about anything, other than the fleeting thought that the sounds Jungkook makes are almost as intoxicating as the way he works his tongue over Yoongi's cock. Both make him feel as if there's nowhere else Jungkook wants to be, nothing else he wants to do.

Groaning, Yoongi reaches out to clutch at the couch, his other hand curling in Jungkook's hair. "So close," he gasps, eyes falling shut. They don't stay closed for long, though. Yoongi can't resist watching Jungkook, mesmerized, gaze locked on Jungkook's own. His breath catches, his heart racing, pounding in his ears. Jungkook doesn't need to say anything. Love is in every glance, every touch, every sound he makes. "Gonna come, Gguk, I'm — fuck —"

His whimper sinks into a low moan, his head tipping, back arching, as he comes, his hand pulling tight in Jungkook's hair without his meaning it to. Pleasure sweeps over and through him, and in the moment he sees stars, it almost feels like the last two years have fallen away entirely.

Jungkook's own lids flutter, though not quite to a close, desperate to drink in the sight of Yoongi's neck, stretched out and pale. In all the time they've known each other, Yoongi has always been the one of them who's sought after more control. Perhaps it's a consequence of the life he's led, how early on he had to start fending for himself and his own needs — a fact that led in part, Jungkook knows, to Yoongi's absence these past couple of years. He's always been thoughtful. More reserved. And so, to see him lose himself entirely in moments like this give Jungkook a deep pleasure — knowing how much trust there must be for Yoongi to let go.

And he's beautiful as he does, skin slightly damp with sweat, almost glowing in the dim light of the room. Jungkook lets out a small sound as Yoongi comes, no longer accustomed to the feel of the warmth hitting his throat, though he recovers quickly and does his best to swallow it all — driven, at least in part, by a need to show how much he cares. How much he loves Yoongi, how much he wants him.

How much he wouldn't be able to handle Yoongi leaving again.

Maybe it's unfair, and so it's nothing that Jungkook voices, instead pulling back carefully and checking to make sure he hasn't missed anything much, licking at his own lips, head swimming with the familiarity of how Yoongi tastes. It's a lot to take in, suddenly, now that the moment has passed. Two years. It's been two years, and Jungkook's chest is tight as he watches Yoongi, refreshing all the memories that had started to fade.

He crawls back up the length of the couch, dipping his head until his nose brushes against the curve of Yoongi's cheek. "So beautiful when you come for me," he murmurs. "Love you so much, Yoongi-ah."

Languid and sated, Yoongi turns his head to kiss Jungkook, his arms wrapping around him. In this moment, it all seems so easy. Maybe he can come home. He spent so long afraid of being alone, only to end up choosing that loneliness for himself. Maybe he doesn't have to be alone anymore. Even if Jungkook is the only one who forgives him, wouldn't that be enough?

Don't leave me, he thinks. Don't let me leave. No matter how relaxed he finds himself now, though, he can't bring himself to say it aloud.

"I love you," he says instead, feather-soft against Jungkook's lips, bringing a hand to his cheek. Fuck, how he missed this, just gazing into Jungkook's eyes and seeing all the love there, the adoration — tainted, perhaps, by a pang of guilt in Yoongi's heart, but irresistible all the same. Running a hand along Jungkook's back, down the slope of his spine, he sighs; it is, he knows with certainty, the best he's felt since he left home.

Even now, the little voice in the back of his head whispers he doesn't deserve it, and he knows that's true, that this is entirely selfish, but he's been so alone. The silence here is as oppressive as it was at home, nothing to relieve it but himself. To have Jungkook in his arms now, the air filled with their heavy breathing, their soft words, is so overwhelmingly good that it makes Yoongi's heart ache with gratitude and relief. The warmth and weight of Jungkook's body nestled against his own is better than he remembered, comforting, as if he's keeping Yoongi anchored in place, safe from the reality of his life.

"Gguk-ah," he murmurs, lifting his head for another kiss. "Can you stay tonight?"

