Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

if competitiveness was coloured something, jungkook reckons it'd look like the shades of night sky raven on min yoongi's hair. " — en garde! " yoongi's eyes are sharp as blades as he puts on his mask, body lean in white, a single red band around his wrist, visible under his sleeve. it's really difficult not to stare. "p ret—! " there's a momentum there, held in time and space, and jungkook is sure he doesn't breathe, no one does. " —allez! " and then the most impressive dance happens, and yoongi's the best dancer of them all, feet light and attack jarring, taking the lead and slashing through his opponent's see-through movements in such agility jungkook is left aghast.  

the assault ends quickly, fifteen-three. people applaud weakly — they're all in it to win, and after such display, it's hard to feel content. jungkook bites down on his lip, still absorbed in the shape of the smaller fencer, and how it makes his mouth dry. “he’s really good,”  taehyung mutters, faintly. yoongi removes his mask and glove, hand lazily fixing the soft-looking strands of hair. “i mean, you’re good, but he’s just— really good.” and it’s true. min yoongi, raised in private schools abroad, has a much better curriculum than any of the other fencers going through the tryouts for the national team. his trophies line up, almost a crown adorning his features. jungkook only has university medals, and not once has left the country. “are you in his group?” 

“no,” jungkook replies. “i’ll only fence him if i win all my bouts.”

“well,” taehyung pokes the hilt on jungkook’s saber. he isn’t a fencer himself, not anymore, much more into the artsy movements of the 1960s instead, but he’s learned to like jungkook’s sport (albeit, when they were teenagers, complaining jungkook’s less likely to get a girlfriend, or anyone for that matter, if he walks around in breeches all day). “you’ll probably fence him, then.”

there’s no one in the hotel room when jungkook arrives, much later, sore from taking hits. all his assaults turned out messy and bearing no elegance — and even though the first few weeks are just field practice, it feels rather tasteless to start off lacking. it’s a simple room, two beds, a shared closet and bathroom, a television on the wall and a minibar jungkook is sure he won’t ever touch. even with his scholarships, staying in seoul for whatever time it’ll take to pass through finals will consume a lot of his parents’ expenses. he sighs, dropping his bags on one of the beds, stretching, toes curling against the carpet. 

stripping out of his clothes feels good, after the train ride and the few hours of practice. he notices the newer bruises on his sides, mumbling with some degree of annoyance. his brother would often stab at the purple spots on his ribs, making him flinch in pain. jungkook smirks at the memory — and then the door beeps, unlocking, and there’s no time to hold up clothes in front of himself before someone else is walking in. jungkook barely recognizes min yoongi without his jacket and breeches, those being replaced by jeans ripped at the seams and a white, pressed shirt. he’s wearing a black face mask, and his eyes are less venomous than on the piste. he stops, finding jungkook’s half-naked and frozen in place, then looks back at the number written on the door. “— this is my room,” yoongi says, and jungkook thinks he’s never heard his voice before. it’s — low, and growly. 

“this— this is a shared room,” he explains, the pace of his heart affected. 

“ah.” it’s all min yoongi says, with a followed sigh. he enters, closing the door behind him, dragging his bags next to the other bed, pulling down his mask. jungkook thinks he sees reds on his cheeks, but he quickly averts his eyes to something else. “if you don’t mind, i’d like to shower, too.” jungkook startles, grabbing his things in quick, embarrassed movements, dropping half of them on the way to the bathroom, and when he locks himself in, there’s a moment of sheer panic as he stands with his back against the door, chest rising and falling. idealistically, jungkook reckons this is an opportunity to observe the strongest fencer in the competition. realistically, jungkook doesn’t know how to put sentences together anymore. my roommate is min yoongi , he texts taehyung, fingers clammy. the odds , it’s taehyung’s reply. he’s probably smirking on the other side, face stained with paint from his latest canvas. a soft knock makes jungkook jump away from the door as if it’s on fire. “— are you dead? it’s been ten minutes.”

“no,” he turns the shower on, clearing his throat. “just—yeah. will be right out.”

it’s possibly the quickest shower of his life, and the hot water does little to allay the stress that curls itself in his stomach. yoongi is on his bed when jungkook steps out, shirt half unbuttoned, feet free from socks, mask gone. the book he reads is in french, his eyes scanning the pages, propped on his chest. there’s a poignant charm to the way he lays, as if posing inside a scene of an european movie. jungkook feels awkward at once, looking the other way, followed out by the steam of his shower, clothes sticking to the places that haven’t fully dried. he gathers his bags, starting to unpack, glancing halfway at the mirror when yoongi walks by, locking himself up in the stuffy bathroom. he’s really short, jungkook thinks, out of spite, huffing, even if in fencing, height eventually doesn’t matter much. 

when yoongi finishes his shower, jungkook is already in bed, not as gracefully, maybe, in an iron man shirt and mismatched socks that yoongi only spare a look at. they are silent for a while, every minute a small torture— jungkook feels restless, mouth opening and closing multiple times, giving up halfway, words amiss. “if you’re not going to say anything, stop trying,” yoongi tells him almost nonchalantly, looking away from his book and meeting jungkook’s eyes. 

“i thought you were rich,” somehow, that’s the first thing jungkook says, and it sounds as dumb as it can be, and he blushes all the way down his toes. yoongi frowns. “i mean— you’re sharing—a hotel room,” he stammers, sitting up straighter.

“everyone who’s not from seoul is staying in the same hotel,” yoongi points out, dryly. it’s easy to see he’s not very keen on the sharing part, maybe only finding it bearable.

“—you’re from france?” jungkook points towards the book, and yoongi’s eyes follow his movements. 

“daegu,” he replies, with a huff. “what’s your name again?”

“jeon— jungkook. just jungkook.”

jungkook dares to raise his eyes, but yoongi isn’t looking his way. he has returned to his book, eyelids sleepy and heavy-looking. he remembers how sharp he looked on the piste, how viciously like a knife he seemed to cut the air with his sabre, although now his features are mostly soft and clean and much less guarded. yoongi’s eyebrows react to something happening inside the pages, and his lips curl upward. the air smells faintly of peach, and jungkook knows it’s not his own shampoo. he swallows, bothered, forcing himself to turn the other way, painfully aware of yoongi’s presence. anyone else would have been fine— anyone else would have been probably less daunting, less troublesome, less achingly attractive . he inhales sharply, catching himself from letting thoughts go awry. “just jungkook,” yoongi calls, and he feels himself flinch. a pause follows. jungkook turns to look over his shoulder, aware of his own redness. yoongi has turned on the bed, facing him, eyes closed, hands curling under his pillow, the red band around his wrist the only bright blotch of colour on him, book forgotten. 

“yeah?”

“turn the lights off,” he demands, drowsy.

and jungkook quickly complies, wanting nothing but darkness to engulf them. 

morning welcomes him with yellow sunlight warming up his naked legs, and jungkook groans happily, pleased with it, relishing in the last minutes of comfort and rest before finally opening his eyes, blinking in the daylight. the first thing he sees is that yoongi’s bed is made, sheets tucked in as if not slept on. jungkook stares at it for a second longer, the faint smell of peach still somewhat enthralled in the air. his phone tells him it is barely past nine. another groan, slightly more upset. he loves fencing — every muscle in his body yearns for it, but his muscles sometimes yearn for soft linen and late mornings. still, he pushes himself up halfheartedly, staring longingly at his bed as he quickly makes it, smoothing the edges to maybe resemble the foldings on min yoongi’s (they don’t). 

there are other fencers at breakfast, faces jungkook faintly recognizes from competitions across the country, some he beat, some that he — didn’t. there’s no sign of yoongi there, and he isn’t searching, he tells himself. do you want to get coffee? , he texts taehyung, then, to which a reply comes a minute later, you should go make friends. still, they find themselves in line for coffee some half an hour later, taehyung looking like he just stepped out of a van gogh, all brights and pastels combined. it’s not that jungkook doesn’t want to make friends — it’s just that he finds it much more difficult to obliterate someone’s dreams once he gets to know them, and he tells taehyung just that. “i’m not losing, hyung,” he shrugs, as taehyung eyes him rather oddly. “— what?”

“what if you do lose?”

that’s a possibility jungkook doesn’t dwell in. he can’t lose, that’s all there is to it, really. so he just shrugs again, weakly this time, a blur of red on his cheeks. “are you coming to watch the practice today?”

“no,” he says, rather apologetically. taehyung is an art major, on his steady way to a degree, and whilst jungkook wished to be as diligent as taehyung is regarding his studies, he also thinks his own studies are rather boring in comparison. university is just means to an end for him— the piste is where he’s rather be most of time. the decline of his grades lately shows just that. taehyung orders his coffee. “i’ll get yours.”

“you don’t have to,” jungkook complains, embarrassed. “ hyung —” 

“you’re broke as fuck,” taehyung nudges him, smirking. “it’s fine.” he clears his throat. their friendship blossomed from the strange similarity that exists in differences. taehyung and his wealthy family, jungkook and his struggling one, a sparring session that ended with both of them rolling on the floor, punching at each other’s faces. somehow that day ended with bloody knuckles, bruised lips and a shared coca-cola, and from then on, they were friends. “how’s your archenemy?”

he knows taehyung means yoongi, and he bites on the straw of his iced americano, gesturing towards an empty table. “haven’t seen him,” he mumbles more than talks. “he’s not my archenemy.”

“it makes for a better story if he is,” taehyung slides on his seat languidly. “knowing him maybe will give you advantages.”

“i don’t see how knowing how he makes his bed will be of any help,” and it won’t, unless somehow yoongi ends up with a sore right wrist from lifting his mattress. “he’s very— collected.”

“maybe he’s a creep,” taehyung suggests, and they grin at the thought. imagining min yoongi as a creep somehow is much more helpful than thinking about his unbuttoned shirt, especially later on the day, when jungkook steps in to practice, quickly finding yoongi amongst the small crowd of athletes, practicing his attacks on the side of the gymnasium. he’s — sweaty, hair sticking to his forehead, a small cut on the side of his lip, maybe from biting it. his pose is graceful, arms wide, legs spread, then connecting again, footwork impeccable. maybe i’m a creep , jungkook thinks, forcing himself to look the opposite way.

fencing eventually takes control of all the parts of his brain, and min yoongi, a few meters away, is forgotten. he spars with a couple of different people, the assaults playful and easygoing at first, getting more daring as the day progresses. jungkook breathes in the air that is stained with heaving, heart beating joyful. he wins all of his assaults, the coaches patting his back, and at some point— at some point he finds himself staring at min yoongi, poking his jacket with the tip of his sabre. yoongi looks down at it, then up. he looks tired. “spar with me,” jungkook asks, or tells, slightly too overconfident. people around them move slowly, looking their way. 

“i’m about to leave,” is yoongi’s reply, pushing the blade away. jungkook stops him with a flair. 

“come on.”

if jungkook could go back in time, he’d have told his old self to just let it go. but right in the present, he doesn’t, and so yoongi breathes deeply, jaw clenching. the pretty lines on his face seem to get more pronounced. “one hit.” he doesn’t smile, but jungkook does, excited, as they push masks down and walk towards the piste. certainly he can touch yoongi first. certainly yoongi’s not as good as he seems. certainly there’s no way — but there is, and the moment someone says allez , yoongi attacks with such speed jungkook stumbles backwards, and then he’s on the floor, the tip of yoongi’s blade right above his heart. arrêt! he takes off his mask, the rivetting colour of his hair giving him dark edges. jungkook swallows, burning with heat. “one hit,” yoongi repeats, withdrawing, and walking away.

i think he’s my archenemy now , he texts taehyung on his way back to the hotel, ego bruised far more than his body. to go back to a hotel room drenched in min yoongi’s peach shampoo is not a nice reminder of it. the plot thickens, is taehyung’s short reply, and jungkook huffs, annoyed. there’s no sight of min yoongi in the darkened room, though. the only trace of him even having been there at all is the bag left on the bed, neatly. jungkook goes through his own stuff, then, which ultimately is much more disorganized than yoongi’s, spreading his clothes around, skin products piling on his pillow, and his shower is longer, the lingering expectation of maybe seeing yoongi there once he walks out of the bathroom still looming his thoughts. there’s no one still. 

it’s only late that jungkook hears the door unlock. he’s almost asleep, drifting in between dreams and reality, and in the dark yoongi can’t really see how he blinks, staring. he strips, and jungkook’s body stiffens. somehow the way some lines on yoongi’s body are lit by the very soft lights from outside makes him— uncomfortable. in unwelcomed places. yoongi stretches, the groan contained at the back of his throat. then he reaches forward, turning on the lamp next to his bed, the yellow light staining the walls too harshly. “sh—“ he starts, looking over his shoulder to maybe check if jungkook’s properly asleep, which he isn’t. he’s staring at the multiple bruises all over yoongi’s fair body, eyes slightly teary from the invasive light. “you’re awake.”

“you’re—naked.”

“well, yeah,” yoongi huffs, pulling on his sheets to maybe hide. he looks just mildly flustered from being caught—red handed, jungkook wants to say, but he isn’t doing anything particularly wrong. “it’s my room.”

“ ours ,” jungkook corrects him, not looking away, not matter how badly he wants to, needs to . “it’s— mine, too.” yoongi doesn’t say anything else, pulling pajama bottoms over his naked legs and, jungkook swallows, other— parts . “were you practicing until now?” it’s a prying question, and it rolls out of his tongue mostly unabashed. yoongi sparks the kind of curiosity that is difficult to resist. jungkook just doesn’t resist at all.

his body is finally covered, and yoongi sits on the bed, ignoring jungkook’s stare. “yeah,” he winces a bit when moving, just the slightest of the frowns adorning his features. advantages , taehyung had said. “where else would i be?”

“out with— girls.” advantages , and taehyung meant fencing advantages . jungkook finds himself blushing even redder, ears hot. he should have closed his eyes in the first place. “i mean, you’re—“ really good-looking . 

yoongi scoffs, interrupting him. “are you always this talkative?”

“—yes.” jungkook offers him a shrug, and it makes yoongi’s lips curl in what very obviously is a slightly annoyed smile. the faint change makes jungkook’s heart do something, something that isn’t good at all. he clears his throat, finally looking away, body somewhat sore all of a sudden. “i’m going to beat you,” he warns. “just a heads up.”

for a moment that drags, yoongi doesn’t say anything. he shuffles on the bed, probably bringing sheets over his body. jungkook wants to look over his shoulder again, get another glimpse, a last one before his eyes finally close. but he doesn’t, because he knows it’s pointless. “i’d like to see you try,” yoongi finally says, voice low and raspy. jungkook smiles, sniffing, finally letting yoongi go, drifting off too quickly. 

Chapter Text

beating min yoongi proves to be a very arduous task— to whoever tries a swing at him. there are two weeks before the bouts, and jungkook feels like that isn’t enough time to grow an extra pair of arm or leg to stop yoongi’s speed. even with the amount of bruises on his body, he’s a knight holding a sword, slaying whoever dares step onto the piste. it’s both beautiful and painful to see. jungkook sighs, standing on the terribly long line at the nearest café, body strained from practice. he stretches too wide, knuckles finding the top of someone’s head. he turns, already bowing: “i’m so sorry —“

it’s yoongi’s eyes he meets, the slanted sort of sleepiness giving them pretty, gray hues. the skin under them is slightly purple. his eyebrows lift. “you’re everywhere.” it’s not exactly what he expects yoongi to say to him. it comes out as a surprise maybe even to yoongi himself, from the way he flushes a pretty shade of contrasting pink. 

“this is the closest coffee shop to the gymnasium.” jungkook replies, blinking. yoongi is dressed nicely, in a trench coat that hides his figure, black jeans, expensive shoes. his hair is sweaty, though, parted oddly, pushed away from his face. jungkook feels out of place in his sweats, even though most people around them are dressed similarly.

“i know,” yoongi mumbles, and jungkook thinks he’s never seen him flustered. the line shortens, jungkook steps backwards. when silence becomes too overbearing, and the both of them look away, jungkook turns, focusing on the floor and on his battered shoes. there’s not a lot of money left on his bank account, and cafés are overpriced, and despite the part of himself that demands him to let it go , jungkook presses his eyes together for a second, then turns to look over his shoulder, forcing a smile. yoongi is faster and stabbing, as usual: “you’re not buying me coffee.” jungkook’s lips hang open, then close. yoongi clears his throat. “there’s people waiting to order.”

jungkook turns away too quickly, then, a hand coming to coop his left ear, embarrassed. he stumbles on his words, forgetting how to put them into sentences, heart beating fast. he tries not to look at yoongi’s profile as they both wait for their coffees, and he tries not to try and look for him as they go off to find different tables to sit at, on opposite sides of the café, facing each other, people in between them. i’ve done something stupid, he texts taehyung, fingers clammy, nervous. jungkook inhales, reasoning with himself, coming up with entire arguments over the fact he shouldn’t feel nervous, that yoongi is just someone he needs to compete against, that there’s nothing else. but then he raises his eyes, just as someone slides on the chair in front of min yoongi, a taller boy with bleached hair, and yoongi smiles. jungkook feels himself blush all over, breath stuck in his lungs. oh no, oh no, oh no, oh no, oh no, oh no—

— go back in time, to the first time jungkook sees min yoongi fence. it’s a school competition back then, and jungkook’s too young to compete in the upperclassmen bouts. yoongi’s nineteen, maybe eighteen, jungkook doesn’t know for sure, but the angles on his face are softer, his eyes less sharp. the red band is already tight around his wrist, thicker back then, less worn out. he wonders if there’s another end to it, another band in another wrist, a pair. it’s a silly thing to wonder at the time. yoongi steps out of the piste, a victor once again, mask being carried on his hand, and sweat drips down his forehead. jungkook watches him for the rest of the day, watching the way he moves, how he holds his sabre, how he steps, attacking mercilessly. once, their eyes meet, as jungkook walks over the piste after his forgotten glove. their eyes meet and jungkook flushes entirely, heart aching, knowing right then and there min yoongi represents all the things he wants to be, and all the secret things he simply just wants.

the boy with bleached hair makes yoongi laugh, and the sound gets carried all the way, a chopped stream of ha-ha-ha-s that can be heard under the sounds of the café. jungkook pushes his chair back, standing up, and the screeching sound grabs yoongi’s attention, and, just like all those years ago, their eyes meet. it’s a brief kind of glance, because yoongi looks away rather quickly. jungkook swallows. he isn’t sure why he’s so— bothered. his phone stirs, taehyung’s message popping on the screen. did you confess? , a silly emoji follows. shut up, hyung .  

jungkook leaves, then, passing by yoongi’s table without receiving another glance. they only meet again at the gymnasium, hours later, when jungkook turns his attention away from his sparring for a moment, a victory by a single point, seeing yoongi press his sides at the corner of the bleachers a few meters away, a grimace on his face. advantages , taehyung had said. yoongi’s body bruised all over, ugly purples against the fairness of his skin. “do you want to spar?” he says loud enough yoongi can hear, but not enough everyone else can. yoongi looks his way only briefly.

