Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“The paint’s supposed to go where?”

“Here.” Jungkook pushed one of the two wooden boxes before them to the older boy. “We paint the box for each other.”

Yoongi stared at the box blankly, then at the brushes and paints, before his gaze met the maknae’s huge, expectant eyes. Then, in true Yoongi fashion, without touching either the rectangular container or the brush, he stood up unceremoniously. “No.”

“Eit –” He caught Yoongi’s wrist, having predicted this kind of response, and pulled his physically smaller hyung back down.

Jungkook thrust the box and the brush to him. “Paint with me, hyung.”

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“Hey, have you seen the..? Oh.”

Yoongi stared at the youngest, sitting on the car, holding out his lighter with huge eyes and equally huge grin.

“I knew it, you wouldn’t even notice I was missing if I didn’t take this,” said Jungkook. It was a joke, but Yoongi stilled for a brief moment.

He held the younger’s eyes for a good few seconds, before wordlessly taking the lighter and walking away.

Wouldn’t even notice, Yoongi thought bitterly. I notice too much, kid.

Flame sparked at the flick of his fingers, and he wondered about a different kind of spark.

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The white lighter hanging on the girl’s guitar was like a needle piercing through Jungkook’s heart, the pain was physical on his left chest.

The twinge came before the memories, before the flash of images of other times, of music and laughter, of –

          I swear it was an accident!

A particular scene was playing in his head, where he got his finger burned from playing with the lighter.

Then he remembered a deep voice, blonde hair, soft touch. Careful, Jungkookie. If you play with fire, you get burned.

Time stilled, everything blurred into the background, except for one thing.

“Hyung.”

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I can’t believe you talked me into it.

Yoongi had said, though the unmistakable fondness in his eyes betrayed him. It’d taken two weeks of constant convincing from Jungkook before Yoongi conceded, and Jungkook had kissed him right there and then.

Jungkook was happy, to the point where he started to be bolder.

With his hand stretched out over Hoseok, he sang Yoongi’s part in Best of Me – take my hand right now – making no mistake of who he was singing it to.

It was risky, he knew, but the brief, private smile Yoongi gave him was definitely worth it.

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Yoongi knows being in love.

He had been, once, so it isn’t like he’s trying to solve the conundrum of constricting hearts and flipping stomach and chest pains. He knows what it is.

But Yoongi is Yoongi and he burns what he touches, eventually he will burn Jungkook too. Sweet, pure Jungkook, who can still grin like a bunny despite all the shit that life has given him.

So he does what he thinks is right – he refuses the tight clutch the younger has around him, shoves him to the wall, throws the chair against the mirror.

Go. Save yourself.

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“Suran’s Wine, Producer Suga!”

The announcement rang loud and clear for the whole venue to hear, and the cheer that followed was mind-numbingly loud.

A striking juxtaposition to Namjoon, whose heart soared in silence from the rush of affection and most of all, overflowing pride.

He still remembered the first time he met the elder, how much they fought, both with and for each other, how it’d taken years for him to unravel the complex layers that built one Min Yoongi.

His hyung who was his own harshest critic, spending days holed up in the studio to make sure the songs sounded right.

Namjoon had had the privilege to witness Yoongi in all kinds of looks, shape, and mood for the last 8 years, but right now, up there on the stage holding the token of his hard work, all shy and flustered, Yoongi was the brightest he’d ever seen.

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It’s okay to have feelings, hyung.

Yoongi’s reflex had been a dry laugh, dripping with derision and disdain as he passed the joint to Namjoon, wishing it would shut the younger up.

He didn’t believe in love, such thing had no place in a life like his. It had been surviving, sometimes barely even that because Yoongi had always stood too close to fire ever since he knew what it could do.

But looking at the mop of brown hair on his lap, face so peaceful in sleep, Yoongi thought this might be the closest to love he’d ever felt.

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The wheelchair made a squeaking sound from the abrupt stop as Jungkook froze, the low buzz of the hospital hallway instantly faded into white noise.

He took in the person standing in front of him – hunched shoulders, all sharp lines and sharper eyes.

         Those eyes.

Jungkook would know those eyes anywhere.