This moment manages somehow to be both simple and impossibly difficult, Jungkook's chest feeling tight as he returns Yoongi's kisses, scarcely daring to breathe. There's a familiarity to being wrapped in Yoongi's arms, a safety that Jungkook finds himself reluctant to leave, and yet his mind is already sinking into a quiet hum of panic. In spite of his optimism, he finds himself expecting this moment to end, now that the height of desperation has passed. As though any shift is liable to wake up him with an unpleasant jolt, with the realization that tonight has been nothing more than a dream.

Perhaps it's for this reason that Jungkook curls up in Yoongi's arms; he may be the taller of the two of them, but Jungkook almost folds himself into Yoongi's embrace now, wanting to be surrounded by his warmth, his touch. His kisses return to the almost imperceptible tremulation they'd carried back in the music store, and a part of Jungkook hates himself for it. He should be showing to Yoongi that he's pulled himself together, that he's capable now of withstanding anything that might get thrown in their direction — but the almost childish bravado of two years ago has been tempered.

When Yoongi asks Jungkook to stay, Jungkook's breath catches; he takes a moment to reorient himself. Presses another kiss to Yoongi's lips, letting that carry the weight of the deep longing in his chest, the weight he's been carrying for two years now, one hand brushing down the length of Yoongi's side as they kiss.

"I would've been upset if you didn't invite me to stay," Jungkook admits, pulling back only far enough to meet Yoongi's gaze, his eyes tracing over every last feature. It's really him. "Of course I can. I don't want to let you go."

Every moment feels so fragile. Yoongi feels so fragile. His days are a constant back and forth between genuine numbness and trying not to feel, knowing how easy it is for him to fall apart. He's told himself it's just him, that he's just weak like that, useless like that. Right now, it feels like it's only been because too much of him was missing to hold the rest together. He hasn't been whole in years.

But that's his own fucking fault and maybe some people deserve to be broken.

"I don't want to let you go either," he says, hushed, fingers tracing aimless designs along Jungkook's back. "Feels like a dream. I missed you so much." His voice grows hoarse as he speaks, just shy of cracking. They were separated because of him. He chose that. It doesn't feel right to act like he gets to be sad about it, but he can't help it either. Even with Jungkook here, he's not sure he can ever repair the damage he's done to their relationship. To himself.

He lifts his head, presses a kiss to Jungkook's lips, his eyes closing again as he brushes another kiss against his cheek. "Nothing feels right without you."

There's a constant warring of voices in Jungkook's head. No, maybe voices isn't quite the right way to describe it — more like a warring of emotions, even more dizzying for how they're hard to define, hard to distinguish from one another. An insistent petulance, a flicker of hurt — if Yoongi missed him, if Yoongi didn't want to let him go, why did he? If nothing felt right without Jungkook, why didn't Yoongi turn around and set the world back in place?

(Because of you. Because you made the mistake and cost Yoongi his future; would anyone think straight after that? A crushing guilt, the reason why Jungkook can't take a full breath, and it's hard to distinguish this weight from that of the arms gently draped around his back.)

And now he's here. And now he's here, real and solid, every last touch as comforting as it was before, the two of them falling back into place like no time passed at all. Jungkook inhales sharply as Yoongi closes the distance between their lips again; his skin still feels heated to the touch, though he shivers every time a draft passes through the unit.

"Nothing was right when you were gone," Jungkook whispers, drawing in a shaky breath before he buries his face against the side of Yoongi's neck, muffling his voice. "I can't even remember — I can't remember how one day was different from the next. Just that you weren't there. It was all I could think about. Remembering you."

It unnerves Yoongi a little, how familiar that sounds. All his days have faded into each other, one hardly different from the next — days of numbness followed by weeks of pain. He doesn't know how he's still here, but he's not about to tell Jungkook that. Everything is so tenuous as it is. If he admits it's been that bad — and, god, Jungkook knows him, can probably already imagine — he's not sure he'll ever be able to convince Jungkook to leave his side. And he has to. As much as Yoongi can hardly bear the idea of watching him go, Jungkook can't stay here. He might think he'd be happy here, but Yoongi has three months to prove he can do better.

For now, though, all he wants to do is hold Jungkook tight, making small soothing motions against his back. If Jungkook sounds younger even than Yoongi remembered, curled small and hurt against him, then he only has himself to blame for that.