“no,” the reply is resolute, and his hands quickly leave the painful patches of skin under his uniform. yoongi stands straighter. it makes jungkook huff. “i’ll pass.”

the easy dismiss is once again fuel to jungkook’s reckless confidence. “you might lose, right?” yoongi scoffs, resuming the packing of his belongings, unzipping his jacket down as if to prove a point. jungkook steps closer, not enough yoongi can reach him, but enough he can poke yoongi’s side with the tip of his blade, hard. yoongi flinches, shoving the blade away, expression much more pained than jungkook was expecting. it embarrasses him immediately. “you’re— really hurt, i’m— i’m sorry—”

“i’m not hurt,” yoongi’s tone is slightly less sharp when he says it, fingers curling around the straps of his bag, already starting to walk away. “it’s none of your business anyway.” no, it isn’t, but it doesn’t stop jungkook from following, falling into step with yoongi, grabbing the straps of the bag, too. “what are—”

“let me help, sunbae,” his voice comes out small, and jungkook finds it’s easy to blush under yoongi’s scrutiny. “i shouldn’t have—” for a moment, he thinks yoongi will tell him to fuck off, or push him away with a shove. he doesn’t do neither of those, resuming his steps instead, pulling jungkook with him by the bag, not speaking. they don’t speak, not anymore. yoongi’s bag is left on the bench in the changing rooms, and jungkook leaves when yoongi starts untying his straps, a red blush to his cheeks. there’s a strangeness between them, jungkook can tell. he doesn’t know where it comes from, but it’s blunt and pointy and it bothers him, like a splinter.    

their room smells entirely of pain relief patches. jungkook breathes in the familiar scent as soon as he steps inside, kicking his shoes off, hearing the shower water run. there’s a moment where he stands by the door, listening to the sounds coming from the bathroom, unsure if he should be there in the first place. facing min yoongi has become some sort of challenge. more often than not, at the time jungkook comes back from the gymnasium, yoongi is still out, and he won’t come back until much late, when jungkook is pretending to be asleep, and yoongi pretends he doesn’t know he isn’t. jungkook recalls how yoongi coiled away from his blade a few hours earlier, ashamed. the water stops running, then, and jungkook stirs out of his transe, scrambling towards the bed as the bathroom door springs open, and yoongi halts, towel around his waist, another hanging on his head. jungkook tries not to, but he glances at the bruises at the side of yoongi’s body, eyes lingering for too long. yoongi notices it, of course. “it’s nothing,” he says right away, walking over his suitcase, and his chest gets coloured pink. it’s — nice. jungkook swallows dryly. 

“you were only hit a few times,” he points out, too curious, not looking yoongi’s way as he gets dressed. jungkook takes off his own sweatshirt, pulling it over his head. “i don’t understand—”

“i don’t practice only with you,” yoongi sighs, and jungkook hears the ruffling of clothes, and maybe it’s safe enough to turn, to look over his shoulders. it isn’t, truly, and jungkook’s blood runs to weird places as he looks away rather quickly, inhaling the peach and salonpas in the air.

“ah— i — i see,” his voice cracks, he clears his throat. it’s embarrassing how fast his heart is racing. but then yoongi is walking past jungkook’s bed towards the mirror, pants covering his legs, black flimsy shirt hanging around his frame. he raises it slightly, as if to check on his bruises, most of them covered by white patches now. “you— you missed one.” 

“you’re stuttering,” yoongi mumbles, finding his eyes across the room on the reflection before turning his body, trying to find the missing spot. 

it’s another stupid thing to do, but jungkook lets go of his clothes, grabbing the pain relief patches that are still spread on yoongi’s bed instead, approaching yoongi with wary steps. yoongi watches him, quietly, shirt still raised the slightest. he doesn’t say anything when jungkook hooks a finger under the hem, pulling it further up. “here,” jungkook says, weakly, pressing the patch over the bruise, feeling yoongi coil. his fingers touch skin that is too warm. yoongi’s ears turn violent red, and he blinks, obviously flustered. “maybe you should buy a better plastron.”

“i don’t wear it for practice,” it obviously isn’t something that yoongi shares too easily, because he steps away, their shoulders clashing, pulling his shirt down, quickly gathering his belongings. “thank you, anyway.”

“yeah,” jungkook nods, thinking he’s walking thin, see-through lines. he decides to stop pushing, sighing, grabbing his clothes again, locking himself in the bathroom without another glance. there’s a reason for the awry beating of his heart, and he should drop it before it gets too suffocating. 

when he comes out of the bathroom, some twenty minutes later, yoongi is asleep. it doesn’t look like he had wanted to sleep, book against his chin, glasses crooked. he looks good, even as his chest rise and falls softly, slight snore coming out of his mouth. jungkook feels his cheeks heating up involuntarily, and he forces himself to look away, to crawl onto his own bed, and he stays there, unmoving, for a few minutes, eyes staring at the white wall. he rolls over, though, blaming the off beating of his heart, and the gap between both beds isn’t that big— so jungkook reaches out, grabbing the forgotten book, leaving it on the shared bedside table, doing the same with yoongi’s glasses, except yoongi stirs awake, fingers coming up to grab jungkook’s wrist, stopping his action halfway. “you shouldn’t touch people when they’re sleeping,” he says, dryly, eyes still full of the sands of sleep, somewhat puffy. his fingers are cold.

“i wasn’t touching you,” jungkook’s reply is faint. yoongi huffs, pushing his hand away, removing his glasses himself, putting them on top of the book. jungkook buries himself deeper under his blankets, watching yoongi stand up, probably to leave. “you should rest,” yoongi barely glances his way, grabbing his training bag, looking around for things he needs. let it go, jungkook . “otherwise it’ll be too easy to beat you.”

at this, yoongi smiles, and it’s unsettling how jungkook’s affected by that. yoongi pushes a hand through the messy strands of black hair. “sleeping will not make you any better,” he finishes lacing up his shoes before throwing the bag over his shoulder. yoongi adds, ironically, before opening the door: “sweet dreams, little one.” little one . jungkook scoffs, sitting up, ready to start an argument, but the door closes, and it’s all over. 

“you need to stop trying,” taehyung motions towards the piste where yoongi is sparring, a few days before the bouts start. he’s holding arms full of gatorade bottles of different colours. “he doesn’t want to be your friend, jungkook,” jungkook huffs, thinking bitterly that’s not it, friends isn’t the word , and taehyung picks up on him without hearing the sentences out loud. “but if you’re thinking something else, you—“

“that’s not what i want,” jungkook feels himself getting red, just as yoongi removes his mask, and he finds his eyes for barely a second, all the way over, under strands of inky black hair. it’s dizzying, somehow. taehyung clears his throat purposefully, and jungkook looks away, red, red, red. it’s a lot of what he wants . “i just don’t think i can beat him.” and that isn’t a complete lie. jungkook has been sparring better everyday and has only lost his first bouts until now, so he could take on yoongi, he could — just not if he has too look him in the eyes across the piste. “he’s ahead of me, that’s all.”

“maybe you’re both good enough you can get in the team together,” taehyung offers. then, he adds, with a grin: “holding hands.” jungkook shoves him lightly, and taehyung drops the bottles, and the noise spreads through the gymnasium. jungkook laughs, and taehyung laughs too. he knows taehyung won’t let go, that he will name the things jungkook is feeling, will put them in places alongside his first middle school crush and the actors he fanboys over. it’s a teenage sort of thing that doesn’t fit with someone like min yoongi. “maybe you can stay and see how he practices,” taehyung carries on, once all the bottles are secured. “he probably has some kind of secret routine.” 

“i think that’s stalking, hyung,” jungkook sighs, taking a sip of the blue liquid. it’s too sweet and it hurts his teeth. “i’ll just have to practice harder.”

taehyung leaves not long after, and jungkook jumps back into training, focusing on his speed, on his footwork, mind trying to remember how yoongi moves when he spars, the way he holds his sabre, the positioning of his feet. one of the coaches adjusts his back position, and jungkook attacks air, lunging for the dummy’s quarte , effortlessly hitting the point with some grace. yoongi is just a few meters away, practicing on his own, too, and jungkook looks at him every once in a while, as he attacks in a blur of blades, so fast it’s almost impossible to make out his movements. jungkook stays for as long as yoongi stays, and that is late, late, much later than the others, much later than he’s used to, and yoongi seems unbothered by the sweat and the possible soreness that clings to athletes’ bodies after a long day. jungkook stops at some point, breathing out of his mask, unable to keep on practicing. yoongi doesn’t look his way when he finally leaves for the changing rooms, resigned to yet another loss. i don’t think i’ll make it, hyung , he texts taehyung, and it means so many things beyond the piste and the competition. there’s very little winning against one min yoongi.

the showers in the changing rooms aren’t as good as the shower back in the hotel, but jungkook can’t stand the sweat clinging to him, so he quickly steps in, the steam rising as the water heats up to almost unbearable. it runs down his body, allaying altogether, and jungkook hums, pleased, eyes closed. enjoyment only lasts a few minutes, as he realises yoongi can walk in, that there’s very little hiding space in the shared showers, and it all makes his skin prickle. jungkook burns in other ways, then, and suddenly the water is too hot to bear. he washes his hair quickly, rinsing it carelessly, wrapping himself on a towel as soon as the water stops dripping. yoongi only steps in when jungkook is almost all dressed. “you’re still here,” he says, and much like you’re everywhere , it doesn’t seem like something he had wanted to say, from the way his cheeks blush the slightest.

“it’s cold outside, i’m not brave enough to go out,” jungkook answers earnestly, offering him a smile. 

“yeah,” yoongi nods, fumbling with the straps of his uniform. “i guess it’s cold.”

the normalcy of their conversation is odd. yoongi sighs, trying to untie himself. “do you need help— sunbae?” 

“no,” yoongi replies right away, brow furrowed in frustration. “it’s just a knot.”

“alright,” and jungkook huffs as yoongi fails to undo the knot on his straps, mumbling swear words that make jungkook giggle. yoongi raises his eyes at him, and he swallows, defeated. “help?” a timid nod follows. jungkook grins too big when he stands, approaching yoongi quickly enough, pushing his hands away softly. yoongi doesn’t flinch, or look away. it’s obvious he’s flustered, but jungkook doesn’t point it out. “you don’t know how to tie a—”

“i was in a hurry,” the excuse is flimsy, but said in yoongi’s firm monotones. jungkook finds his eyes, smirking, pulling a bit more harshly on yoongi’s uniform straps, bringing him closer. yoongi scoffs, looking away. “just get it done.”

and jungkook does, after some pulling, up until the straps come undone and yoongi’s free. he steps away, then, smelling the salonpas on yoongi’s skin as he moves, seeing the patches spread all over him. “sunbae,” jungkook calls, timidly. “we can walk back to the hotel together.”

for a moment, jungkook thinks yoongi is going to dismiss him coldly. “— okay,” the answer is low, and mumbly, and jungkook smiles almost immediately, hiding it away by looking the opposite direction. then yoongi looks his way, bundled in a myriad of coats, wrapping a scarf around his neck. he blinks, looking unsure. “you’re going to be cold.” 

“i forgot my windbreaker,” jungkook scratches the back of his head, standing from the bench when yoongi starts to walk towards the door. “it’s fine if i walk fast e—” his voice sort of stops working the moment yoongi offers him his own jacket, holding it at arm's’ length towards jungkook, black mask hiding his flared features. jungkook blinks, confused. “no, it’s fine, i can—”

“i don’t want you to lose against me because you got pneumonia,” yoongi tells him, sharply. the jacket is pushed against jungkook’s chest, and he holds it, hands cold. “i want you to lose against me because i’m better than you.” jungkook pushes his arms through sleeves, running after yoongi, whose stride is adamant just like the way he attacks his opponents. 

there’s a few blocks between the hotel and the gymnasium they use for practice, and jungkook is aware of every nook and every shop and every eatery on the few streets they cross— he’s explored it all, with taehyung, alone, trying the sample foods, going in big chain stores to get free face masks. if he fails to get in the national team, at least jungkook was able to enjoy his time there before going back home. yoongi watches him quietly as jungkook stops by stalls every other chance he gets to say hello to ahjummas that keep him fed. “we could eat,” he offers, watching yoongi stare at the sweet and spicy fried chicken with some longing in his eyes.

“— no, i—,” he looks away, only to be softly nudged by jungkook, who mutters come on, sunbae . “i saw you counting your coins just yesterday, you can’t afford it,” yoongi says dryly, when jungkook tugs on his sleeve. it makes jungkook blush all over. shit .

“ah,” it’s true. although not expensive, jungkook can’t really afford over three meals a day with the money his parents send him. taehyung pays a lot of his food expenses, but that doesn’t mean there’s always money in jungkook’s pocket. “yeah, we should— go, then.”

they only take a few steps before yoongi stops, exhaling deeply. jungkook watches him, curious. yoongi pulls his mask down, looking up to find jungkook’s eyes with strange sort of bravery in his demeanor. “i’m older than you, i should buy you food,” the whole sentence comes out convoluted, yoongi spelling the words out as fast as he can not to stammer. jungkook blinks, taken aback, before smiling. “— it doesn’t make us friends.”

“what does it make us?” jungkook tries, joining yoongi as they sit at the small seats by the stall. 

“two humans sharing a meal,” it’s a childish answer, they both know it, but jungkook smiles giddily as yoongi orders them chicken, the steam from the pans and pots heating up their hands. jungkook asks for beers, and yoongi complains, we can’t be drinking during the bouts , to which jungkook replies they’re not for another four days, sunbae . the cold beer matches the spicy taste of the chicken, and jungkook hums, too happy. yoongi eats like the heir of a chaebol , slowly and carefully and timidly. 

“you should loosen up,” jungkook picks on yoongi’s food, chewing. yoongi slaps his hand away, and it makes jungkook giggle. “i know you can laugh, i saw it the other day,” but then he voice wavers, and jungkook swallows, nervous. “with that— tall guy.”

“of course i can laugh,” yoongi’s voice remains a slurred sort of mumble. “i’m just not like you.”

“laughing is good—“

“for wrinkles,” and there’s only a small pause before jungkook snorts, breaking out in easy laughter. yoongi tries not to, but his lips curl up, amused, and he chuckles. “see, your eyes are all wrinkled like that—“ but jungkook finds his laughter becoming coughing, because yoongi looks straight at him, still smiling a bit, and he’s just very, very attractive. yoongi pokes him with the tip of his chopstick. “you’re weird.”

“you’re—,” but pretty is the only word that comes to mind when jungkook tries to say anything, and so he doesn’t, shoving chicken into his mouth to avoid words from spilling. yoongi doesn’t seem to notice. “sunbae,” he says, softly. “you should smile more often, it’s— it’s nice.”

yoongi huffs, but there’s flair of red that stains his ears, crawling down his neck. it makes jungkook undeniably warm. they resume eating mostly in silence, now, maybe realising that barriers have been broken and there’s no way to put them back together. they’re still not friends, they’re— acquaintances who have shared a meal. it’s different. “your,” yoongi starts, chewing. “your footwork is a bit messy. that’s why you’re still slow. you should work on that instead of your lunge.”

the comment comes completely as a surprise, and jungkook drops his food on his lap, groaning, standing up to pat it off his pants. the stain stays, nonetheless. yoongi chuckles again, looking up at him. jungkook apologises when he sits back down, embarrassed. “i’m not slow,” he retorts, even though the advice-like sentence is precious to him. “but— thank you.” yoongi doesn’t respond, sipping on the remains of his beer. the redness on his cheeks stays, now. “why do you want to get in the national team? you have been abroad for— some time.” it’s a strange information to have, so jungkook adds, quickly: “i used to follow the european competitions.”

“why do you want to get in the national team?”

“i’m— korean,” jungkook mumbles. 

“so am i,” yoongi shrugs. he turns his head the slightest, to glance at jungkook. it’s always electrifying when their eyes meet, jungkook thinks. it burns in places that shouldn’t burn. he looks away first. “— are you finished?”

“yeah,” he nods, slightly abashed. yoongi thanks the ahjumma for taking care of them, his voice softer than it usually is, piling their plates so it’s easier to clean. they leave, then, walking with distance between them, because they’re not friends. the hotel isn’t that far, one station away only, the train still packed at that time at night, tipsy adults going back from work dinners, teenagers that smell of cigarettes, old ladies and their heavy bags. jungkook stands, restless. yoongi sits, tired. jungkook sees him touch his side, closing his eyes. “who do you practice with?” the question just blurts out of his mouth, and jungkook feels hot in his ears, hands coming to touch them, swaying the slightest with the movement of the train. “i mean—“

“a friend,” yoongi replies, to his surprise, looking unaffected.

“the tall guy at the café?” advantages, advantages, advantages . jungkook thinks that, in hindsight, he has none. yoongi is his competition, someone he needs to go against, and yet— and yet yoongi looks up at him, from under messy strands of black hair, a gap between his lips, and jungkook realises faintly that he wants to kiss them. oh no, no, no, no, no, no, no —

“yes,” a short nod, and yoongi stares. jungkook almost loses his balances when the train starts slowing down. they leave with a few people, stepping into a platform that feels too empty. 

the hotel room is darkened, only the light besides jungkook’s bed left forgotten as he left in a hurry. they walk around carefully, as if things are coloured different. both turn away when the other starts undressing. jungkook is grateful when yoongi steps into the bathroom, closing the door. he inhales sharply, feeling his head ache, his chest ache, maybe. kissing . he shouldn’t think about kissing— especially not kissing min yoongi. he folds the jacket yoongi lent him rather hastily, not wanting to be up when yoongi finishes his shower, rapidly shedding clothes and getting into bed, heart beating out of pace. the light is turned off, but jungkook doesn’t sleep. like every other night, he waits, hearing yoongi move around in the dark once he comes out of his shower, seeing the contours of his body against the lights coming from outside, knowing it’s wrong. yoongi— yoongi allows it, despite being aware of jungkook’s gaze. “do you need help with those?” jungkook offers, words small, breathy, as yoongi sits on the bed, pain relief patches in hand. 

“no,” the reply is quiet. “it’s fine.”

“okay,” and so jungkook turns, knowing he can’t look anymore without starting to feel uncomfortable. he listens as yoongi moves, listens as he holds back a groan from probably pressing hard enough against a bruise, listens as the crumbles the remaining papers into a ball. “he must be really good,” jungkook finds himself commenting, then. “to win over you like that.”

nothing is said, not for a long time, not until jungkook thinks yoongi has fallen asleep. then, come the words, mumbled, drowsy: “you’re good too, you know.” a huff. “though i’m still better.”

jungkook grins, turning to look over his shoulder, finding yoongi’s stare, blinking lazily at him, red band on his wrist. “for now, sunbae.” and yoongi cracks a small smile, eyes closing, expression soothing, faltering until he’s completely asleep. jungkook watches him for just a moment before letting slumber take him over, too.