Just like that, the memories came flooding, as his mind was filled with flashes of the whites and blacks of piano, searing touches, and low whispers in a dark night.

His voice resembled a gasp as he said, with an overwhelming longing he didn’t realize he had, “You came.”

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The fire in the center made the chilly night warmer and if Jungkook were a sap, he’d say their togetherness did, too.

(Jungkook wasn’t, so he didn’t.)

He reveled in the quiet night, with only low voices of the others talking in the background – something about going to the beach – as he settled on Yoongi’s lap. The older man used to frown in annoyance, but lately he just let Jungkook make himself comfortable.

He heard the familiar flick of lighter above his head and smiled.

This, too, was warm.

(Jungkook still wasn’t a sap, so he didn’t say that either.)

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“Yah! Who told you to mince the onion like that?” Seokjin yelled, exasperated.

Really, it shouldn’t have been surprising since it was Namjoon, and while the guy was outstanding in the studio, in the kitchen he was hopeless.

But then the younger smiled sheepishly, just a little embarrassed, as he started to pledge to cut the other half of the onion correctly and Seokjin couldn’t help the burst of fondness surging through him.

It was almost overwhelming that he had to move back-facing the camera, force his eyes elsewhere, busy himself with the recipe paper.

He still smiled, though. Fondly.

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It's one of those days. When Yoongi feels selfless— no, meaningless. When he has no care about anything, much less himself.

Except one.

"Kook-ah." Yoongi sighs, tired, worn. "I'm not good for you. I'll bring you down. You deserve better. How else should I say it to make you see that?"

If that familiar fire of anger could flare right now, that would be nice, Yoongi thinks. It doesn't, though.

Jungkook — his lovely, kind, beautiful Jungkook — just smiles. Sad, but still a smile.

"I'm not going anywhere. How else should I say it to make you see that?"

He hears it. It's a lot of words but to Yoongi it sounds like three.

"If you really want that, let's do it later, hyung. Later, when you find someone else. When I can get used to living without you. Let's do it then, yeah?"

His voice breaks.

Yoongi's heart does, too.

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They have less than 10 minutes.

Less than 10 minutes.

The misery in Taehyung and Seokjin's face slices through him but Namjoon knows there's not enough time for that. So he scolds them gently, tells them to focus on the show, to put the argument away for the moment.

But Taehyung just won't lift his head.

The weight of the concert is looming over them and as a leader he can't help but worry about it. But he is also their friend and brother first and foremost.

Putting what he hopes to be comforting hand on the younger's shoulder, Namjoon lowers his stance to catch Taehyung's eyes.

"Hey. Don't cry. It's going to be fine, yeah? Okay?"

Taehyung nods a few times but he still keeps his eyes down and Namjoon feels his heart break.

He pulls the kid into his arms and whispers. "It's going to be okay, Tae."

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Fuck.

Fuck.

Jungkook knows that Yoongi never gives less than his all on stage, which is exactly why he always shines the brightest when he raps with his raw emotion and tongue technology. Jungkook knows that.

But damn. Yoongi is up there, in the glittery jacket, skin glistening with sweat, performing Cypher part 2 with smouldering passion and smugness, and Jungkook can’t fucking take his eyes off him.

The final ‘yah!’ sets something off inside him along with a dozen alarms that he has to mentally kick his own brain.

Get it together, Jeon Jungkook!

(He’s still hot all over.)

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The boisterous laughter of his friends is familiar. It’s grounding, as if telling him that not all is lost and broken (not even himself). Of course, Yoongi would never admit that even with Hoseok’s forearm pressing on his windpipe.

Today is a good day though. They’re sitting by the pier together, their unintentionally color-coded white clothes still amuse him but he kind of likes it.

“It’s nice, isn’t it, hyung?”

Yoongi looks to his right and finds a wide smile with a scrunched nose so endearing that it hurts a little. He didn’t think anything (anyone) could make him feel like that anymore.

If Jungkook is a spring day, Yoongi is an umbra. Umbra, because not even Yoongi is enough to snuff out all of Jungkook’s light. Besides, he’ll kill himself first before he lets that happen.

“Yeah,” he says, brushing strands of hair out of Jungkook’s eyes. “It is.”