"I shouldn't have left," he says quietly. It hurts to admit; it feels a little too close to saying that there was no point in it, that he put them through this for no reason. "I shouldn't have done that to you." He swallows hard, takes a deep breath. Even now, he's not sure he can ever go back. But they were planning to run anyway. Just because he can't go home doesn't mean they can't find another home somewhere else, maybe.

If Jungkook can forgive him. If he doesn't wake up tomorrow and tell Yoongi to fuck off, like he should.

"I didn't know what else to do." He turns his head, burying his face against Jungkook's hair, breathing him in. "I fucked up. And then I was too scared to go back. And I get it if you never forgive me. If no one does."

We're better off without you. Just because Jimin's not around doesn't mean the others don't feel the same way.

"But I'm here."

He shouldn't have left; that Yoongi acknowledges the truth now takes the very breath from Jungkook's lungs, eyes blinking fast as he determinedly stares at the length of Yoongi's neck, too close and blurred for focus. Jungkook can't help but wonder why it wasn't enough — all those calls, all those texts and voicemails, pleading with Yoongi to return. He must have listened to them, otherwise his mailbox would have filled up, no more space to save an additional word. Why wasn't it enough to bring Yoongi back then? Is it only now, seeing how far Jungkook has fallen and how weakness has spread through his very veins, that Yoongi feels he's made a mistake?

Jungkook isn't sure if he wants that, either. Isn't sure if he can cope with Yoongi living with the belief that it was his absence that tore Jungkook apart and left him as he is now, a shell of what he was before. (But maybe it was, maybe it was Yoongi being gone. Together, Jungkook never minded the other struggles so much. Together, Jungkook found the resilience to weather through the days.)

It's too soon to process it all. Jungkook hates that he can't give that solace to Yoongi straight away. That he can't, with a word, let Yoongi know that he's forgiven. Forgiveness is tangled in too much else for Jungkook to offer it in good faith just yet.

"You should... let the others know," Jungkook says softly, pressing the tip of his nose against Yoongi's skin, counting out the cadence between each rise and fall of his breath. "They missed you, you know. Even if they were angry, they all missed you. Hoseokie hyung..."

Jungkook's eyes slide to a close. "All I've needed is for you to be here."

Yoongi exhales slowly, focused on slowing the way his heart races at the idea of talking to the others now. It's hard to believe they'd still want him among them. By now, they must see him for what he really is, and why would they want him back? He abandoned them. Abandoned Hoseok, who's already been left enough. It doesn't seem to him like there's any chance of them forgiving him. He wouldn't deserve it if they did.

Stay gone.

Maybe Jungkook only needed him. But the others never really did. They're better off without him now.

"I'm here," he says again, hand stilling at the small of Jungkook's back. He should say I'm not going anywhere, he knows he should, but the words don't come. He presses a kiss to Jungkook's hair, eyes closing tight again, heart aching. Jungkook still loves him, never stopped loving him, and he repaid him with betrayal. He hurt all of them. Why any of them would want him back is beyond him, and the idea of it is terrifying. He can't be relied on, can't be trusted not to hurt them again. It's a responsibility he doesn't know how to bear.

He's quiet a moment, takes another slow, deep breath, before he can speak again. "I don't know if I can go back. They... I don't think they'd want to see me again. Better off without me anyway."

When Yoongi draws in a breath, Jungkook nearly flinches. Wonders what could take so long to work up to saying, right after reassurances offered. It doesn't take long for Jungkook's mind to come up with a million possibilities, each one hurting more than the last — that Yoongi will warn Jungkook that he can't stay, that Jungkook isn't allowed to return as often as he's already planning to. He closes his eyes, letting himself slip into the darkness in the shadow under Yoongi's jaw, his arms wrapping just a little tighter around Yoongi's waist.

But then the words slip from Yoongi's lips, and it's worse, almost. Because Jungkook doesn't know the full extent of reassurances he can offer. Doesn't know how each one of the others will react. He remembers the fire in Jimin's eyes, fierce and protective, but — oh, Jimin isn't around anyway. He wonders how Taehyung might react, for one of their number to come back but not the one Taehyung longs for most. Wonders if Hoseok would forgive Yoongi as plainly as he might his mother, were she to ever return.

Jungkook wants to believe the best, but it's been so long.