Chapter Text

the afternoon two days before the bouts start is seemingly normal, despite the slight wariness that seems to already be trickling under everyone’s skin. jungkook feels more tired than he should be, so he practices only halfheartedly, holding the sabre with lazy hands, swinging it accordingly, but not paying attention. most of the other people sit around, or practice quietly, not a lot of sparring happening, no confidence rising. you should take a day to rest , taehyung had said, the day before, your first round is early in the morning . he’s probably right, jungkook thinks, stepping forward weakly. a few meters away, he hears the sound of blades. “ah, he doesn’t tire, does he?” someone comments to his right, chagrined, some sort of mockery in his voice. it’s yoongi behind the mask of the obvious winner, jungkook knows, the red band on his wrist flaring as he moves. the person he’s sparring with stumbles backwards, much like jungkook had done all those weeks before, falling flat on his ass, sabre rolling out of the piste. “i don’t know why we’re trying, to be honest— he’s obviously going to win.”

another boy agrees, scoffing. yoongi offers a helping hand to the person on the floor, but they slap it away. a tense silence follows, some people snicker. jungkook feels— odd. like the slap hurt him as well. yoongi doesn’t seem affected, though, removing his mask, turning away. he is, jungkook can tell. it’s in the way his mouth is pressed in a thin line, and the way the tips of his ears are red, not from effort, but from shame. advantages , taehyung had said. “you should have bought your place on the team,” the boy on the floor calls, obviously angry. “but i guess you rather humiliate us first, right, sunbae —”  yoongi starts removing his jacket, pulling the zipper down, kneeling near his duffle bag. there’s a clear air of dismiss about him, the same he’s been holding since arriving, as if not even the sharp side of a blade could hurt him. they haven’t talked much since eating together, yoongi never there, never giving him proper space for words. maybe that’s how he always wins , jungkook told taehyung, it’s easier to crush people’s dreams when you don’t know them . the boy rises from the floor, grabbing his sabre, tossing his mask on the piste. jungkook steps forward, involuntarily. “you’re just a fucking asshole.”

“hey—,” jungkook finds himself saying, loud enough they can both hear, and yoongi glances at him. he flushes with heat right away, heart beating fast, not liking the attention. “just leave it, alright,” his voice obviously sounds weak, and he stammers. “i mean—”

“are you going to just leave it when you fail to make the team?” other people agree, the anger sort of contaminating the air like a virus. the boy spits when he talks, his short hair sweaty against his forehead. jungkook doesn’t know exactly what he feels, but it isn’t good. yoongi stands, then, carrying his bag away, walking quietly towards the changing rooms. the boy is quick to follow, other people move, and jungkook finds himself moving too, moving until he’s between yoongi and the boy, shoving him back. other boys yell, it gets confusing in a minute, hands grabbing onto him, the sweaty boy jumping forward, yoongi pushing past him, a blur of white figures, and pain suddenly blasts on his jaw, making his teeth hurt. it doesn’t last long— the coaches split everyone up, yelling that they’re ending practice for the day, that any other kind of fight will result in severe penalty. jungkook is dragged towards the changing rooms, fever boiling in his pit, confusion blurring his eyes, and someone gives him an ice pack, pressing against his face painfully. he blinks, headache growing, hearing as the other boys leave, marching away all dressed in white, none wanting to stay behind, not even to change. jungkook forces himself up, sliding his arms into the sleeves of his jacket, leaving, too.

the gymnasium is empty, aside from yoongi, sitting on the bleachers. “you’re stupid,” he comments, pointedly. jungkook stops, exhaling, holding the ice pack against his face. “you could have been cut.”

“he wouldn’t hit me with his sabre—”

“ from the competition ,” yoongi sighs audibly, standing up, starting to walk away. “you shouldn’t pick other people’s fights.” 

“he was being an asshole,” jungkook follows, walking steps behind because he can’t seem to walk any faster, the world still slightly crooked around him. yoongi huffs. “i didn’t like it.” he stops walking, dizzy. “sunbae,” jungkook calls. yoongi stops walking, too, not turning to look at him. to be fair, jungkook doesn’t know what he wants— at least not regarding things he can have. a conversation, a pat in the back, a compliment, somehow those things he yearns for, but not more than the other things that flood his mind every time yoongi looks his way. “spar with me.”

yoongi turns, mild bewilderment staining his expression. “practice is over, and you got punched,” he points out. “i’m not sparring you.”

“— please.”

“if they catch us, we might—”

“ please .”

it’s almost embarrassing the rush of heat that flows through jungkook’s body the moment yoongi exhales deeply, letting down his bag, collecting his sabre and glove. jungkook does the same, leaving the ice pack behind. they remove the coats that drape their frames, and jungkook follows yoongi as he removes his plastron, and the undercoat, and it’s alluring to undress like that, on the piste. “one hit,” yoongi tells him, the straps of his pants following the lines of his body. jungkook nods. “not on that side,” he adds, softly: “please.”

jungkook huffs. “alright.” he clears his throat. “not—,” he motions awkwardly to his face. “here.”

there’s no one to start them, so they move slowly, stepping around on the piste as if they had been taken back to a time when sword fights were real. it’s highly exhilarating to stare at yoongi, to calculate when he’s going to move, and when he does, not too long after, to block his attack, groaning as he pulls back. “you worked on your feet,” yoongi says, sounding surprised at the parry. he attacks again, much faster, and jungkook almost gets him, except jungkook quickly walks backwards and out of the limit line, laughing. “still not fast enough.”

“one hit, you said, sunbae,” he grins, getting closer again. maybe he’s still dizzy, his face hurts. “you haven’t touched me yet.”

somehow the sentence distracts yoongi, somehow his eyes blink in confusion for almost the whole of a second, somehow his face grows increasingly red, and that’s enough time for jungkook to push his attack forward, and it’s almost enough time for yoongi to get hit, but he doesn’t, still faster, still better, maneuvering his blade in almost a prise de fer , and he laughs as their sabres meet halfway. jungkook holds his position, pushing forward, their weapons bringing them close. he swallows, suddenly flustered, and the things he wants and the things he can’t want all come overflowing, a river of turmoil filling up his entire body, to the point he feels himself drowning. yoongi notices, notices the way jungkook’s eyes wander, notices how, for a moment, he leans, leans over swords and mild rivalry. then he moves away, swiftly, poking jungkook easily and carefully with the tip of his sword. “one hit,” he mumbles, red, red, red. jungkook’s heart beats at a pace that shouldn’t. it’s his point, his right of way, but jungkook doesn’t say that out loud.

he watches as yoongi walks towards his bag again instead, his easy, light steps, the way his figure looks all clad in white. “you’ll do well on the team,” jungkook comments, then, and his voice comes out frustrated (because he is, but not about the things he should be). “maybe you’ll win an olympic medal.” 

“yeah,” yoongi sighs, tossing the bag over his shoulder. “maybe.” they look about each other, before yoongi looks away, teeth sinking against a fleshy, pink lip. “you’re a good fencer, too.” just not better than me , is the complement, and jungkook waits for it to be said out loud. yoongi doesn’t say anything else, though, choosing to start leaving, turning away. he only takes a few steps before stopping and looking back. “— aren’t you coming?”

“no, i’m— i’m meeting my friend.” 

“the boy who brings you gatorade.” jungkook nods, heart missing an awkward beat. the fact that yoongi has noticed such thing is— odd and confusing and thrilling. “i’ll see you around, then.” for a split second, jungkook considers following, but his feet are stuck to the floor, unmoving, and so yoongi leaves him behind, once again.

the boy who brings him gatorade sits just across him some forty minutes later as they share a variety of junk food bought in the convenience store where they’re at. the alleyway is calm, few cars parked around, not too far from the hotel. jungkook doesn’t feel like eating, throat painful like his face, despite keeping his mouth constantly full in order not to talk . taehyung watches him, teeth biting into the paper straw of his smoothie. “you got punched,” he says it again, as if to carry on the subject. jungkook nods again, swallowing. at least the hot noodles are keeping him warm, his uniform doing little to help keep heat on his body. “— by, who again?”

“siwoo sunbae,” jungkook poses his words as carefully as he can, knowing taehyung’s sharp enough to catch him hiding things. “it’s nothing, he’s just a sore loser.” taehyung’s brow furrows. jungkook touches his hair, nervous. 

at this, taehyung snaps his finger, a loud a-ha! leaving his mouth. “you just touched your hair, so it’s something,” jungkook start mumbling, softly, it doesn’t mean anything, why are you over-analysing me, hyung, a pout to his words. taehyung puts his smoothie on the table dramatically. “min yoongi has something to do with it.” it makes jungkook cough, choking up in words, embarrassed. “ jungkook-ah ,” taehyung’s voice gets lower, to a kinder tone. “do you—“

“can we talk about something else—?”

“i’m just asking, do you—”

“hyung, please .”

taehyung leans forward. “you’re nervous,” he points out, poking jungkook’s cheek with his chopstick, just like yoongi had done nights before, when he looked so attractive and he smiled so —

“yes, i’m nervous!” jungkook blurts out, flustered, voice getting an octave higher. “i can’t help it, i just— feel things, and yoongi sunbae is—,” words go amiss. he is the things i want. all of the things . taehyung’s expression is startled, and it makes jungkook even more skittish. he looks away, biting down on his lip. taehyung clears his throat, shifting a bit on his seat. “i’m sorry.”

“what for?”

“for — being like this ,” jungkook looks up again, and taehyung’s eyes blink at him, as if confused. “liking boys.”

“you walk in those breeches all day,” a shrug follows. “liking boys is the least of your problem, jungkook-ah.” jungkook cracks up in weak laughter, and taehyung does so, too, tossing him a paper napkin, and it hits his forehead. “but,” jungkook folds and unfolds the paper, fingers jittery. “are you— going to talk to him about— those things?”

“ no ,” the reply is adamant, and jungkook’s eyes widen as he looks around, waiting to see a min yoongi hiding in the corners, listening to their conversation. there’s only a stray cat lurking, and the bored looking store owner inside. still, he lowers his voice, secretive. “i can’t do that.” jungkook thinks yoongi would huff at the confession, and then would brush past him, not looking back— a sharp, vicious stop cut that would slice him open and let him to drip all over the floor. it isn’t nice imagery.  he sighs, drinking the remains of his banana milk, throat aching. “anyway, i need to get going.”

“when do the bouts start?”

“the day after tomorrow,” they both stand, grabbing the remains of their horribly unhealthy dinner. taehyung shoves all the leftovers into jungkook’s jacket pockets and bag. he feels himself shiver.

“ominous,” he comments, grinning. jungkook huffs, grinning, too. “we should go, it’s too cold, you’re turning blue—”

taehyung walks him to the hotel, promising to bring him something warm to eat at practice, waving gingerly. jungkook stares as the numbers on the elevator slowly go upwards, throat dry and painful. he coughs. room twelve-twelve arrives too soon at the end of a hall. there’s a do not disturb sign on the door, which probably means yoongi is sleeping. and indeed, the room is dark, and jungkook stumbles on shoes as he goes in, cursing under his breath as his eyes fail to find light in all that darkness. he walks slowly, hands forward, and at some point he feels the corners of a bed, and bedsheets, and he lets go of his clothes, too tired and too cold to do anything else, grabbing onto blankets and kneeling onto the bed and— “we’re not sharing a bed,” yoongi’s voice is hoarse and close and maybe jungkook touches smooth, warm skin that isn’t his own. he stammers, pulling back quickly, just to feel his arm getting grabbed. “wait, you’re—,” and there’s some shifting, and then light, flooding all over. yoongi is sitting up, and jungkook blinks at his messy strands of dark hair, and the way his eyes are puffy. he flinches when yoongi touches his forehead. “you’re burning, jungkook.” 

“— no, i’m not,” his reply is flat, and he pulls back, realising he’s wearing only his briefs and that he’s in min yoongi’s bed and that they’re too close. “it’s fine, i’m alright—”  yoongi looks like he’s about to say something else, but jungkook quickly tucks himself into his own bed, the sheets cold making him coil, and maybe his skin is a bit too warm, but it’s only because he’d been walking, anyway. jungkook pulls the blankets over his head, turning his back to yoongi almost immediately, inhaling deeply. his face his warm, but he trembles.

“— alright.” the light is turned off, and jungkook hears yoongi sigh before probably going back to sleep. his face hurts. jungkook forces his eyes closed—

— there’s a lot of haziness in the way jungkook wakes up. his head feels heavy, the bruise boisterous with hurt, and his throat burns. he sniffs, feeling coldness against the skin of his forehead. it isn’t daylight out, not quite, the room still drenched in penumbra, in the hues that shade the hours just before dawn. he blinks, distracted by the smell, the vanilla, the peach, why does it smell like this? . the answer only comes when jungkook’s eyes fully adjust to the semidarkness, when he shifts, finding another body beside his own. yoongi sleeps sitting up, back against the headboard, head bending forward, chin almost against his chest, a slight gap between his lips. jungkook observes him for a second before pushing away, his own back hitting the wall with a dull thud, the wet cloth that was on his forehead falling onto the bed. yoongi stirs, startled. their eyes meet a moment later. “ah,” yoongi starts, sitting straighter, trying not to yawn. “you’re awake,” his words are slurred. 

“— we’re not sharing a bed ,” jungkook repeats the sentence said just a few hours before, swallowing dry, burn down his throat. “why—”

“i couldn’t sleep with your moaning,” yoongi replies sharply, exhaling, looking mildly flustered. “you had a fever for the whole night,” he pushes his palm against jungkook’s forehead without a warning. jungkook feels heat down his belly. it’s— horrifying. “it’s going away now.” 

he touches the wet cloth, looking away, embarrassed and unhinged all at once. “you shouldn’t touch people when they’re sleeping,” another repetition. jungkook thinks he forgot how to say things, and he thinks that maybe the fever isn’t going away from the state of his broiling body. yoongi huffs, lips curling upwards, and he collects the damp cloth before standing up. “wait,” jungkook starts, so fast it’s embarrassing. “where— are you going?”

“to get more cold water,” yoongi motions towards the bathroom. “and ibuprofen.”

i’m fine , jungkook wants to say. i’m fine , because it’s the day before the competition truly starts and he cannot allow himself to be sick. yoongi walks away before he can say those things, and jungkook listens to water run. he returns a minute later, pressing the towel onto jungkook’s forehead, pushing him back against the pillow. jungkook tries to steady his heartbeat, and his breathing. “i’m fine,” he finally says, hands touching the cloth, pushing it up to find yoongi by the minibar, opening a bottle of water. “no, we have to pay for those, they’re—”

“i’ll pay,” yoongi sits on the edge of his bed, yawning again, elbow against his thigh and head held by his hand, lazily. he offers the bottle and the ibuprofen to jungkook. “drink it up.” jungkook sighs, holding himself up halfheartedly. the pill hurts on the way down, and the water leaves him wanting. yoongi yawns again, and he leans towards his bed, grabbing his phone, the screen giving his face blue tones. it’s nearly six, jungkook can see. yoongi looks up, and their eyes meet halfway. there’s a pause, a strange one, full of anticipation. jungkook thinks he sees things in yoongi’s eyes, wondrous things that scare him. it surprises him when yoongi reaches towards him again, shoving his shoulder the slightest. “lay down and sleep.”

yoongi’s hand is close enough to hold, and jungkook does just that, feebly, but still. “thank you for,” his voice cracks, nerves showing. yoongi doesn’t try to pull his hand away. “taking care of me— sunbae.” it’s peculiar when yoongi twists his wrist the slightest, allowing him to slightly touch jungkook’s fingers, and it all lasts the time it takes jungkook to suck his breath in, startled. 

“i wasn’t,” yoongi clears his throat, finally pulling away, standing up. “you didn’t let me sleep.” jungkook observes him start gathering his things, another yawn following. he’s going to practice . despite maybe being awake for a long time, yoongi’s going to practice. it makes jungkook feel bad. there’s no point in telling him not to go— they’re not friends, but jungkook knows better than that. yoongi stretches his back, as it probably hurts from sleeping sitting up. “take another pill in six hours,” yoongi starts again, looking his way, zipping up his jacket. “don’t go outside.”

“i need to go to practice later,” jungkook’s mumbles, blushing. 

“no, you don’t.”

“siwoo sunbae—”

“he’s an idiot,” yoongi stops moving for a moment, pushing his hands into his pockets. six o’clock probably rolls by, from the weak hint of light that colour his features. he yawns time again, scratching tired eyes, and it makes jungkook huff, amused. “ yah , don’t leave your bed—,” he warns, when jungkook starts getting up again, leaving the towel on the bedside table. yoongi scoffs, looking positively distraught. “jungkook—”

“bathroom,” jungkook pats yoongi’s arm reassuringly, watching him get mildly red, not missing the worried hues in the way he had said jungkook’s name. “unless you want to help me with this, too—” and he laughs weakly as yoongi snaps another warning yah! . jungkook closes the door, inhaling, stuttery, back against it. for a few minutes, yoongi doesn’t seem to move on the other side. for a few minutes, jungkook only mildly remembers to breathe. then comes the noise from the door opening, the soft beeping of the lock, and then yoongi, once again, is gone. 

he runs himself a bath, this time, sitting in it for an hour, feeling slightly better once the water has gone stale and cold. there’s only the smell of yoongi’s hair in the room, his bed made as usual, whilst jungkook’s remains messy. yoongi slept in it, too. the thought makes him blush copiously, touching his ears, breathing in deeply, and worse of all, it makes him— smile. hyung, bring me rice porridge , he texts taehyung, crawling back to bed, body still slightly sore. his eye looks a tad less purple, a yellow ring about it now, just as ugly.  

jungkook doesn’t remember when he falls asleep again, but he does, and it’s turvy sleep, not deep enough he dreams, but deep enough his body feels rested when he stirs awake hours later, the smell of rice porridge too alluring to deny. the take out box was left by the minibar, with a small note, garotade boy brought you this at practice, eat it well. yoongi’s handwriting is small and slightly slanted, and he writes as if in a hurry. jungkook huffs. eat it well . he does, feeling slightly better than before. it’s almost three in the afternoon by the time he leaves the hotel, quickly swallowing another ibuprofen pill, the cold breeze harsh against his warm cheeks. practice is eerily quiet, people not really wanting to chat, most of them working on their own, the dummys the only ones getting slashed. jungkook sees yoongi almost right away, discussing something with one of the coaches. “you look well,” someone comments ironically, and jungkook only shrugs, walking towards the changing rooms.

he’s halfway through his uniform when yoongi walks in. “what are you doing—?”

“getting dressed, sunbae,” and he’s about to smirk and look up towards yoongi, except yoongi reaches him first, ungloved palm against his forehead again, pushing his hair up. his hand is cool, and it’s good. jungkook sighs. “i don’t— have a fever.”

“yeah,” and yoongi clears his throat, stepping away again, distance much safer. jungkook finally looks at him, at his sweaty hair and the slight distress to his demeanor, the colours on his cheeks. there’s a burning sensation in jungkook’s chest, a needing one. “you shouldn’t have come.”

“you would have come, too.”  it’s true, and yoongi knows it. he’d have come crawling if he had to. “sunbae,” he stands, slightly wobbly, and yoongi reaches out involuntarily, only to hold himself back, flustered. “you can take care of me later.”

someone walks in, and yoongi blinks, looking so embarrassed he’s the colour of the band on his wrist. jungkook huffs, grabbing his bag, moving towards the door, before yoongi can hear the rapid, out-of-pace beating of his deranged heart. it’s— alarmingly good to make yoongi so discomfit, so easily discomposed over jungkook’s shameless flirting. jungkook hides his smile before anyone sees it.

practicing is gruesomely tiring, though, and it turns out that maybe yoongi is right. maybe he should have stayed at the hotel, riding the ibuprofen high. jungkook groans as moves, short of breath in just a few thrusts. his feet are slow, his head heavy. he thinks he can hear yoongi scoffing at him from the other side of the gymnasium, but whenever he allows himself to look that way, yoongi is obviously busy with his own practice. for a moment, jungkook stops, breathing within his mask, watching through the net as yoongi stretches, bending until the tips of his fingers touch his feet, and jungkook swallows dry, looking away quickly, dodging a hit from a nearby competitor by a few inches. before practice is over, the coaches and trainers come around to give everyone a motivational speech, one that jungkook can’t pay attention to, body sore and head aching so much he can’t see. maybe if he faints now, they’ll hold the bouts for a few days. no, they won’t , yoongi’s voice rings inside his head. jungkook touches his eyes, pain exploding behind his eyelids. “come on, let’s go,” the real voice of min yoongi says close enough, as fingers wrap around his arm, pulling him away from the crowd. a few people turn to stare. 