"We're not better off without you," he says quietly, the only words he can offer with certainty. "None of us were ever better off without you." He draws in a deep breath, feeling the weight of a secret settle around his neck, because if Yoongi doesn't want to return, there's no point in telling the others.

"All of you are better off without me," Yoongi counters. He winces a little at his own words, but he's already so mired in his guilt, it makes little difference now. It's not like it isn't true. It's only the certainty that his saying as much will upset Jungkook that bothers him now. "Who needs a friend they can't trust? And they have no reason to trust me anymore."

It's not like he's planning to run again now that he's been found. But the part of him that wants desperately to stay just like this forever is at war with the part of him ready to bolt, afraid of what he might do next. Afraid he can't give them support anymore, that his affection will always be at the risk of seeming inauthentic. How could he really love them if he left?

Even if he left precisely because he loves Jungkook.

In a way, the idea they might forgive him is even worse than thinking they wouldn't. He doesn't deserve their trust anymore. Doesn't deserve Hoseok's forgiveness. Doesn't deserve to feel as comfortable in Jungkook's arms as he does even now.

"I miss them," he admits, hand smoothing along Jungkook's back again, holding him close. "I just... I don't know."

"But if you let them know... it's not like you left because you didn't care," Jungkook says, though his words feel thin to his ears, his tone unsure. It's easy for him to pull that much faith in Yoongi — practically second nature. He knows how much Yoongi loves the others, no matter how much he's struggled at times to express it. Jungkook's seen the look in Yoongi's eyes as he watches over the others, the gentleness with which his gaze trailed after them as they ran across the beach. Jungkook knows, because he's always watched Yoongi.

But can the others summon up such faith? Jungkook can't say. It's not his place to say. Perhaps if Yoongi hadn't been gone for so long, if he'd left for months rather than years, the distance would be quicker to close.

"Just think about it?" Jungkook asks quietly, hesitant to meet Yoongi's gaze, wondering if he's asking too much. It's two years. Two years of isolation on Yoongi's part, cut off from everyone else.

He smooths his hand over Yoongi's chest, ducking back down to press a kiss against the hollow of Yoongi's neck. "Doesn't have to be today or anything... but I think. I think they'd appreciate hearing from you," he murmurs.

Yoongi closes his eyes, heart aching. It's true, he didn't leave because he stopped caring about them. He still does, no matter how long it's been since he last saw them. That only makes it harder to reach out, afraid as he is of being rejected. It's not like he could fault them if they pushed him away. He did so first, after all. They have no reason to take him back, and contacting them just feels like inviting more pain into his life. He's just not sure how he could bear being turned away by people he still loves so dearly.

"Okay," he sighs. "I'll think about it." And he will, he knows, his mind unable to stop imagining how badly it could go. In the end, though, he knows he'll probably do it. Reaching out after this long is hard; he has no idea how to start. But Jungkook wants it of him and he's always wanted to give Jungkook everything within his power. He may not have much to offer, but he can do this. Probably.

He presses another kiss to Jungkook's hair. Maybe it would be easier to do it now, with Jungkook here to hold him when things go badly, but he doesn't want to disrupt their time together. Now that Jungkook knows where he is, Yoongi knows he'll come back, but he still feels as if tonight is something he needs to commit to memory, as if the chance to be together will never come again. "But tonight is just for us, okay?"

His stomach lurches, heart twisting tight in his chest. Just for us. It used to be that the entire world felt painted in such a way — that every path was one that had led them to one another, that they were always intended to be, that the universe revolved around them. But now, even a single night is more than Jungkook has let himself think about for years. Jungkook draws in a wavering breath. Every cell in his body aches to find ways to tie them back together — wishes that, no matter how painful the knowledge might be, that he knew every step Yoongi took. Every day that Yoongi lived. That Jungkook could have the full picture, absorbing it as part of himself.

That the world could be theirs again.

But he's not sure where to start. Not sure where to pull back the curtains and expose what's been held in shadow. To ask feels like it'd be inviting in more pain, knife twisting in the wound. Jungkook's always been clumsy with his words, and if he's honest, he knows that Yoongi's been the same.

And everything is too fragile now to risk fumbling.

"Just for us," Jungkook echoes, and it hurts. He pulls back, sliding further up on the couch, until they can see each other eye to eye — but Jungkook breezes past that, doesn't lock gazes for too long before he's leaning in to seal distance with a kiss, a soft gasp on his lips, searching for that warmth from earlier. Letting touch fill in the blanks that words can't. In Yoongi's skin, in the contour of his ribs, Jungkook feels the passage of time. But the familiarity is still there. The cracks and crevices, Jungkook can still slip into as he did before.

He has to believe that.

"I love you," he breathes, pressing their foreheads together. "I can't believe that I have you again."

Yoongi has always wondered what he could have done, in this life or any other, to deserve to be loved the way Jungkook loves him. He used to think it must have been something pretty special. Now it's hard to feel he deserves it at all. His breath catches in his throat at Jungkook's words, everything a confusing mix of longing and fear. This is what he wants, what he's wanted for so long, and now that he has it, he feels clumsy and lost, unworthy of such affection. Maybe if it were just that, he could handle it, but it's not that simple. He's not the only one who's afraid. It might have been a long fucking time since they were last together, but Yoongi still knows how to read Jungkook. Still knows how it feels to hold him when he's scared and unsure, the way he did on the last day they had together.

"I'm not much to have," he admits, shifting to brush his nose against Jungkook's. He's going to fuck this up, he knows he is, just like he did before. Warning Jungkook might not accomplish anything, but it slips out of him before he can think better of it. They never needed anything fancy, never needed to be more than moderately comfortable, but he can't even give Jungkook that. All he has is a rundown studio that could get torn down on any given day without warning and a mind that hopes he's in it when that happens.

He keeps stroking his hand gently along Jungkook's side, his eyes closing so he can focus on the physical: the soft rise and fall of Jungkook's breath, the places where their bodies meet, still fitted together just right. It helps to ground him. The part of him that's nervous and quick to flee doesn't go anywhere, but he can at least try to ignore it a little longer. "I'm not even sure I'm the same person. But I love you. I know that."

They were always going to grow and change. That's just part of life. They were just supposed to do so together and he robbed them of that.

"Stop it," Jungkook breathes, leaning in so Yoongi can't focus on the way he frowns, on the way he cringes suddenly under the pain. To hear Yoongi speak of himself in such a way reminds Jungkook of the nights where even being together was barely enough to pull Yoongi back in from the tide — of tangled limbs, tears seeping into fabric, of sleep finally arriving hours later than intended as they drift off into soft, easy breathing. Yoongi's never been the best at seeing his own worth, and Jungkook knows that two years spent in isolation must have made all hope more distant still. It's part of the reason why the silence wasn't purely hurtful — it was part of why silence drew forth a deep apprehension, waiting and wondering if there'd be some headline on the news. Some announcement in the obituaries.

Jungkook wasn't there for it. No, maybe it's worse than that — if Jungkook had never been around, Yoongi wouldn't have reduced himself to this. Yoongi had the others, had friends who loved him and understood, who asked for his company and never more. Friends he didn't need to defend in the way that he did Jungkook. Friends who didn't come with the obligation of needing to build a future, a foundation for two people to stand on.

It's not hard to imagine that without Jungkook, Yoongi would been attending university now, and maybe there wouldn't have been those days filled with nothing but love and laughter, but fewer doors would have closed.

It's not hard to imagine that Yoongi could have found someone better anyway, in time.

Their love used to be the sort that Jungkook never wanted to paint with regret, no matter the challenges and circumstance. But now, he wonders how he can work past it, all the shame and guilt.

"You've given me more than you'll ever know," Jungkook says, smoothing a hand over Yoongi's chest, resting it over his heart. "If we're not the same people, it's only because we were supposed to be together, right? And now we are. We have to believe something will come out of that."

Belief — hope — is so fucking hard to come by these days. It's true, Yoongi knows, that the distance between them is why he is who he is now. He was always better with Jungkook at his side, always more the self he wanted to be. Jungkook had such faith in him. It sounds like he still does, even now, sparking worry in Yoongi's mind; all he can do now is drag Jungkook down with him. He's not sure the person he is now is someone Jungkook will still love anyway, or if he'll finally see what Yoongi has known all along — that he's broken and twisted and afraid.