“they’re still talking,” jungkook mumbles, but he allows himself to be dragged away, eyes closing. “we shouldn’t—“

“you should,” and jungkook feebly grabs onto the arm and shoulders that belong to yoongi’s body, pressing against his bones for better balance. they walk close and fast, jungkook’s body sometimes colliding with other people’s, and he stutters apologies. “you don’t want to lose your first bout tomorrow.”

“i won’t,” and he feels yoongi coil when jungkook’s hand softly brushes against his own. it wasn’t on purpose, but jungkook relishes on the feeling anyway. “i’ll win all my bouts, sunbae,” he continues. “and then i’ll win over you.”

yoongi glances sideways at him, and giggles. jungkook’s eyes widen, not knowing what to do with that kind of reaction. his heart goes haywire, and it’s worrying. “i guess you’re delirious,” and then his fingers come to touch jungkook’s neck, just under his ear, at a specific patch of skin that has him shivering all over. “you don’t have a fever, so you shouldn’t be.”

jungkook pushes his hands away, finally, untangling their arms, walking a step ahead. it makes things awkward, of course, all of it, every strange touch, every uncalled glance. jungkook wants all of it, but he can’t have it. there’s no use in behaving like he can. the hotel lobby is empty, yoongi stops by the concierge, saying things in soft spoken words to the lady behind it. jungkook walks towards the elevators, letting himself stand against the cool marble wall. the coldness helps. his body feels more tired than it should be, as if his pockets are full of heavy stones, wanting to pull him underwater. he feels when yoongi joins him, from the way his hair smells so vividly, freshly showered— jungkook opens his eyes, then, finding yoongi’s profile, the softness of it, like he’s drawn out of watercolours. his hair is still slightly damp. jungkook sighs, wrongfully enamoured. the elevator beeps, opening its doors. they stand side by side, yoongi presses the button for the twelfth floor, the red band showing under his sleeve.

jungkook, still slightly dazed, finds himself reaching out, holding yoongi’s wrist, touching the redness of the thin fabric. “why do you wear this?” 

“because i want to,” and yoongi pulls his hand away, shrugging. “it’s—“ but he doesn’t carry on, words amiss. a girl , jungkook thinks, heart aching, fingers tingling, wanting to touch, again. he doesn’t. the elevator comes to a halt, and jungkook sways. “don’t pass out here.”

“i won’t.” the hallway seems like a million kilometers away. jungkook staggers a bit, and yoongi walks ahead. he knows he doesn’t have the right to feel wronged by yoongi’s personal life, and yet, there’s a blunt pain inside his chest, and jungkook feels ashamed of it. yoongi opens the door to their room, and jungkook walks in first, quickly kicking his shoes away. the door closes and beeps.

“it’s my mother’s,” yoongi says then, consonants rolling together. jungkook turns to look at him, frowning, what is— , “the string,” he shakes his wrist. “for good luck.” 

a pause. “ah,” jungkook nods, but shame seems to make his vision red, and he pretends to find interest in the sleeve of his jacket. “— is she in france?”

“daegu,” yoongi moves past him, then, dropping his bag on the floor more carelessly than usual, groaning as he lays down, bed creaking. jungkook can’t seem to make himself move. is this how it’s going to be on the piste? , he wonders, sucking in his breath. there’s the sound of fabric against fabric, of zippers. then, yoongi’s voice, soft. “— you should lay down, you’re not well.” jungkook stirs into movement, then, barely registering the way yoongi is lying on his front, how his legs seem longer than they are, slightly spread, a pillow between them, how his face is half hidden behind his arm. 

jungkook peels off his layers of clothes, limbs heavy. indeed, he’s not well. his breath comes out shallow and hot. the ibuprofen hurts his throat once again as he swallows it with the remains of the water from that morning, which is stale and lukewarm. yoongi watches him carefully, observing his movements, his undressing. the stare is unnerving, it makes jungkook nervous, and he feels himself sweat. it isn’t a fever, he knows it isn’t, it’s a different kind of burn. he wonders if this is how yoongi feels when he gets home late, taking off his clothes in the gloomy darkness. jungkook touches the side of his face, his temple painful. “it still hurts,” he mutters. then he finds yoongi’s eyes, and somehow the both of them are mildly pink. “— i need to beat siwoo sunbae, too, i guess.”

“he’s easy,” yoongi scoffs. “he’s indecisive, it’s easy to score if you attack him first.” jungkook hums, agreeing, sitting against his headboard. “you’re—better.”

his fingers curl around the sheets more strongly, and jungkook wants to look away, but can’t. he should, it isn’t respectful to gape so openly, but yoongi isn’t looking away either. “—do you think so?”

for a moment, yoongi doesn’t seem likely to reply, eyes blinking heavily as if sleepy. then he nods, nose red. “you’re not the only one watching.” 

“what,” jungkook swallows, and he feels tingles in awkward places. it makes his breath come out stuttery. “what do you mean by that, sunbae?”

yoongi smiles, and it’s a fiasco inside jungkook’s chest. he looks away, finally, confused, pulling on his sheets, laying down, head hurting as he does so. “you’re first amongst national university athletes and you won gold at the telecom grand prix for juniors last year,” yoongi starts, and jungkook is sure the heat under his skin is going to start a small fire. “you’ve come first on all your academic competitions since high school,” it’s nothing, it’s just school— , jungkook mumbles, but yoongi seems to laugh at his distress. “you’re really good.”

“— not better than you,” jungkook wants the conversation to end. it’s doing nothing to appease the massive ball of feelings within his chest. his eyelids feel heavy. “not yet.” he hears more than sees yoongi move, and then there are cold fingers touching him again, knuckles against his temple. “i don’t have a fever.”

“you’re still warm,” yoongi points out, and jungkook wants to lean in against his touch and its cooling effect. his fingers brush against jungkook’s jawline, seemingly following its lines before hastily pulling away. “— go to sleep, you’re still not well.”  jungkook sighs, pressing his legs together, feeling unwell in some other ways, too. it’s embarrassing.

silence follows, then. it goes on for some time, and jungkook waits to hear yoongi’s breath to resume a steady pace. it doesn’t, not for quite a while. jungkook doesn’t know how long he waits. “why aren’t you sleeping?”

“i don’t sleep well before competitions,” the forthright answer comes as a surprise, and jungkook finds himself turning, searching for yoongi’s figure on his bed, noticing his eyes closed. “— do you?”

“yeah,” jungkook replies flatly, and it makes yoongi chuckle. “not today, though.”

“why not?” yoongi’s eyes open. they’re darker than they seem to be, but it is only the lack of lights. 

“because,” you’re here . “you make me nervous.” in a lot of ways , jungkook wants to add, but doesn’t, cheeks already hot enough. 

“do i?” another weak, airy chuckle. jungkook only nods. “well, you,” and yoongi groans as he turns, looking the other way, voice laced with the weight of sleep. “you make me nervous, too, i guess.” 

(none of them sleep well.)

Chapter Text

— en garde!

jungkook sighs, positioning himself on the line, head aching, throat dry. there’s a hush around the stadium, and the public watching gets quieter, the mumbling of low voices a soothing sound. his parents are there, and his older brother, and taehyung somewhere on the bleachers. yoongi is there, too, hiding in the darkened lower seats, watching. he forgets the name of the boy in front of him. “ pret ,” the referee says, voice echoing. “ allez—! ” the whole of his body lunges forward, as jungkook’s eyes scan the movements being drawn in front of him, the arch of his opponent's arm, the way he steps, and they mirror each other. the slap on his ribs doesn’t feel like much, and they both turn to the referee, fists in the air, and for the whole of second, jungkook has the lead. he coughs, bluntly enough he stumbles. another point is scored a second later, and his head is light. jungkook blinks heavily. 

the thing with sickness is that it makes him slow after some time, lungs burning, breathing through his mouth. jungkook curses when the fourteenth point rolls by, one so easily avoided has he been quicker in his parry. shit, shit, shit, shit, shit — the next attack is brutal, and jungkook stumbles, almost falling off the piste. fifteen to five, and jungkook has lost. “it’s fine, there’s two other bouts before the quarters,” someone tells him, patting his back. jungkook removes his mask, not looking around, embarrassed. 

“here,” and it’s yoongi, looking taller than he is in his uniform, a half-empty bottle of water in his hand. he’s drank from it, probably, and jungkook tries not to think about that as he allows the liquid to heal the scorching sensation on his throat. “you did well for someone sick.”

“i’m not sick,” but his voice tells otherwise, hoarse and raspy. jungkook inhales sharply, looking away from yoongi. another round of fencers step into the piste, their electronic masks changing colours as they test their sabrers out. the crowd around them is louder now, anticipating the next victor. “i’m—,” he sniffs, fingers touching his ears, pushing hair behind it. “it’s just a cold.”

“go back to the hotel to rest,” yoongi tells him, almost gently. “your next round is only tomorrow.”

“no, i— i want to— see you fence.”

redness flashes over yoongi’s cheeks, and he shifts on his feet, pretending to stretch. it makes jungkook smile. “i’m going to win fifteen-zero, it won’t be very exciting,” he announces, consonants mumbled in the way they usually are when he speaks. jungkook scoffs, and his phone stirs in his jacket pocket. i see you made a friend , taehyung says, followed by a rather nasty emoji. jungkook looks over his shoulder, grinning, but can’t see well through the stadium’s lowlights. “— gatorade boy?”

at this, jungkook blushes, finding interest in his shoelaces all of a sudden. he swallows, throat achy, pushing through a word that comes out shaky. “jealous?” jungkook looks up, meeting yoongi’s stare. he sees discomfort in yoongi’s pupils. it might have been a mistake, and jungkook feels ashamed. 

“— no,” the word is small, and yoongi looks suddenly how he did on the day they had a spar, when jungkook leaned over their swords, wanting other things. he looks — stunned and overwhelmed and downright disconcerted. “no, i’m—,” but the bout ends just then, the crowd clapping, and yoongi’s words are lost to the sounds. one of the coaches comes to drag yoongi away, you’re up, you’re up next , and yoongi doesn’t really look back. jungkook, and most of the other competitors gather closer to the piste, as close as it is allowed. yoongi comes into view, the harsh white lights making him look rather stern. his cheeks are still blushed. 

watching yoongi fence is almost a pleasure— jungkook feels soft tingles down his stomach as yoongi steps onto the piste, shaking his hair away from his eyes before pulling down his mask. it makes him bite down on his lip as yoongi runs a hand up the side of his blade, just before introducing himself to the more quiet watchers. adrenaline and expectation become tangible in the air they breath. jungkook leans forward, just the slightest. yoongi steps onto his line, pose gracious. — allez! ,  says the referee at some point, and jungkook tries his best not to blink, but yoongi attacks, fiercely fast and poised, and there goes one point. his celebration is contained, fist shaking the slightest, the red band visible under his sleeve. jungkook finds himself cheering. “we’re betting fifteen to five,” says the boy next to him, passing him a piece of paper. “it’s his average.”

“fifteen to zero,” jungkook says, writing it down, adding another 5000w to the deal. yoongi scores two more points in the meantime, and jungkook quickly pushes the paper back against the boy’s hands, attention grabbed by yoongi’s figure once again. around point seven, he walks out of the piste, accepting a water bottle from one of the coaches, hair sweaty, as the referee reviews a point. it’s his, anyway. it’s always been yoongi’s. 

fifteen to zero , and it doesn’t take that long for the assault to end. the other boys slap jungkook’s arm playfully, making him smile, slightly cocky. yoongi walks out of the piste and almost straight back into the changing rooms. jungkook swallows down another ibuprofen pill before following. the noise of showers running suppress the talking crowd, but yoongi is sitting on a bench, lazily untying his shoes, looking tired. jungkook forgets why he went there in the first place, forgets if he even had a reason to. “you’re staring,” yoongi comments, lips curling into a smirk. 

“you can’t tie knots,” jungkook smirks back, looking at the way yoongi pulls his laces without achieving anything. “here,” and he walks over, kneeling in front of yoongi, taking the laces in his own hands instead. “you should bunny-tie them, like—” jungkook sits back on the floor, showing his sneakers, the shoelaces like bunny ears. yoongi laughs, and jungkook smiles up at him, thinking that yoongi’s the prettiest like that, much prettier than he is on the piste. “— you did well, sunbae.” 

“it’s just the first bout,” yoongi shrugs, sighing, and he smiles when jungkook finally frees his left foot from the holds of his shoes. “— thank you.”

“i bet you’d win and i got almost seventy-thousand won,” jungkook blurts out suddenly, when yoongi stands up, walking towards his locker. “do you want to— maybe—” 

“no,” ah, the stabbing . yoongi’s red on the cheeks but it might be because of the stuffy air about them as the hot showers run. “you lost your first bout, you should be resting.” jungkook feels his ears get hot. “if you lose tomorrow, you’re out.” 

yes, two out of three, so jungkook has no other option aside from winning. and yet, he was ready, a moment ago, to ask yoongi out, in full sentence, in hopes that, maybe, he’d say yes. he wouldn’t. min yoongi is all made of competitiveness and its dark hues. “i’m not losing tomorrow,” jungkook says, then, a bit sharper than he intended. yoongi doesn’t say anything back, busy with his clothes, naked torso full of lighter bruises now. jungkook stands, feeling— strange. heartbroken isn’t the word. “those are better,” he comments, then, not wanting to leave.

“yeah,” yoongi nods, shirt sliding down his back, nestled against the curve of his hips. jungkook looks away. “— i’m leaving.”

“aren’t you staying to watch the last bouts?”

“no,” a jacket is put on, then another. “i’m winning fifteen zero again, i don’t need to watch my opponent.” yoongi brushes past him, and he’s almost at the door when jungkook reaches him, a soft sunbae leaving his mouth as he holds onto yoongi’s bag. yoongi stops, and maybe he sighs, but jungkook isn’t sure.

“if i win— my bouts, i mean—,” there’s very little plan to those shaky words. yoongi doesn’t know what he wants, aside from the things he can’t have. “i want to—,” kiss you, i want to kiss you , and the distance between them isn’t all that big and jungkook shouldn’t lean in like that, but yoongi doesn’t move, staring, unwieldy. one of the showers stops running, though, and as someone comes out of it, jungkook scrambles backwards, flustered. 

“go back to the hotel, jungkook,” yoongi says almost softly. “you need sleep.”

and then he’s opening the door, and leaving. 

morning arrives colder than it should be, soft snow piling on the window sill, curtains left open. jungkook blinks himself awake, lazily so. his body feels rested, for once, and maybe the flu is leaving him alone. it takes some time for his vision to focus, for his to clearly define yoongi’s sleeping form on the other bed, not even an arm away, curled into himself, a small gap between his lips, hair sticking in every direction, raven black and pretty. jungkook’s heart races at once, shamelessly, and he admits that maybe, yes, infatuation is wearing him thin. yoongi stirs a moment later, and jungkook has to look away, but doesn’t. sleepy eyes find his, and yoongi inhales, pulling blankets closer to his head. “the room is cold,” he complains, and he’s not looking away either.

“i forgot to turn the heater on,” jungkook says, apologetic. yoongi scoffs, tongue licking at the corner of his mouth. it spreads heat all over jungkook’s body. “— my bed is warm.”

something seems to gleam in yoongi’s pupils, and his eyebrows raise the slightest, a blur of red staining his nose and ears. jungkook is all flushed, now, openly so. he feels silly, but he can’t stop himself. “good for you,” the childish reply makes jungkook giggle, and that makes yoongi smile, a small thing of a smile, almost crooked. “what time are you fencing?”

“afternoon.”

“i guess we can sleep in today, then,” and the way he says we makes jungkook awkwardly happy. it’s a lie, probably, as jungkook knows yoongi will be up soon, going off to whatever secret practice he has. “it’s too cold for anything else.”

“it’s snowing,” jungkook comments, pointing towards the window. yoongi turns to look at it, groaning. i hate snow . “sunbae, your practice is ruined by the weather,” he mocks, and yoongi makes a face, shuffling on his bed. “maybe you’ll lose today.”

“i won’t,” and yoongi sits up, stretching, a patch of skin showing under his sleeping shirt. his stomach is flat and smooth and jungkook knows he should be looking elsewhere. yoongi grabs the remote for the air-conditioning, turning the heat on, standing up. jungkook doesn’t want to, but sits up as well, following yoongi’s movements. he fiddles with his fencing gear, checking if things are still there, carefully touching his sword. 

it’s— difficult — to watch yoongi, bed-haired and soft looking, how he sits on the floor with a sigh as he reorganises his bag, mumbling things jungkook can’t really hear. it’s difficult because it catches the air on jungkook’s throat, and it makes his heart race, and maybe, maybe feeling flimsy butterflies fluttering in his stomach for another boy, for someone like min yoongi, isn’t the healthiest concept. yoongi notices his staring at some point, meeting his eyes again, and it disarms jungkook completely, stripping him of any sort off filter. suddenly, the words he’s been thinking pour out of his mouth, unabashed, and they make yoongi’s sleepy eye widen: “ you’re pretty .” a strange sort of silence follows, and jungkook realises his words were said out loud. yoongi blinks, looking away immediately, viciously red. “i mean,” and the stammering is unstoppable. “i just— think you’re—”

“ pretty ,” and yoongi huffs, and jungkook realises, ache spreading all over his body, that yoongi smiles. “are you trying to charm me into going easy on you?” jungkook swallows. “because i won’t, little one.”

“i’m not—,” and jungkook wishes his voice would sound more resolute, but it doesn’t. “i’m not little.”

yoongi stands, body leaning against the tv stand, arms crossing. “i noticed,” he says, voice lower and slurred. jungkook feels a thrill down his spine. 

“what else— have you noticed?”

you’re not the only one watching . there’s a buzz inside jungkook’s ears, maybe from sheer nervousness. he watches how yoongi sniffs, touching the tip of his nose, looking away. “you favour your left side, despite being right-handed,” he comments, after a moment, and it makes jungkook scoff, because that’s not it, it can’t be it . “your arms might need some work.” yoongi gestures vaguely, voice dying as jungkook stands, taking the steps that separate them, colour running out of his face. there’s still defiance in his eyes, though, and he swallows hard before touching jungkook’s elbow, pushing it upwards gently. “this arm, you— you need to focus—” but jungkook holds onto his wrist, and yoongi huffs again, ears red all over. 

“—what,” and jungkook’s heart beating so loud he thinks he might collapse. yoongi looks up at him. he looks distressed, but sharp, sharp like on the piste, as if he’s facing someone he needs to take down. jungkook feels his knees weak. i’m trying to charm you, that’s it, i really am . “what else, sunbae?”

there’s a moment that hangs in time, but then jungkook feels fingers softly touching his waist, and it takes a lot for him to stay still. “when you plunge, you should,” but yoongi seems to forget what he’s saying, and he looks down, pressing onto jungkook’s sides. “your waist— it’s small —” he seems at loss for words, both hands carefully threading around jungkook, and they’re warm over his shirt, jungkook feels it. yoongi’s so focused on it he almost doesn’t flinch when jungkook raises a hand to press his fingertips against the side of his jawline.

jungkook’s aware of his own harsh breathing as yoongi allows him to trace the sides of his face, hands still firmly on jungkook’s waist, pressing and pressing, eyes boring into jungkook’s. he’s nervous enough to tremble, lungs aching with effort and body strained from not moving, tense all over. “what else, sunbae?” he asks once again, leaning in the slightest, body finding itself closer to yoongi’s. yoongi starts saying words, i don’t know, we should go, what is— , but his eyes deceive him, and they look down at jungkook’s mouth, and jungkook notices it. “sunbae,” he cuts in, breathy. “can i—”

it’s yoongi who takes the leap, firmly grabbing onto jungkook’s sides, facing up until they’re kissing, and jungkook almost immediately melts into it, and for a moment he forgets who they are and what they’re doing, and for a moment he feels yoongi part his lips and taste his tongue and— a knock, firm and loud on the door, and a voice that follows, yoongi hyung? . jungkook flings himself back, almost, staggering backwards, uncontrollably shaky. yoongi looks pale and shocked. they stare at each other for a second, realisation dawning upon them in rippling waves of shame. another knock. hyung? jungkook sucks in his breath, then walks straight into the bathroom, closing the door rather rapidly. 

his heart is a mess so big jungkook thinks he’s having a panic attack. he isn’t. you told me to come by at eight , someone is saying, and yoongi only mumbles back, things jungkook can’t properly hear, then, i’ll be at the lobby soon, namjoon , and the door closes. jungkook knows yoongi is alone on the other side, then. silence is so poignant it is deafening. “jungkook, i—,” yoongi starts, then stops. he seems to inhale deeply. “i need to brush my teeth.”

jungkook bites down on his lip before cracking the door open. he doesn't look at yoongi, embarrassed. “i didn’t mean to—,” he says, by the threshold. yoongi stands just in front of him, possibly not looking either. “kiss you, i didn’t mean to— kiss—”

“you didn’t?” and at this jungkook can’t help but look, eyes fleeting back towards yoongi’s, questioning. yoongi is red, red and pretty, and his lips are still the nicest shade of pink there is. “because i—,” and then he presses his eyes closed, exhaling. when he opens them again, there’s nothing in them. it feels like a slash to his ribs, bitterly painful. “it’s nothing, i— just need to brush my teeth now, i need to leave.”

and so jungkook moves, allowing yoongi to use the bathroom, and they don’t look at each other as they quickly get dressed, dancing carefully in their shared space. they leave together, wary not to stand too close in the elevator, and jungkook is grateful when other contestants join them on their descent, talking loudly about the bouts. jungkook doesn’t mean to, but he watches yoongi as he greets the tall boy from the coffee shop, his blonde haired hidden under a cap. he has dimples, he notices it. it makes him angry somehow. “come on, let’s get breakfast,” one of the others says, tugging on his sleeve, and for a couple of hours, or more, jungkook tries his best not to think of yoongi, or how their bodies were so close, or how he tasted like—

jungkook . 

“yeah?” he blinks, confused. it’s taehyung staring at him, waving a hand before his eyes. he’s still at the breakfast table, but it’s empty now. servers are starting to collect the buffet. 

“i thought we were meeting before your bout,” he pushes his round glasses up his nose, looking around. “how long have you been sitting here?” when jungkook fails to reply, taehyung pokes his forehead. “are you still sick?”

“no,” and it’s true, jungkook feels much better than the past couple of days, body slightly stronger. it’s the inner parts that ache and hurt and want, the parts he can’t cure with ibuprofen. “i kissed him.” taehyung blinks, raising his eyebrows. “no, he— he kissed me .”

“— did he?”

“yeah.”

they stare at each other, and then taehyung breaks into a smirk. “you’re blushing,” he points out, and jungkook stands, walking away, shut up, hyung . “so,” and they fall into step together, walking out of the hotel, snow greeting them. it’s terribly cold. jungkook struggles to walk without skating on the icy sidewalk. “what now?”

“nothing now,” he wraps the scarf more tightly around his face, pulling a mask up over his nose. “it didn’t mean anything.”

“you kissed the boy you like,” and the way taehyung says it, so forward and so simply, makes jungkook slip on ice, holding onto him for balance. the boy you like . a sentence that shouldn’t be said about another boy. except he isn’t wrong. jungkook heart races again, and it has nothing to do with slipping (or maybe everything, in another context). “it must mean something.”

“for — for sunbae,” he says, mumbly. “it doesn’t mean anything for him.”

“how do you know, jungkook-ah?”

i don’t . the question sticks with him throughout the rest of the morning, and way into the afternoon, long after he’s dressed in his uniform, up until the point he’s waiting to be called onto the piste. he sees yoongi then, finally, joining the small crowd. the gymnasium is full again, but jungkook can’t hear anything as soon as yoongi meets his stare. a small thing of a nod follows, an acknowledgement, a good luck wish, jungkook doesn’t know. still, it fuels his body with heat. someone pushes him towards the piste, go on, it’s your turn, break a leg , and everything’s a blur. en garde! , the referee says, once they’ve done their salutes. jungkook adjusts his position. you favour your left side , yoongi had said. jungkook swallows, shifting a little towards the right. pret— , a sharp intake of breath. allez!

he makes it out with a feint, at first, and his first point turns to another and another and another until jungkook feels the world around him trickle into nothing but the sound of his own breath inside his mask. actions are seen before they’re made, and jungkook scores seamlessly, hitting his points in graceful dances of blades. he wins, finally, fist punching the air, smiling too big as he takes his mask off, hopping off the piste and onto the arms of fellow fencers who compliment him, patting his back. somehow he stumbles onto yoongi, and his smile fades entirely and their bodies collide awkwardly, and yoongi raises a hand to hold onto his arm. jungkook pulls away quickly, hand coming to touch his ear, bothered. “you did well,” yoongi offers, and he isn’t smiling either. “good— good bladework.”

“i remembered— what you said.”

“that’s good,” yoongi nods, fingers pressing onto the net of his mask. “i’m fencing soon,” he announces, and jungkook nods, as well, i know . “later, we—,” a pause. “maybe we should talk.”

“maybe.”

staring at each other is hard enough as it is, talking doesn’t seem like a good prospect. yoongi seems to have something to say, but jungkook gets pulled by someone else, and they split. by the time he sees yoongi again, he’s on the piste, saluting his opponent, who looks sickly. the moment the mask falls over yoongi’s face is perhaps the moment the blade of a guillotine comes down on his faith, and the boy looks frightened. yoongi wins, of course, fifteen-zero, body swaying and attacking in such beautiful manner it doesn’t look like a combat, but a flair, magic, a ballet, jungkook doesn’t know. his whole body tingles, the inside of his thighs burning. watching yoongi makes him blush, and it makes him hot, and it’s hindering. he walks out of the gymnasium before the bouts are over. i’m going to rest, see you tomorrow , he texts his parents, and taehyung, feeling slightly bad for lying. 

the hotel room is warm, they left the heater on this time. jungkook strips too quickly, walking into the shower before the water has a chance to boil. it hurts, but it feels good, it appeases the things under the skin. he touches his forehead to the wall, letting water run down his back, thinking of how yoongi held onto his waist, how he pressed against it, how his lips felt, how wet they were, how warm. he sighs. oh, no, no, no, no, no, no, no . jungkook catches his breath, daring to touch himself, relief filling his inner corners as soon as he does it. shame still has the upper hand, though, and he stops, sighing, cheeks burning. i can’t do this . so he doesn’t, letting his body cool down before leaving the shower, dripping all over the floor, barely wrapping himself before stepping out of the bathroom.

yoongi stands as soon as jungkook sees him, and then he blushes copiously, looking away. he’s still wearing his fencing gear, most of it covered by his heavy winter coats. “i came back earlier,” he explains, consonants clashing between his teeth. “i— we—”

“— can i get dressed first?” jungkook’s own voice is small. yoongi nods vehemently, of course, go ahead, i’ll— i’ll turn around . he quickly picks up his clothes, loose pants hiding whatever’s happening to his body still, big sweatshirts making impossible for yoongi to see how flushed he is. yoongi has his back to him, and he seems to fidget with the zipper on his jacket. jungkook approaches him slowly, not knowing what to do. “i’m all done.”

they’re once again close enough to touch, but none does it. jungkook can’t seem to find it in himself to look at yoongi’s eyes, so he looks at his hands instead, how he picks on the corners of his nails, digging into skin. “when you,” yoongi starts, reaching out. “when you thrust,” a shiver runs up jungkook’s arm where yoongi carefully touches him, then, positioning his blade arm. “use this movement,” he continues, pushing words out, so low it’s almost a whisper, making jungkook’s arm move. “you won’t lose strength in your elbow and it’ll help with speed.” his fingers gently tug on jungkook’s sleeve, and then run upwards and innards, and jungkook’s breath stutters as his knuckles grasp over his ribs. “and you hold the hilt like,” fingers touch his fingers, adjusting them gently. jungkook raises his eyes, finally, watching yoongi’s cheeks grow redder. “like this, like—”

“i know how to hold the hilt, sunbae,” jungkook huffs, and it makes yoongi even more flustered. he reaches out for the straps under yoongi’s coats. “maybe i should give you tips on knots.”

“i didn’t have time to undo them properly,” yoongi shrugs, and he lets go completely of jungkook. “i wanted to come here and—” he stops as jungkook pushes the layers of coat off his shoulders, the sound of fabric falling on the carpet suddenly too loud. jungkook starts working on the straps of his plastron. “talk.”

“here,” and jungkook tugs on the straps the slightest, bringing yoongi closer, but freeing him from the plastron a moment later. they stare at each other. jungkook feels hot in places he shouldn’t be. “sunbae, i—,” he clears his throat. yoongi waits. “maybe, i—” and this time his eyes betray him, daring to glance down at yoongi’s mouth, and he licks his lips, and his whole body wants things he can’t understand. i want you , he needs to say, but nothing comes out. he speaks differently, then, with fingers that deliberately touch against yoongi’s stomach, finding the way under his shirt, his skin so soft. yoongi sucks in his breath. 

kissing is a slower process this time. they both lean in for it, lips hovering each other, noses softly touching. when they do touch, jungkook pulls away quickly, heart fluttering, closing his eyes, pressing them hard enough to see phosphenes. yoongi’s mouth is wet and soft and his tongue tastes like mint drops and jungkook has the strange sensation of being floating and not standing. it’s chaste for some time, as they explore each other’s limits, grazing over it kindly before retreating, until they stop retreating altogether. jungkook’s the first to dare, knees bending at the edge of his bed, and when he sits down, he pulls yoongi with him, letting himself get pinned down, yoongi’s black hair touching his forehead, face flushed all over, eyes a bit dazed. jungkook swallows. “you’re—,” but yoongi doesn’t continue, embarrassed, looking down at where their hips meet. 

“i was thinking about you,” jungkook admits, words blurted with no poise. “in the— shower.” then he exhales, heart racing against his ribcage. “i think about you all the time, sunbae.”

“i thought you didn’t like me,” yoongi huffs, and he leans down to press his nose against jungkook’s jaw, in such a caring gesture that makes the blood under jungkook’s skin boil. 

“i have to beat you,” he allows yoongi better access to his neck, broken sigh leaving his mouth. “i can’t like you.” yoongi grazes his skin with his teeth, and jungkook wants to press his legs together, wants the burning to stop. “but i,” their hips clumsily touch, both letting out stifled sounds of their own. jungkook feels painful all over, the effort not to shamelessly rub against yoongi too straining. “i think about you,” yoongi kisses the crook of his neck. “ sunbae. ”

the pleading sort of word seems to snap yoongi awake. he pulls back, but just barely, breathing against jungkook’s skin. “i think about you, too,” he voices, after a moment. “but you won’t win,” it makes jungkook scoff, but it transforms into a broken sort of gasp when yoongi moves against him again, chuckling at his reaction. they kiss again, then, not necessarily unseeing the issues that might arise from it, but choosing to ignore them for a while. and for a while lasts a bit, until kissing becomes unbearable. that’s when jungkook uses force to push yoongi away and onto the bed, and they both lay there, fingers still touching, side by side in too small of a bed, staring at the ceiling, breathing heavily. yoongi shifts the slightest. “i’m sorry.”

“i want to—,” jungkook trails off, turning his head to look at yoongi’s profile. 

yoongi’s fingers press harder against jungkook’s, but his eyes are still stuck to the ceiling, his chest is still rising and falling at a quick speed. “— yeah,” he sighs. “yes.” still, they don’t really move. there’s a poignant kind of red on yoongi’s lips. “— do you want to come to practice with me?” he turns his head, too, meeting jungkook’s confused stare.

“—what?”

“practice,” he clears his throat. “i’m going to practice,” they stare at each for a moment before jungkook breaks out in laughter, bringing his hands to hide his face, shaking. “is this funny —” but he seems to laugh, too, nudging the side of jungkook’s body with his elbow. “kissing doesn’t change anything.”

slight pang in his heart, jungkook stops laughing. yoongi is flushed on the cheeks. “— no?” 

“well, no—,” and he sits up, hand trying to tame his hair. jungkook does the same, their shoulders touching, and his pinky curls around yoongi’s on the bed. it’s completely and utterly on purpose. yoongi clears his throat one more time. “you still have to beat me.”

Chapter Text

jungkook stares at the nice colours on yoongi’s ears, and the way he seems to pout when he speaks, and the fact that his bed will definitely smell a bit like him later. so jungkook leans in, lips meeting the skin of yoongi’s neck, where a small constellation of freckles are. yoongi shivers. “i think i have the upperhand now, sunbae,” he mutters. yoongi exhales slowly, stuttery even, and then he’s getting up, quickly walking towards the bathroom, closing the door too loudly, a mumbled sorry drifting from behind it at once. 

they don’t really talk on the way to practice, aside from yoongi telling him they’re not going to the gymnasium, but somewhere else, and jungkook just follows, wordlessly. it’s a small gym, with swords lined up on the wall of the lobby, and a smiley receptionist greets yoongi with a nod. they take the stairs to the second floor, and jungkook sees the figure inside the training room, the light, bleached hair, the taller stance. tall coffee shop boy . jungkook halts by the door, watching as yoongi walks in easily, winning a ridiculously big, dimpled smile from the boy waiting. “you’re late,” he comments, crossing his arms. 

“i— got held back,” yoongi mumbles, and jungkook can see his ears turning red, and jungkook can see how the tall boy looks over yoongi’s shoulder at him, muttering a i see, hyung . “that’s jungkook,” yoongi sounds nervous. “he’s— in the competition as well.” and then he looks over his shoulder, and jungkook feels himself shrink. “this is namjoon.”

“oh,” namjoon waves. “you brought in the enemy, hyung.”

but jungkook has stopped listening. “kim namjoon?” he says, startled. “olympic gold medalist kim namjoon?” yoongi seems to roll his eyes, scoffing. “two years ago—,” and jungkook can’t help but step in, quick steps bringing him closer to namjoon, finally recognising his features, seeing past the dimples. “you won against matteo tagliariol.” then he adds, taken aback: “you bleached your hair.”

namjoon blinks, eyebrows raising, before laughing. yoongi pinches the bridge of his nose, letting out a sigh, why did i bring you here— , but namjoon offers jungkook his hand, and jungkook shakes it too enthusiastically. “are you practicing with us?”

to know that yoongi has been secretly mentored by a gold medalist makes jungkook both angry and jealous and the clash of feelings leaves him confused. it’s more important to be angry than jealous , he tells himself. “isn’t it cheating?”

“everyone’s allowed to practice privately, it’s not cheating,” namjoon pats his arm before walking away. “but if you’re not joining us, you can watch.”

somehow, jungkook doesn’t feel like he can join them, not then. there’s a thing between them it isn’t possible to unsee, and jungkook can’t help but feel like he should have stayed back at the hotel. so he sits next to their bags, with a sigh, back against the mirror, watching yoongi smile, how easy it is, then, easier than when they were kissing not even an hour ago. they go over techniques, talking about the last two bouts, and then yoongi pulls out his phone, mentioning someone’s name, possibly his opponent. their heads are close to each other when they look over whatever information yoongi has. jungkook feels himself get bothered. you have no right to be. “jungkook,” yoongi calls softly, maybe a bit more than he should. namjoon pretends not to notice. “you won against this kid last year.” he lifts his phone, but jungkook can’t see from that far. 

“—what’s his name?”

“ho kyungtae.”

“ah, yeah,” jungkook nods, feeling small under their stare. “he’s good,” but he adds, quickly: “you’re better.” namjoon seems to hold a little laugh. “he— he’ll attack fast, and he goes for remisés ,” he thinks a bit. “you’re similar, so— if you leave it for luck he’ll steal your right of way.”

“did you?” namjoon asks, and he walks closer, until he can sit next to jungkook. yoongi does the same after a stalling moment, legs crossed just in front of jungkook’s. they share a look. jungkook’s heart speeds, to his dismay.

“i’m good, too,” he grins, cheeky. it makes yoongi’s eyes widen, and he blushes, too pretty, quickly finding interest in something else. “he isn’t the best at defending himself anyway.” and maybe jungkook thinks he isn’t good at defending himself from yoongi either, not from the way he’s coloured pink or how he can’t seem to look at jungkook or how his shoelaces are tied like bunnies now. he’s weak about all of those things, and all of the others, too, like the taste of yoongi’s kiss still on his tongue. when he reaches out and touches yoongi’s arm, it’s slowly and carefully, and yoongi stiffens at once. jungkook pretends to remove dirt from yoongi’s sweater, because he forgot why he reached out in the first place. 

namjoon’s eyes move from one then the other, and he clears his throat. “well, let’s start, then.” 

and start they do. jungkook watches as they stretch, already changed in breeches and loose shirts, looking like people from the past. they start like that, no proper uniforms, no protection, aside from gloves. it’s— enthralling, somehow, to see them spar. namjoon, despite his height, is as fast and as cunning as yoongi, and they laugh loudly when the other parry, with namjoon pointing out the slight mistakes yoongi makes every other move, albeit there aren’t many. jungkook joins them at some point, too eager to fence, hands tingling. it’s fun, and namjoon makes jungkook laugh as he scolds him for being too eager on his attacks, and yoongi adds it’s okay as long as you don’t lose your right of way , and at some point, at some point, he’s facing yoongi, blades between them. yoongi’s shirt has buttons undone, and he looks nervous. “one hit?” he asks, cocking an eyebrow up. 

“one hit,” jungkook agrees. he doesn’t stand a chance, though, not when he’s too infatuated with the way yoongi’s eyes look just before he attacks. he doesn’t move, and yoongi does, and they collide awkwardly, yoongi trying not to hit him as hard, but it makes him flinch anyway. they grab onto each other feebly, to hold balance. 

“—that’s how you lose,” namjoon points out, seemingly ignoring how their faces get red, how hands take too long to part, how jungkook’s breathing has gone awry. yes, that’s how you lose , jungkook agrees, stepping away from yoongi. he’s lost, royally. namjoon checks his watch. “anyway, you better get going, hyung. you need some rest.”

and he’s right, time is ticking with the approaching bouts. namjoon sends them off after signing an autograph jungkook stutters to ask, yoongi muttering a stream of i cannot believe this , pinching his nose. and so they share a cab back to the hotel, sitting with comfortable distance in the back, looking at opposite directions. i can’t come tomorrow , i teach a class for first graders , namjoon had shrugged when jungkook asked if he was watching them. jungkook sighs, stealing a quick glance at yoongi. “are you nervous?”

they stop at a red light, and its hues stain yoongi’s hair. “not nervous,” yoongi replies, after a moment. “a bit hungry.”

the nonchalant way he speaks make jungkook scoff, muttering you’re really something under his breath, grinning. yoongi doesn’t smile back, but his face is slightly blushed. jungkook can’t help but notice how their hands are close on the leather seat, how he could lean in, just a bit, and hold. “we can eat,” he says, instead. “i mean,” adding, softly: “together.”