So maybe something will come out of it. Maybe being with Jungkook again will help, the way it used to, chasing away the dark shadows in his head until he starts to feel like a person again. He's not sure it's worth the risk of bringing Jungkook down to his level. Is the love he has to give worth that? Worth the pain and the heartbreak he's already put Jungkook through?

What if what comes of their being together again is only misery and despair? They were supposed to be together. He's the one who took this time from them. Maybe he did give Jungkook more than he knows; he also took so much away. He's not sure it evens out.

He lifts a hand to rest atop Jungkook's, exhaling softly. "Sorry," he says, mustering a small, rueful smile. "We are, you're right. We're together. I'm just out of practice at being good company."

It's difficult to avoid wondering if he's trying too hard. There was a question that he'd asked Namjoon years ago, that he received no more of a response to than he did any of the others — whether loving someone meant holding on, or letting go. His own mother chose the latter, chose to forget the connection she once had to Jungkook's father. Maybe that was the kinder choice in its own right, to let someone go, to relieve them of the obligation. Jungkook can't help but glance at Yoongi and wonder whether or not there'd be peace to be found, down the line, after the passage of years.

Can't help but wonder if both of them are hurting more now than they were earlier that night, when they were numb to the pain.

Jungkook knows, though — that he's too selfish to let go now.

He lowers his head back down to Yoongi's shoulder, reaching up with his thumb to brush against the hand atop his own. Focuses on the concrete details. The warmth of Yoongi's body. The rise and fall of his breath. He shivers when a draft picks up, looks over his shoulder and reaches for the blanket that's draped over the back of the couch.

There was a time when simply sleeping together brought them peace, and Jungkook wonders if it'll do so now.

"Never too late to start practicing again," he murmurs, tugging the blanket up and over both their bodies, dragging his leg over Yoongi's and feeling the prickle of hair against his skin.

It gets cold here at night. There isn't much insulation in the studio, no heating, but Yoongi stays here as often as he can handle it, trying to save what money he can. Tonight, though, there's Jungkook, warm against him, and even the narrow couch feels more comfortable with him here than it ever has before. Yoongi nestles close, pressing another kiss to Jungkook's hair, gently rubbing his back to help warm him.

He's not sure what Jungkook says is true. He's still young and maybe it's not too late to try to turn things around, but being young would matter a lot more if he expected to live to be old. It's not that he intends to go out of his way to make sure it doesn't happen; it just seems unlikely. Where he once imagined growing old with the man he loves, the future has turned to a vast, dark blankness, empty and unyielding. He was so sure of what they had, he's not certain he knows how to imagine around it anymore.

He can't be like that anymore, he tells himself. With Jungkook back in his life, he has to try harder to live, not to court death. He can't leave him again, not like that. It seems like a big promise to commit to, though.

"I'll try," he says. It feels like the best he has to offer now, paltry in the face of what he used to dream of for them. He'll attempt to be a person. It's pathetic. "You might have to show me how."

The soft brush of Yoongi's hand starts to lull Jungkook towards slumber. He hasn't had a deep night's sleep in weeks — hardly remembers what it's like at all. Most of his evenings are filled with fevered dreams, the kind that linger somewhere between fiction and reality, tangling up the details until it's impossible to really tell which is which. Sometimes, he dreams of those early high school days, of fingers tripping over keys, of soft murmurs against the shell of his ear. Sometimes, he's running through the street, with little more than a couple of lamps to illuminate the way, and the road never ends but Jungkook knows that what he wants is still some distance away.

He never sleeps for long, waking up with a start when the details jar too much. When he misses too much.

When fear sinks deep.

Sometimes, Jungkook finds that his body gives in, when physical and mental exhaustion will carry him no further. Those nights are the silent ones, and he remembers nothing, save for absence. The absence of thought, of sound. It's never the most restful, and yet Jungkook finds himself wishing he could stay in those moments, when at least he doesn't drown in emotion.

But perhaps tonight will be different. When Jungkook's eyes threaten to slide to a close, it's the walls of Yoongi's room he sees, from two years ago. He nuzzles his face against Yoongi's neck, dropping drowsy kisses against the skin.

"We'll practice together," he mumbles. Hopes, this time, that when he wakes, Yoongi will still be there.

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