“— yeah, i guess we could,” yoongi sounds— nervous. his words are convoluted and full of airy ends. “you have that money you bet on me.” it makes jungkook smile a little, that he remembered. their fingers get closer.

“there’s a stall near the hotel,” and yoongi shifts a bit, taking his hand away. “and a convenience store.”

“i feel like eating noodles.”

“—okay.”

they end up at the same spot jungkook often meets taehyung, eating the same instant noodles from plastic cups, a shared can of coke between them, two paper straws, one bitten. they’re silent, and awkward. yoongi barely touches his food. “sunbae—” and jungkook doesn’t feel like eating, all of a sudden. there are too many things he’s nervous about. his words are stopped by the soft snow that starts drifting, and yoongi looks up, hair getting a white crown of flakes in minutes. he looks too pretty to be real, all pink lips and fair skin and raven edges. jungkook’s heart drunkenly skips, embed in infatuation. he leans forward, reaching a hand to brush snow from yoongi’s hair. yoongi’s eyes wander about him, as jungkook’s fingertips touch his jawline. 

“people can see us,” yoongi says, pushing jungkook’s hand away gently enough. jungkook doesn’t miss how he presses against it, as if wanting to hold. “don’t.”

“i’m sorry,” jungkook retreats, ashamed. “before, when we—”

“we don’t have to talk about it,” yoongi sighs, and he looks overall flustered, like he has the entire night, the crimson not leaving his cheeks. “we shouldn’t talk, let’s just eat and go back.”

“at least,” jungkook slides his plastic chair a bit. “sit on this side, you’re getting snowed.”

yoongi complies silently, sitting close, the arms of their chairs meeting, their own arms meeting, the heel of yoongi’s sneakers grazing jungkook’s ankle. for a moment, they don’t talk. jungkook begrudgingly slurps his noodles. yoongi only picks at his. time pass as slowly as the snow that falls, and just as quietly. jungkook finally caves in, restless, sitting back, sliding an arm around yoongi’s chair, fingers touching the fabric of his jacket, pulling. “i’m not nervous about the competition,” yoongi finally says, and he sips from the bitten straw, jungkook’s straw. “not about that.”

“— you still have snow on your hair, sunbae,” jungkook comments, faintly, touching yoongi’s hair again. yoongi lets him do it, this time, leaning against his fingers. they gravitate towards each other. “what are you nervous about?” 

“you,” yoongi glances his way, just for a second. jungkook blushes. “me.”

the fingers that touch yoongi’s hair move tentatively downwards, pressing against his neck, his spine. yoongi arches the slightest, shifting on his seat, and he gets closer, if anything. “we can figure it out,” jungkook offers, and he so badly wants to kiss the side of yoongi’s mouth that his breathing is impaired. they’re not alone, though, there’s the person behind the counter inside, and the windows of too many apartments. 

“we should go,” yoongi says at once, maybe sensing the way jungkook leans in, maybe wanting him to but knowing they can’t. “sleep,” he adds, quickly. jungkook nods. they pick up their trash, food half eaten. “i’m sorry i didn’t eat well.”

“it’s okay, i have money left,” jungkook smiles faintly as they start walking back. “for— next time.”

“— good.”

for a few blissful minutes, jungkook thinks they’ll go back together, and they’ll kiss again, and they’ll fall asleep on the same bed, but it is never that easy, nor simple. the things he wants are difficult when the reality is harsh. yoongi fixes his things, checking his equipment before saying something about going downstairs to the lobby, disappearing behind the door a moment later. jungkook stands, holding folded clothes, staring at the door, hoping it’d open. it doesn’t, really. not way after he’s showered, and way after he’s tucked in bed. it’s like they revert back to all those nights before, where yoongi would arrive late and jungkook would watch him. this time, yoongi changes in the bathroom, and he doesn’t turn on the lights when he gets to bed. jungkook stares, heart aching. good night, jungkook , he hopes to hear. it doesn’t truly come.

the strangeness between them lasts all the way to the full gymnasium the next day, and into the locker rooms where they change into their given uniforms, a good distance between them. yoongi mutters good luck before he leaves, quickly disappearing behind the door, and jungkook, for a second, has to remind himself his heart has other things to worry about other than the way yoongi speaks when he’s embarrassed (all vowels and consonants scrambled into one fast, slurred block of sentence). jungkook doesn’t see him in the small crowd of athletes, and his attention is grabbed by the fencing, until he’s up for the spar, adjusting the hilt of his blade onto his gloved hand, inhaling slowly at the end of the piste. the boy who punched him, siwoo, pauses just beside him. jungkook offers him a hand, which siwoo shakes lightly. “still a bit purple, i see,” he comments, voice dry. “i thought your boyfriend would kiss you better.” jungkook’s heart sinks, and he knows his eyes are wide, and there’s no time to respond, because the referee calls them over for salutes. siwoo smirks. jungkook feels himself tremble. oh no, no, no, no, no, no—

allez!

it’s not an easy bout. jungkook sweats, mind blanking, losing attacks. a difference of five points opens up between him and the boy on the other side of the piste, jungkook feels a nasty taste on the back of his throat. i can’t lose, i can’t lose . his eyes glance around as the referee analyses a possible point. yoongi’s face is barely visible in the darkened arena, but he looks viciously aware of jungkook’s wrongdoings and feeble attacks. then he remembers, he’s indecisive . yoongi told him that. siwoo has only been striking points because jungkook has been too nervous to lead. he swallows, resolute, just as the referee gives the point to siwoo again. it’s fine, just—go faster . 

faster he does go, and, just like yoongi told him, the moment jungkook lunges forward, siwoo seems unsure of what to do, arms flailing, criss-crossing the air with very little grace. jungkook scores, then again, then again, pushing forward, and forward, the side of his face still aching. boyfriend , he thinks of the word for a second, said in spiteful hues. “what an idiot,” he huffs once the last point is scored, and the gymnasium erupts in cheers as jungkook’s name shows up on the quarters panel, just three names under yoongi’s, who still leads the rounds. he smiles too big, feeling others pat his back rather harshly as he coils. congratulations are still being given when he spots yoongi at a dark corner of the bleachers, phone illuminating his face. it’s unnerving how fast jungkook makes his way to him. “i—  passed.”

“yeah,” yoongi looks up for only a fleeting moment, and then he puts his phone into the pocket of his jacket, and he looks all blue, then. “you did well.” a smile is offered. jungkook exhales in magenta. yoongi mumbles a small what are you doing the moment jungkook grabs his wrist and pulls him up, but he follows to where jungkook drags him, and they stumble against each other in a hidden cove under the bleachers, dark enough no one can see them.

“can i kiss you?”

jungkook hits his head on something, and it hurts, but yoongi nods and allows him to press against his body, and his mouth, and all pain is forgotten in place of burning, burning heat. the fact that both of their bodies are entirely covered by uniforms is crippling. “jungkook,” yoongi mutters, after a moment, name said between their breaths. “i— need to go, it’s— almost me.”

“okay,” and yoongi starts moving away, and jungkook giggles, daring to lean in one last time, placing a kiss on yoongi’s cheek, heart full of brimming adoration. “fifteen to zero.”

there’s no response other than a weak hum, and then yoongi’s gone, and jungkook still feels him all over. there’s a bright red colour on yoongi’s cheeks once he steps onto the piste. the fluttering feeling pooling jungkook’s inside. he knows yoongi’s going to win, but he watches anyway for the spectacle that it is to see min yoongi fence. the gymnasium seems to vibrate with excitement as well. “are you going to bet?” someone asks jungkook, nudging his elbow as soon as yoongi puts on his mask. 

“yeah, fifteen zero,” jungkook smirks. he’s not the only one this time. “all in.” giving all his money to a silly bet is remarkably reckless, but jungkook trusts yoongi to win in under five minutes. en garde , the referee says. people shush others at the bleachers. the other boys gather closer. pret, allez!  

and then min yoongi loses for the first time.

the door has the do not disturb sign hanging from the knob again. jungkook breathes in deeply. he’s sat through dinner with his family and taehyung, laughing weakly, nodding politely, all his thoughts stuck to this very room and the boy in it (the way he walked out of the piste, eyes fixed on the ground, thin line for lips, eyes unbelieving—). he swallows, mouth dry. a room service attendant comes out of the elevator, nodding at him, and it makes jungkook nervous, it makes him quickly touch his card to the reader, opening the door not so quietly. from where he stands, he sees yoongi’s ankles and feet on his bed, black loose pants rolled up. for a moment, jungkook thinks he’s asleep. he isn’t. he’s got the book with words in french propped on his chest, black hair inky against the pillow, the flimsy white shirt with sleeves rolled up, too. yoongi’s eyes scan the pages leisurely. “i,” jungkook starts, and his chest hums with the need to go and run a hand through yoongi’s hair. “i’m sorry.”

“about what?” the tone is slightly dry. jungkook puts his bag down at the foot of his bed.

“about,” you losing . somehow the words don’t come out. “tonight.”

“i passed nonetheless.”

“— yeah,” it’s a detached sort of conversation. yoongi hasn’t looked at him, and jungkook wants him to. he moves candidly, fingers coming to scratch his nose before he licks the tips, using it to turn a page. the reading glasses make shadows that look like rings under his eyes. “what’s your book about?”

“ à la recherche du temps perdu ,” yoongi answers after a pause, and his voice is pretty in french, the airy words holding some sort of magic. “volume 4.”

“— it’s thick,” the commentary makes yoongi blink, swallowing, adam’s apple moving along. jungkook stares, and then he can’t help himself: “you look really pretty.”

yoongi’s eyes flicker from the pages to the ceiling. he puts the book down. “— why do you keep saying that?” he asks, and he sounds bothered. bothered as in upset, as in annoyed, and jungkook can’t help but frown, face getting hot. 

“because it’s true,” he offers. yoongi sighs, pushing the glasses up his forehead to scratch his eyes. jungkook feels as if he’s doing something absolutely wrong. he approaches his own bed, sitting on the very edge, uncomfortable. “i’m sorry if—” if what? “i’m sorry.”

for some time, it’s only heavy silence. yoongi doesn’t go back to his book. jungkook doesn’t really look at him, pulling on the fabric of his pants instead, heart beating in a weird pace inside his chest. then, yoongi sits up, and the book falls off of him, and he loses the page he was reading from, muttering a small thing of a curse that comes out breathy. jungkook raises his eyes. “there’s nothing to be sorry about,” and yoongi huffs. “i can be really good looking,” the way he says it, smuggish, despite his low, slurred vowels, makes jungkook break out in a chuckle. “— we can’t, though.” a pause. “kiss.”

“yeah,” jungkook nods, and he’s still smiling, his heart aching badly inside his chest. “you must like girls.”

“no,” and yoongi doesn’t seem ashamed of saying so. it’s said casually given away, the information, with a half-shrug. “i can’t focus,” he admits. “it’s foolish,” jungkook’s heart picks up speed when yoongi glances his way for a fleeting moment. “i don’t like fooling around.”

“—what do you like?”

“winning,” yoongi says rather matter-of-factly.

“you’re not going to win,” jungkook can’t help but say. yoongi finds his eyes, cheeks red, eyes full of challenge. “and i,” he stammers. “i don’t want to fool around.”

at this, yoongi snorts. “what—you want to hold my hand?”

“— yes,” jungkook’s cheeks flare. “i mean,” he swallows. “yes.”

it’s offered to him, then, a hand, fingers long, thin. jungkook looks at it, confused, unsure. yoongi sighs, retreating. “it isn’t that easy, is it, little one?” he stands, moving to walk away, moving to find something else to do, maybe, now that it’s too late for practice. there it is, the air of dismiss again, the little one , the casual brashness. jungkook holds his hand, then, before yoongi can step too far away, before he himself can think, and he forcefully intertwine their fingers, pulling yoongi close, standing up to tower over him. 

“ i’m not little .” he says rather sharply. yoongi blinks, eyes widening for a second before resuming their challenging stare. there’s blush down his neck. their hands quickly become clammy, but neither lets go. jungkook looks away first, acknowledging defeat. all the steam inside his chest is nothing in face of yoongi. “i’m— not.”

“i lost because i couldn’t stop thinking about the way you kissed me,” the whole entire sentence leaves jungkook breathless. his body stiffens. yoongi’s syllables all but give away whatever he’s feeling. the words come out sternly, aggravating the inner turmoil that shakes jungkook’s heart. it’s like he’s been called out. he looks up, meeting yoongi’s eyes again. “that’s why—”

“you lost because you were slow and your footwork was messy, sunbae,” jungkook cuts in, slightly resentful. yoongi huffs in disbelief, and their hands press together. “maybe if you rested instead of practicing every waking hour you would have managed to—”

“it has nothing to do with practice,” yoongi’s voice doesn’t rise in volume, it gets lower, if anything, mumbled and angry and upset. he tries to pull his hand away, jungkook won’t let him. “it’s because—”

“— of me? ” 

“yes,” it’s a dry reply. yoongi tries to step away, but they’re standing in the small space between their beds, bodies close, hands still holding. jungkook inhales, shoulders dropping. “you— unsettle me.” he understands, though, the feeling. it’s mutual, jungkook wants to say, he’s also completely disarmed by yoongi, also left distracted by the way he moves, the way he is, the peach on his hair. “you’re too—” yoongi seems to lose his words, sniffing, bringing both of their hands involuntarily up to scratch the tip of his nose. it’s jungkook’s knuckles who touch skin, yoongi’s breath hot against his wrist. “you can let go of me now, we’re done talking.”

although jungkook doesn’t want to, he lets go of yoongi’s hand, a stain of ache bleeding through his clothes. yoongi quickly walks away, and for a second he seems not to know what to do, and for a second, jungkook sees how he battles not to say more. “you should rest, sunbae,” he breathes out, eventually, as yoongi still paces, nervous. “it’s quarters soon.”

yoongi only nods weakly before closing himself in the bathroom. jungkook immediately brings his hands against his face, screaming silently. this is a mess, everything’s a mess , hyung, he texts taehyung, pain starting to ram against his forehead. he knows , it’s the affirmative reply. jungkook presses his eyes closed, letting himself fall on his mattress, rolling on his stomach, pulling the duvet up to hide himself. it’s horrible to listen to yoongi step out of the bathroom, it’s mortifying to feel him step close, only to hear the ruffle of sheets on another bed that isn’t his own. jungkook’s body aches from staying so still, shoulders tense. “— i don’t want to break your heart,” yoongi’s soft voice startles him. jungkook sighs before turning on the bed, looking over his shoulder.

“you’re not breaking my heart, i don’t— it’s not like that.”

a hand is extended to him again. yoongi blinks slowly. “truce, then,” he says.

you’re breaking my heart, i’m lying . jungkook fully turns, then, reaching into the small distance. yoongi’s fingers are cold. “truce,” jungkook mutters.

it’s fleeting, but yoongi’s thumb rub softly against jungkook’s skin, and there’s just the smallest pressure on his hold. then he clears his throat, letting go entirely, hand hiding under his pillow. “—you should take a shower, you smell like pork belly.” 

he does, jungkook knows, but the silly commentary makes his break out in a giggle, and he sits up, duvet falling from his shoulders. yoongi stares as he stands up. “yeah, i’ll go or else you might eat me,” he didn’t mean to make yoongi flush, and he didn’t mean the words that just came out, and yoongi looks away too fast, obviously flustered, and jungkook is too, so he makes a line to the bathroom, locking himself up. w ay to go, jungkook . 

(when he leaves the bathroom, yoongi’s asleep, light snoring leaving his mouth, body curled into himself, one hand hanging out from the mattress, fingers slightly bended. jungkook lays down, exhaling deeply, turning off the light. he reaches out, after a moment of sullen indecision, touching yoongi’s hand softly in the space between their beds. yoongi stirs, but doesn’t wake. his fingers are warm, this time. tiredness weights on jungkook’s eyelids, and he thinks of letting go, he reminds himself to do so before falling asleep. however, falling asleep is much like in falling in love. jungkook often does it fast, recklessly, holding someone’s hand in the dark, feeling, maybe, wishing, perhaps, that they hold his back.)

Chapter Text

there’s a week of rest before the quarters, semis and finals. a week the remaining competitors take to rest, to bond over acquaintances, to allow themselves to breathe a little easier before tension starts eating up their edges again. it’s in that spirit that jungkook finds himself at a bar with two other boys, taehyung, and a negligent amount of beers. it’s been a good couple of days. the cold is brash, and it’s been snowing most nights, and jungkook has taken a liking to sleep watching the flakes build up on the window sill, patterns of ice on the glass. yoongi hasn’t been around, anyway. his bed has remained empty. “maybe he’s with his parents,” taehyung offers, voice low as they talk under the noise of the bar. 

“maybe he doesn’t want to see me anymore,” jungkook huffs, but he’s hurt, slightly. and worse, he’s missed yoongi and his presence in the room. his fingers tap lightly against his beer bottle, still full, warming up. “i think he hates me.”

“he doesn’t hate you,” taehyung looks towards the other side of the bar, a strange smile curling his lips. “otherwise he wouldn’t be joining our table, would he?”

jungkook startles. “he isn’t joining—“ but he is , jungkook sees him, in his pretty fitting clothes, black mask covering his face, and namjoon follows right behind, saying something in yoongi’s ear, and the boys at the table wave at them, and yoongi halts suddenly, because jungkook finds his eyes, seeing red stain his ears. for a second, he seems ready to turn away, and jungkook looks down at the table, at the wet circles left by the beer bottles, breathing rapidly. 

“sunbae!” someone calls, and jungkook flinches. he can tell that namjoon and yoongi have approached the table, there are chairs being pulled, and suddenly there’s someone so close, their legs pressing against jungkook’s. he doesn’t have to look to know it’s yoongi, from the way his fingers grab onto fabric, nervous, too. 

for a second, jungkook makes to leave, and he would have if taehyung hadn’t reached out a hand towards them, boxy smile adorning his features. “i’m kim taehyung,” he says, voice chipper. “jungkook’s friend.” 

“ gatorade boy ,” yoongi holds his hand, shaking. namjoon does the same. jungkook finally looks up, crossing his arms against his chest, pushing his chair further away from yoongi’s. “min yoongi.” ah, famous min yoongi-ssi , taehyung seems to hint, and jungkook huffs rather loudly, looking away from the table entirely. “— am i, now?”

“not as much as kim namjoon,” taehyung chuckles, adjusting the beret on his head. it’s brown like his trenchcoat, and it contrasts against the blue of his hair. “never thought i’d meet an olympic medalist.”

“never thought i’d meet an—”

“— art student.”

“ art student. ”

the exchange makes jungkook fully focus on the faces at the table, the way that taehyung still holds namjoon’s hand above it, the playful, mischievous smile on his face, and somehow he glances sideways at yoongi, watching him raise his eyebrows, then scoff. taehyung and namjoon retrieve their hands quickly, then, namjoon getting crayon red staining his neck. i should go get us beers , he’s quick to say, standing up,  to which taehyung firmly adds, i’ll pay for them , namjoon-ssi , standing up, too. awkwardness immediately settles on the table. the two other boys, competitors jungkook has barely spoken to, seem to be into a very heated discussion on foils, and jungkook slides his chair further away a bit more. yoongi does so, too, the noise loud under the music and the chatting.

they sit in silence for almost ten minutes, before taehyung and namjoon return, both holding beer bottles, and jungkook grabs one, despite the full, unfinished one in front of him. “here’s to good sparring,” taehyung offers, raising his bottle, smile too big. 

cheers! everyone else says it, and bottles are clinked together. jungkook swallows the cold liquid halfheartedly. fried chicken is served not too long after, and conversation flows more easily as they drink, up until the point that an hour passes, and then another, and there are four empty bottles of beer in front of jungkook, and his stomach is full, his cheeks too red. yoongi moves a bit, reaching out for an empty glass of soju. “i’ll pour it for you, sunbae,” jungkook offers, cheeky, finally looking yoongi’s way. he’s all red, too, cheeks flushed prettily, hair a bit mussed, tossed away from his face. “i’m polite,” and he hiccups, giggling.

“you’re drunk,” yoongi points out, but his words are slow and slurred. soju is poured, but yoongi holds onto the sleeve of jungkook’s sweater. namjoon barely looks their way, before turning his attention back to taehyung and his not very interesting (jungkook thinks) talk about impressionist art. it’s clearly interesting to kim namjoon. “—it’s impolite to leave me drinking alone.”

“alright,” and jungkook nods, pouring another glass for himself. “here’s to—,” he thinks for a moment, bringing his glass closer to yoongi’s, their fingers touching. “here’s to me making the team,” and he grins, as yoongi breaks out in laughter.

“you’re really drunk,” he repeats, but touches their glasses together, tossing his head back as he drinks. jungkook swallows, watching, glass still on the table. “well, come on, now—” yoongi wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. jungkook quickly downs the soju, too, making a face as it burns down his throat. it makes yoongi laugh again. 

“— well, you’re— you’re drunk too, you’re all—” he coughs, saying, and then he’s reaching a hand and his head is fuzzy, but the skin on yoongi’s cheek is so very hot . “you’re all red here.” yoongi’s laughter is cut short, and their eyes meet, and jungkook, for a second or two, can’t seem to remember what he’s doing with his hands, or how they work, or if there’s anything else than the heat against his fingers. there is, there’s a whole bar around them, so he pulls back quickly, heart beating in disarray, lungs suddenly overworked. i need to stop drinking .

there’s an obvious stillness about yoongi, and he only nods briefly, as if there’s something to agree on. but then he leans in, only slightly. “is gatorade boy your—,” jungkook stares, and yoongi’s eyes widen, and they both get embarrassed at even the suggestion of a possible end to that sentence. “never mind, i—”

“no,” jungkook replies anyway, looking down at his lap. “ no .”

“—right.”

“right.”

jungkook breathes out. he presses the bridge of his nose when yoongi mumbles something about getting some air, nodding, yeah, sure , watching him walk away from the table, scratching the back of his head, tugging on strands of hair. taehyung looks over, too, then at jungkook. a silent exchange happens, the kind that only do between friends: go after him , taehyung seems to say, frowning. it’s not like that , jungkook shakes his head, pushing fingers through the knots in his hair. it isn’t like that at all, jungkook wants to say. they have a truce— no kissing, nothing of the sorts, not until the competition is over. they both want it too much— winning, that is (albeit jungkook would recognise he wants to kiss yoongi again just as badly). when yoongi comes back, sitting down close enough jungkook feels their arms touching, he smells of the smoke of outside, like snow and icy breeze. the conversation shifts, namjoon bringing them in with stories from the last olympic games, and somehow their table gets full again, other fencers coming and going, yoongi pressing closer to him with each chair added, and jungkook drinks another beer, despite the haziness inside his head. when yoongi touches his arm, at some point, jungkook almost gasps. “i didn’t mean to scare you,” yoongi says mildly apologetic, inching closer so that he doesn’t need to raise his voice. 

“you— you didn’t,” jungkook shakes his head vehemently, aware of yoongi’s breath close to his ear. his heart picks up speed right away, stupidly hopeful.

“jungkook,” yoongi’s voice is hoarse and low and jungkook swallows, heat spreading like wildfire. “spar with me.” the way he says it makes jungkook’s middle ache, and he exhales, not understanding completely. yoongi tugs on his arm. “spar with me, little one.”

it makes jungkook huff, grinning. “i’m not little, sunbae.” 

they make it out of the bar fast, stumbling together, jungkook trying to wrap yoongi’s scarf around his neck as yoongi hails a taxi for the both of them. we don’t have our equipment, sunbae , jungkook reasons, head heavy against yoongi’s shoulder on the backseat. however, they have it at the gym that yoongi unlocks after a few tries (“so you do have a secret practice place,” jungkook says, poking his ribs. “it’s not secret, i just know the owner, he used to coach me.”), keys falling on the sidewalk. jungkook peels off his own layers of clothes too fast, feeling the hilt of an unfamiliar sabre against his palm. yoongi waves his, with an elegant flair, jackets around his feet. jungkook gets close enough to touch their blades together, playfully. yoongi sways, giggling. “here, let me show you,” yoongi says, then, dropping his sabre on the piste and walking around jungkook. jungkook’s body stiffens completely the moment that yoongi’s hands come and touch him, one on his weapon arm, the other on his waist. the touch is flimsy, but dizzying enough. “position your feet, jungkook.”

“i thought we were sparring,” jungkook pushes the words out. 

“i’m helping you,” with a sigh, jungkook follows, and yoongi’s fingers press a bit more. “fencing is like dancing, i guess,” he raises jungkook’s arm a bit. “except you’re trying to kill me. metaphorically.”

“so we’re dancing?” 

“if you want to,” yoongi replies softly, but before jungkook can reply, he adds: “ en garde ,” the sabre is held more firmly. “aim at the end of the piste,” jungkook breathes out slowly. “double advance, all the way, recover back,” yoongi lifts his hand from jungkook’s waist, but it hovers. “ allez. ” his body moves, and jungkook does what he’s told, advancing fast against the nothingness ahead of him, recovering backwards a moment later, and his body collides awkwardly against yoongi’s. “that was good,” yoongi pats his back. “faster now.”

“ah, sunbae,” jungkook complains, turning, and somehow they can’t stop touching each other. “i don’t want to practice anything right now,” his voice is childish and whiny, and yoongi starts complaining back, we have to train, how are you supposed to win, i’m helping — his words are cut halfway, caught in his throat, the moment jungkook drops his weapon down, holding his wrists.  for a moment, none of them speak. then jungkook swallows, voice small: “— do you want me to win?”

“i want you to lose against me,” yoongi answers, flushed. “just— just against me.”

they sway together slightly. jungkook leans in, abashed. yoongi blinks, flustered. “—one hit?”

a smile. “one hit.”

they pick up their weapons, grinning at each other defiantly, and they spar playfully, dodging hits with little care, feeling the ribs hurt under slight pokes, breathlessly shouting at each other. yoongi points out mistakes jungkook makes, and jungkook yells at ingenious moves yoongi comes up with, you’re cheating! , what! that was a perfect riposte, you’re drunk! . at some point, though, they’re both laying down on the piste, side by side, lungs overwhelmed by effort, down to sweaty t-shirts. jungkook feels giddy, happy, unbelievably full of— many things. his head is spinning, much like the roof, much like the tough flooring under his body. yoongi has his eyes closed, a nasty bruise on the side of his neck where jungkook’s sabre hit on a particularly engaging attack. he stirs when jungkook gets closer, touching it. “i hurt you bad, i’m sorry,” he mutters, and yoongi’s ready to dismiss him, ready to shove his hands away, but jungkook leans in anyway, until his lips hover over skin, until he can kiss it. for a second, he waits for the reprimand. it doesn’t come. 

“it’s nothing,” yoongi huffs, and he sounds embarrassed and small and wanting, stammering his words. “jungkook,” and jungkook hums, retrieving a bit, sighing. “— work on your lunge before the quarters.”

they both chuckle, and jungkook raises himself on his elbow, staring down at yoongi’s face. his hair is damp now, from effort. yoongi stares back, canine against his bottom lip. he’s really good looking like that, tired after practice, and jungkook sucks in his breath, looking away. “my lunge is fine,” he mumbles, sniffing. “you don’t have to teach me anything.”

“— alright.” jungkook coils when yoongi pokes his cheek. “brighten up, little one.”

“not little,” and jungkook holds his hand, thumb pressing against yoongi’s palm. “why do you call me that, anyway? i’m taller than you.”

yoongi huffs. “it was on one of the articles i read about you,” and their eyes stumble again. “ jeon jungkook is only twenty-one but we expect to see him soon on the olympic team ,” yoongi paraphrases, voice like a newscaster. “ the little one will surely be a fine addition to south korea’s team. ” jungkook feels himself shrink in embarrassment at once, blushing vividly, smiling. his mother has the article printed and stuck to their fridge. “— it made me angry,” the confession is surprising, surprising enough jungkook frowns, scoffing. “you’re not even little.”

“no,” they’re still holding hands, flimsy touches against each other’s skin. “i have a secret,” he gets closer. yoongi swallows. “i drink a lot of milk.”

“ah,” and yoongi giggles, but he looks nervous. they’re too close again. it’s— dangerous, jungkook thinks. his whole body aches for more of it. “shocking.” 

“what’s your secret?”

“i don’t have secrets,” his matter-of-fact demeanor makes jungkook laugh, tossing his head back gingerly. “i think you’re really pretty when you laugh,” and they both get serious at once, jungkook feeling himself choke. “i mean, you— you have a nice laugh, and—”

“you’re blushing, sunbae,” jungkook teases then, smiling. no, i’m not , and yoongi weakly shoves him, and they push and pull, until one pull brings jungkook too close, and yoongi blinks, flustered, no air between them. “—you— are.” oh, no, no, no, no, no, no— it’s yoongi who pulls him in softly, tentatively, and their lips hover, noses touching. a sigh seems to leave his mouth, and jungkook stirs, so close he can see himself in yoongi’s pupils, his own bewildered expression. “do you want to kiss me?”

“i don’t,” yoongi quickly says, but then inhales, air hot. “i don’t want to kiss you, we have a truce.” the way he licks the corner of his lips says otherwise, and jungkook feels his eyes fluttering closed the moment yoongi leans in, except he lets out a groan, and jungkook feels the blade touch his ribs before he opens his eyes again. “and that’s fifteen to fourteen,” he chuckles, while jungkook goes yah, sunbae! , even though he can’t help but laugh, too. yoongi pushes him away briskly, standing up. he looks down at jungkook, still on the floor, and blushes. “— we should go.”

“yeah,” jungkook agrees. the skin under his clothes is particularly hot. “sunbae,” he feels small under yoongi’s stare, and jungkook bites the inner part of his cheeks, nervous. “i’ll— work on my lunge.”

“good,” and yoongi offers a hand. their hands fit nicely, and yoongi is strong enough to pull jungkook up, but jungkook isn’t strong enough to resist stumbling forward, grabbing yoongi’s neck before kissing him. yoongi’s body feels stiff with nerves for a second before he lets go of jungkook’s hand to grab onto his waist, kissing him back. they kiss rather sloppily, too eager for it, all the tension trickling down into sheer wanting. jungkook doesn’t feel like he can keep his hands to himself, fingers hooking into the hems of pants, grazing over buttons he wants to undo. yoongi does the same, lifting the shirt that seems useless, holding onto the skin under it. the scorching heat under jungkook’s skin isn’t appeased, so he hastily grabs onto yoongi, dragging him almost unkindly so he can push him against the nearest mirrored wall. yoongi gasps, looking up. “i don’t like being manhandled,” he snaps, a blush on his cheeks that maybe says otherwise. jungkook hooks his arms under yoongi’s thighs, pulling him up. “ yah, jeon jungkook —”

but jungkook only giggles when yoongi wraps his legs around his waist, probably to avoid a fall, possibly for something else. “i like manhandling you,” he retorts, cheeky. “you’re small.” yoongi scoffs, glaring, and he kicks jungkook swiftly with his heel, making jungkook groan. “and strong,” he adds, leaning in to kiss the space where yoongi’s neck meets his shoulder. his arms are starting to hurt. “and soft.”

when their eyes meet, yoongi’s are full of— wonderings. he touches jungkook’s hairline, following the contours of his jaw almost absentmindedly. “— what are we doing here?”

“making out,” jungkook replies almost immediately, leaning in again. yoongi turns his face away. “— sunbae.”

“i told i don’t fool around,” he exhales. jungkook bites down on his lip. “we’re drunk.”

embarrassment drips down jungkook’s spine like icy water, and he puts yoongi down, taking a short step back, grabbing onto the fabric of his jeans. “i’m not drunk anymore,” he mumbles, and he hates feeling so small in front of yoongi, so pushes his shoulders back, looking up again, swallowing. “— i want you.” yoongi huffs, looking away. “i told you before.”

“you didn’t,” but yoongi knows he has, not in words, maybe. “what happens when one of us makes the team and the other doesn’t?” arms are crossed, barriers are raised. the competition is a war zone between them once again. “i won’t let you win, no matter if i have—” jungkook raises his eyebrows as yoongi stops talking abruptly. “it doesn’t matter.”

jungkook touches the fabric over yoongi’s waist, feeling him tremble as if cold. “i won’t let you win either,” he inhales. “guess we’ll have to fence until one of us dies.” 

“tragic,” yoongi sniffs, swallowing. 

“ from ancient grudge break to new mutiny ,” jungkook chuckles when yoongi’s eyes widen. “ a pair of star-crossed lovers take their life .” yoongi opens his mouth to say something, probably a sarcastic remark, but jungkook kisses him again, pressing him against the mirror. “i’m going to win,” he mutters, smirking when yoongi gulps down saliva, jungkook’s hand in between them. you’re not , he retorts, but it comes out stuttery, and jungkook has never gone any further, but he likes the way yoongi groans, throaty, when his hand slides down his pants. “teach me,” he asks, shyly, pushing yoongi’s pants down his thighs. 

a hand grabs jungkook’s wrist. “i don’t want to fool around,” his body responds to the way jungkook breathes close, though. “if we’re doing this—we, i—” yoongi looks ashamed. jungkook’s fingers loosen up around him, heat starting to hurt down his middle. 

“i want you,” jungkook says it again. “i like you.”

“they’re not the same thing,” yoongi adds, looking up at him. “fucking me isn’t the same as beating me on the piste, little one .” it’s jungkook’s turn to look absolutely flustered, mumbling words that don’t make sense, fractures of sentences gone awry. “i don’t fool around either way.” the dismissive tone gets under jungkook’s skin fast. don’t pretend you don’t like me, too , he wants to say, and he wants to say it over and over again, until yoongi is able to say it out loud, i like you, i want you . yoongi starts pulling his pants up. 

“i can’t afford to lose,” jungkook breathes out. “i won’t lose to you on the piste.” he leans into yoongi’s personal space carefully again, fingers over fingers, nose touching the side of his face. “but, sunbae,” he calls softly, feeling yoongi unravel almost against his will. “i’m just— losing right now.”

it’s a moment before yoongi reply, furiously embarrassed. “one hit, then,” he scoffs, but allows the kisses down his neck. 

“—do you want me?”

“yeah,” the reply comes after another beat of time. jungkook’s heart speeds, deranged, spilling with want and magenta coloured blood. “you piss me off,” both of them laugh. “i— like it, i like you , even though you annoy me, even though you’re good and you’re—” ah, he said it, he said it . jungkook pulls back quickly, glaring, crooked smile plastered on his face. yoongi makes a face, scrunching his nose. “don’t look at me like that.”

“—like what?”

“like you’re happy you piss me off.”

“i’m happy i piss you off,” and then he touches yoongi again, where he’s sensitive, and yoongi startles, grabbing onto jungkook at once. “i never— fucked anyone before.” he gets flustered at his own words, even though they hardly have the same effect as to when yoongi says them. they’re not as sharp, not as raw. jungkook’s fucking is soft, probably. “teach me,” yoongi lets out a sound that resembles a hum, jungkook’s fingers slowly touching skin. “like—this?” 

“i thought you knew how to hold the hilt,” yoongi points out, full smirk on his flushed face. jungkook scoffs, but he’s embarrassed at once, touch suddenly flimsy. he experiments with his fingers, then, pressing in certain ways, rubbing, grazing nails carefully against skin, up until the point yoongi’s forehead touches his chest, and his short breaths are loud and pained. jungkook likes the way yoongi grabs onto him. he kisses the side of his neck, tenderly, until they’re kissing again, needier than before, hotter. jungkook presses forward. yoongi does free himself from jungkook’s hold a moment later, though, pulling his pants up swiftly, and they’re still kissing. jungkook lets out an impatient sort of hum, hands restless, moving down yoongi’s back to bring him closer. “— maybe we should— go back to the hotel, jungkook.”

“maybe,” jungkook mutters, dazed with the remains of alcohol in his system, drunken with the scent that comes out of yoongi’s skin. “you can sleep on my bed again.” yoongi’s fingers hold tighter against his waist. “with me.” i have my own bed , yoongi complains between kissing, it’s a good bed. there’s so much bottled want inside jungkook’s body he thinks he can’t handle the ride, but then he’s nodding, carelessly grabbing yoongi’s hand, tugging. “let’s go, then—“

it makes yoongi chuckle, head back against the mirror, eyes closed. his lips are pinker than ever, flushed like his neck and his ear and his cheeks, black hair messy. jungkook tugs on his hand again. “help me put the equipment away first,” jungkook replies by grunting impatiently, moving to quickly start picking things up, body still steaming. they keep touching each other as they do so, fingers always finding a way to press against the small of backs, mouths stealing kisses on necks. it follows them to the cab ride, yoongi’s fingers dangerously playing with the fabric on jungkook’s pants, and jungkook bites on his knuckles, uncomfortable. the driver takes a swift turn, their bodies softly colliding, and jungkook’s stomach feels upset at once. “— you okay?”

“yeah.” he swallows, inhaling deeply. “nervous.”

it’s almost three in the morning when they stumble in, and jungkook is fast to wrap arms around yoongi’s waist, pulling him in from behind to sniff on his neck. dizziness spread as yoongi bluntly shoves him off of him and onto the bed. jungkook groans. “you look pale,” yoongi comments, close enough, body hovering his. jungkook shakes his head dismissively, hands holding onto yoongi’s neck, and kissing, kissing is good, good, good. jungkook locks his legs over yoongi’s, bringing him closer. “jungkook,” yoongi says after some time, heaving. “i do—,” he swallows, pulling back the slightest, all flustered. “i do like you, and—“ the rush of happiness that washes down jungkook’s body is short lived. he pales a bit more, expression changing. something is wrong . he lets out a whimper. something is suddenly very wrong . yoongi notices it right away and scrambles up, untangling himself out of jungkook’s hold fast enough to grab the bin from across the room, pushing jungkook’s head in it a moment later. 

throwing up feels more allaying than kissing min yoongi (what a shame). 

jungkook feels the headache before opening his eyes. it rams against his entire head, and he brings a hand to press against it. his hair is damp. jungkook’s eyes flutter open. there’s an unpleasant sort of smell in the air, and an awful taste in his mouth. for a moment, all he can remember is yoongi between his legs, all that kissing. then he remembers all the drinking. panic follows as he raises his head a little, looking around. yoongi is curled under his own sheets, on his own bed. jungkook’s heart sways. we didn’t sleep together , he thinks, peeking undercovers to see himself in sleeping clothes. for a second too long he’s afraid he’s dreamed the way yoongi had felt— but then yoongi seems to realise he’s up, turning to look over his shoulder at him, and jungkook notices the purple mark on the fair skin of his neck. heat reaches his cheeks fast. “we didn’t,” yoongi says right away, voice still hoarse with sleep. “if you’re wondering.” the points of his ears redden.

“— i’m sorry,” jungkook offers, hiding his face on the palms of his hands. 

“i’m not,” yoongi comments. “we shouldn’t anyway.” from behind his fingers, jungkook stares at yoongi. i do like you . he can’t recall if the things he remembers are true or fabrications of his drunken, wishful heart. yoongi scratches his head lazily. “you should take another shower.”

“— another?” 

“i may have stuck your head under cold water,” yoongi scoffs when he says it, and the he yawns. “i’m going to go back to sleep.”

and he does, turning away, too soon breathing heavily again. jungkook watches him for some time, then stands, towels feeling rough as he holds it, feet dragging on the carpet towards the bathroom. the hot water feels good to his banging head, and jungkook scrubs himself clean from the nasty stickiness of sweat. his hair is still dripping when he comes out of the bathroom, and for a second he wants to let himself into yoongi’s bed, wrap clean, vanilla-smelling limbs around him. he doesn’t. instead, he falls onto his own bed again, over the sheets, no strength left for getting dressed—

— he hears movement before he stirs awake again. yoongi’s up, sitting at the edge of his own bed, towel-drying raven strands of hair. he looks smaller in private, jungkook thinks absent-minded, more fragile. he isn’t, really. “sunbae,” jungkook calls for no reason other than wanting his attention, and yoongi turns, towel on his head. his eyes widen at once, and there’s a blush on yoongi’s cheeks as he swiftly turns away.

“put on some clothes, jungkook.” ah, shit . jungkook scrambles up, towel making a very little job of covering his middle. he hears yoongi chuckle as he does so. don’t laugh at me . “it’s cute,” yoongi adds, and jungkook isn’t certain of what he’s talking about as he quickly pulls sweatpants up. “i mean— you, you’re cute.”

“i’m not cute,” he retorts, and it comes out more whiny than he wanted to. “i’m—,” yoongi looks back at him, still smiling a little, making every nerve on jungkook’s body aware of how his gaze wanders. jungkook swallows, nervous. yoongi clears his throat, nervous, too. “maybe we should—“

“do you want to—“

they stop speaking at the same time, blushing. “you first,” jungkook offers.

“— do you want to get coffee?”

jungkook wants to smile wholeheartedly, so he turns away, pretending to be busy with finding a shirt. “yeah, maybe,” he fails at not sounding eager. it’s not long until they’re out, walking with good distance in between them, hands stuck into pockets as if they’re both afraid one could suddenly reach out to hold. jungkook thinks he wouldn’t mind.

the coffee shop is full, of course. yoongi offers to pay, as jungkook embarrassingly remembers how he lost all his money by betting yoongi would win his last bout. you’ll get the next one , yoongi says, voice low, and it makes jungkook’s heart speed at the knowledge that there might be a next one, a next time, a next— date, he wants to say. it isn’t a date. “maybe we should talk,” yoongi starts once they’re sitting down. 

“last time you said that, we—“

“yeah, i know.” 

“then—“

“i can’t win if you’re,” some sort of blush creeps on his cheeks again. yoongi sniffs. “distracting me.” jungkook makes a show of pushing his hair back, smuggishly enjoying the way yoongi blinks, astonished. “ yah— “ but yoongi breaks out into a chuckle after a moment, looking down at his coffee, the smile staying. jungkook can’t help but smile too, but he doesn’t look away, because he can’t. 

“yesterday,” he starts, softly. his fingers are around his coffee mug, and so are yoongi’s, and maybe if he moves a bit, they can touch. jungkook holds back. “i wanted to,” he swallows. “i would have, if— if i hadn’t gotten sick.” i’m glad you got sick before and not during it , yoongi mumbles, smirking. every time he does so, jungkook feels another arrow perforate his heart. “i wouldn’t regret.”

“you say that now, because it didn’t happen.”

“— so it won’t?”

“jungkook—”

“sunbae.”

a sigh follows. jungkook sips his coffee quietly. “for now, let’s just be competitors,” yoongi asks, after a while. “it’s better this way.”

it hurts, but jungkook nods, slowly, inhaling. when he puts his coffee down, it’s purposely close to yoongi’s, and it’s with purpose too that he touches yoongi’s fingers. yoongi’s eyes fleet down, and he swallows, abashed. still, he doesn’t take his hand away. “when the competition is done, i’m going to date you.” the way yoongi snorts and smiles makes jungkook ache all over. 

for a moment, jungkook thinks yoongi won’t reply. but then he shrugs, sipping his coffee too, looking over it to stare at jungkook before adding, voice low and warm, eyes sharp: “you can try.” 

Chapter Text

fencing is like dancing . jungkook inhales, and counts. one, step forward, two, step forward, three, turn, four, turn, five, hands that slash in, or slide, slide down yoongi’s back and— he flinches when the hit comes, to his side, and his breath is hot inside the mask. “you might want to do that again,” his coach’s voice offers, rather sternly. jungkook glances his way, then at his opponent, holding his sabre in front of him. jungkook sighs, removing the mask.

“i need a break,” he says instead, shaking his head. it’s been like that the entire morning, and the days before— ever since the bar night, ever since getting drunk enough to push his hand in yoongi’s pants, to kiss him like that. ever since their coffee date, and how yoongi maybe, perhaps, possibly has feelings , too. jungkook shudders, nervous, ears hot. yoongi has gone away though, once again, disappearing, leaving behind an empty bed that hasn’t been made since then. jungkook realises awkwardly he doesn’t even have his phone number. “there’s only eight of you now, jungkook,” his coach is saying, and jungkook nods, but he’s not listening as he should. “one mistake can cost you a great deal—”

“i know,” he cuts in, putting away his blade. “i won’t make any mistakes.”

“that boy from france—,” the suggestion of yoongi’s name has him stopping his movements, body stiff, heart racing. it’s a tragic reaction. “we’ve been analysing his bouts and—”

“daegu,” jungkook stands again, swinging the duffle bag over his shoulder. “he’s— from daegu.” his coach raises his eyebrows, then frowns, confused. it doesn’t matter where he’s from , he starts saying, but jungkook sighs, turning away. “i’m going to win, hyung.”

“you’re not going to win if your head is not in the game,” the coach calls out.

“it isn’t a game,” he waves, dragging his feet the slightest towards the locker rooms. then he adds, in a mutter: “it’s a dance.”

“jungkook—”

“later, hyung.”

it isn’t good behaviour, he knows, walking away from practice like that. but there’s a hole in his chest and it keeps on dripping, and jungkook can’t seem to concentrate. hyung, where are you? , he texts taehyung after his shower, stomach grumbling. leaving class , the reply doesn’t take too long. let’s go eat something , he asks. someone walks in, and jungkook quickly looks up, hoping to see yoongi, naively wishing that he’d walk in— but it isn’t yoongi. do you mind if i bring a friend?

when jungkook walks in the small noodle shop taehyung sent him the address to, some twenty-five minutes later, the first thing he sees is namjoon’s dimples as he laughs at something taehyung is saying. jungkook stops by the door for a moment too long. an ahjumma hushes him in, complaining about the cold draft he’s bringing. “i’m sorry,” he bows a few times, then looks back at the table. his eyes find namjoon’s, and then taehyung’s, who looks over his shoulder.

“took your time,” taehyung says gingerly. “we started eating before you.”

“sunbae,” and jungkook bows again, towards namjoon, frowning a bit. namjoon smiles. they wait for him to order, taehyung pushing money on his hand before he can pay for it himself. “— i didn’t know you were friends,” he comments softly, chopsticks stirring the broth on his dish. it’s rather unnerving to be watched by the both of them, not knowing how much they know about— everything. has yoongi said something to namjoon? has namjoon discussed it with taehyung? he coughs, the broth too hot. taehyung pats his back. “when—“

“we have things in common,” taehyung is the one to reply, boxy smile easily framing his face.

“you don’t fence,” jungkook splutters.

both namjoon and taehyung chuckle. “and i don’t only fence,” namjoon scratches the skin behind his neck, cheeks slightly flushed. “taehyungie knows a lot about many things i’m interested in.” jungkook looks up from his plate. taehyungie .

“where’s your mortal enemy?” taehyung asks, possibly seeing the questions forming inside jungkook’s mind. “you— left together, that other night.” the comment is made very blandly, as if taehyung doesn’t want to stir any issues. namjoon picks on his food, suddenly interested in the remains of it.

“we— shared a cab back to the hotel,” he lies, immediately, stuffing his mouth, the next words all said between chewing: “i haven’t seen him since.”  he swallows, lifting his eyes again. “— he hasn’t been around.”

namjoon seems to pick up on his curiosity, because he shakes his head softly. “hyung goes back to daegu when there are breaks,” he informs, smiling. “he has a dog he misses.” jungkook blinks, bewildered. the small bit of information makes his heart beat inconsistently, realising how little he knows. infatuation is blinding. “holly.”

“—holly,” he nods, eyes darting back to his food, blushing.

“he’s coming back tomorrow,” it’s taehyung that comments, stealing a slice of meat from jungkook’s bowl. he makes a face, because it’s spicier than he’d like. namjoon looks endeared. jungkook misses all of that, fixed on nothing in particular, painfully aware of how little he knows about min yoongi. “—how’s practice?”

“good, yeah,” he replies weakly. “i don’t need a lot of it.”

“yoongi-hyung used to say that,” namjoon observes, still smiling at taehyung. “you’re very similar.”

“we’re not,” somehow, his voice comes out strangled. he clears his throat quickly, coughing. jungkook knows his ears are red. it’s appalling. they seem to notice his distress, because namjoon suddenly changes topics, so i was saying, i’ve been to moma and— , but jungkook doesn’t really join them fully in conversation, rather just listening, watching as they smile at each other in a way that seem more intimate than it should be between people who have just met. he mumbles answers when questions are directed at him, and taehyung talks about his classes, complaining the weather is too cold for painting and that his fingers often hurt. at some point, they’re standing up to leave, and taehyung runs off to a late afternoon student gathering and then it’s namjoon and jungkook, standing awkwardly outside of the noodle shop. “i should go back to practice,” he says, finally.

“yeah, sure.”

“do you,” jungkook pushes his hands into his pockets, breathing in cold, cold air. “— do you want to join me, sunbae?”

“ah,” namjoon chuckles. “no, i’m taking a break from fencing at the moment,” he tells him earnestly, with an apologetic shrug. “but— you’re really good, you know,” jungkook glances his way, meeting his eyes. “you have a big chance at winning if you keep on crafting your moves.”

“i have to win against yoongi sunbae,” jungkook huffs, disbelieving. “he’s really good, too.”

“hyung is viciously good, you’re in proper trouble,” namjoon nods, smirking.

“why— why he never tried out for the team before? i’m sure he’d have gotten in.”

“he did, when i did,” and namjoon doesn’t really say anything else, because jungkook understands right away. he’s got beat by a friend— his best friend, maybe. that’s why he’s so vehement on cutting off the red strings that seem to be starting to tangle about them. jungkook feels slightly embarrassed again. “— do you want his phone number, maybe?”

it’s a sudden question, and jungkook startles, scratching the back of his neck, tugging on the longer strands. “i don’t know if he—”

“here,” namjoon searches his pockets, finding a candy wrap, and he runs inside, borrowing a pen from the ahjumma in the kitchen. jungkook can hear her voice telling him he never gives her pens back once he steps outside again, and he uses jungkook’s shoulder to write down a number. “he’ll be happy.”

redness gets to jungkook’s ears. “— will he?”

“he likes you,” i like it, i like you . jungkook feels flustered at once, pulling his hoodie up to hide his face, walking a few steps away. “don’t tell him i told you that.” they both chuckle, and jungkook thinks he’s too happy about it, suddenly too giddy, suddenly so proud of being the object on min yoongi’s affection. “i have to go,” namjoon waves, winking. “work hard.”

“i will, sunbae, thank you for taking care of me, ” he bows, then waves. “see you—.” 

the candy wrap is kept in his bag pocket throughout practice, and jungkook can’t help but glance over where it sits, as if a whole min yoongi could spring out if it, as if the connection he now has is something solid. it’s just a phone number, nine digits scribbled in, hopefully, good handwriting. it’s already around eight at night when jungkook finally picks it up, hair still sweaty, too excited to properly shower. the way his chest aches in expectation is a fine print of what goes on— infatuation, all over, staining everything the same midnight shade of yoongi’s hair. jungkook sits at the convenience store, noodles cooking in front of him.

(20:39) this is jeon jungkook

(20:39) namjoon sunbae gave me your phone number, i hope it’s okay

jungkook watches with some expectation as the number next to his messages remains as 1. he stares at the screen, telepathically calling onto yoongi’s attention, getting nothing in return for a long while. with a slightly upset huff, he stirs his food, breathing in the steam. he coughs when the numbers suddenly disappear, and his heart skips a beat. on the other side, yoongi’s staring at those messages. the noodle strings hang from his lips as he observes the phone, too nervous to eat.

(20:47) ah

he slurps his food, swallowing.

(20:47) this is min yoongi

(20:48) i suppose you know that

(20:48) this is awkward

to be honest, jungkook doesn’t expect his phone to ring, and he glares at it for good three seconds before pressing it against his ear, feeling how hot it is. “hello, sunbae,” he says softly, still chewing.

“ i thought i could— call instead. ” yoongi seems to stammer, and jungkook hears barking in the background. “ my hands are busy anyway. ”

the image of yoongi, bundled in too many layers of clothing, holding the leash of a angry-looking bulldog comes to mind, and jungkook smiles. “you have a dog,” he comments, amused. so many things he doesn’t know. so many things he suddenly, desperately wants to know. “— namjoon sunbae told me.”

“— have you been spending time with namjoon? ” it’s a shy question, one full of wonderings. “ i mean— it’s okay, he’s— a good person. ”

“sunbae,” and jungkook grins, cheeks warm. “you sound jealous.”

“ i’m not, ” the answer is dry and unsteady, and obviously a lie. jungkook wants to tell him he probably wouldn’t be able to compete against one kim taehyung, but yoongi goes on: “ and, i guess, ” he thinks for a second. “ — hyung. ” jungkook blinks, confused. “ you can—hyung is fine from now on. ”

there’s an exquisite kind of warmth that seems to drip out of jungkook’s heart, sweet smelling and thick with feelings. “hyung,” he nods to his own reflection on the window glass, smile too broad, ears red like his sweatshirt. “ hyung .”

“— yeah? ”

“are you coming back tomorrow?”

“ yeah, i’m taking the first train. ”

“can i,” and jungkook sighs, knowing too well how he sounds— eager, wanting, hopeful. “can i pick you up?”

“ pick me— yeah— yeah, sure ,” he hears yoongi clear his throat, and he hears the dog bark again, and mumbled words he can’t understand. “ it’s very early, though, ” yoongi comments, rather kindly. “ you don’t have to— “

“i’ll pick you up.”

“— alright, ” and yoongi sounds embarrassed, but he also sounds as if he’s smiling. “ how was practice? ”

they talk for a few more minutes, jungkook’s cheeks hurting from smiling too much, hanging up when yoongi tells him he’s going back from his walk. by then, jungkook’s already at the hotel again, and he carries on a smile all the way through his shower, humming songs under his breath. he stops in front of their beds, the television making shadows dance on the wall opposite, and yoongi’s bed still unmade, still messy sheets and his collection of hotel pillows. probably left in a hurry. jungkook touches the fabric of the duvets softly, fingertips grazing over. he shouldn’t really sit down, shouldn’t really let his head fall onto yoongi’s pillows, shouldn’t inhale so deeply, shouldn’t close his eyes, feeling weirdly content, shouldn’t, shouldn’t, shouldn’t —

— when his eyes flutter opened again, the way the sun shades the bedroom tells him it is late enough. jungkook sighs, warm and cozy. “you sleep a lot,” the comment is made rather softly, and jungkook stills suddenly, heart skipping a beat. “i’m still waiting for you to pick me up.”

“sunbae,” and jungkook sits up, looking down at the way yoongi’s curled under the same sheets, messy haired. “ hyung ,” he corrects himself, swallowing, blushing. they’re sharing a bed. yoongi’s bed . “i— overslept, i’m— sorry.”

“you overslept on my bed,” yoongi’s tone is— careful, maybe, and his stare is somewhat careful, too, poised, maybe, waiting. he looks charmingly sleepy, despite all of that.

“you were gone for a few days,” and jungkook shifts, struggling whether or not to leave the bed and hide in his own. “i— missed you.” short silence follows, jungkook glances yoongi’s way. “i missed you.”

he gets a huff in return. “you’re really—,” but yoongi doesn’t carry on, turning away, the back of his neck exposed and stained pink. “you have a bed, jungkook.”

“yours—.” it smells like you , jungkook wants to add, but maybe that’s too intimate, too personal, regardless of how they have touched in the past. his hand hovers, wanting to touch the soft strands of hair that fall against the pillow. “can i touch your hair?”

“— i guess, yeah,” and yoongi makes a throaty sound, as if he’s amused, a half-chuckle of sorts. jungkook feels it when he winces a bit the moment his fingers touch him, though, shoulders tensing up, air being sucked in rather gently. jungkook allows his fingers to tenderly scrap over scalp, eliciting a pleasant grunt. “that feels good,” the sentence is small and airy, and jungkook smiles, flushing. “— i was only gone for three days.”

jungkook sinks a bit against the headboard, pillows against his back, tugging on yoongi’s hair, not hard enough to hurt, but hard enough to bother, because yoongi hisses. it makes jungkook giggle. “i know,” he carries on, clearing his throat. “it felt longer.”

“your focus is on the wrong thing,” and there’s a pause, and then yoongi shifts, pushing jungkook’s hand away. he sits up, too, shoulder against jungkook’s, their hands close on the sheets, their legs close, their feet. it’s a comfortable kind of proximity. jungkook turns his head, looking at yoongi’s pretty profile. he startles when yoongi’s touches his wrist. “it looks sore—”

“it’s nothing, it’s not my blade hand,” he tries to pull away before he gives in and bluntly holds yoongi’s hand instead. “i’ve been icing it, it’s fine.”

“okay,” and yoongi nods, and, for a split second, jungkook thinks yoongi will let go, will push him away, too, will keep the distance between them, at a sabre’s length at least. he doesn't expect yoongi to hold tighter, to bring jungkook’s wrist to his lips, to press a kiss against the skin. jungkook’s eyes widen, a surge of want breaking through the surface of his cool behaviour. yoongi’s breath lingers on skin. it’s hot. “take care next time.”

the way he mutters the words is alluring, charming like the pout of his lips, and yoongi’s so unbelievably pretty that jungkook holds his breath altogether, not so timidly staring. so jungkook leans over, placing a kiss on the side of his jaw, feeling the pressure of yoongi’s fingers tighten around his arm. jungkook tentatively noses the soft skin of yoongi’s neck. yoongi sighs. “we can—,” he starts, seeing how yoongi’s eyes flutter closed, how his nose is tinted red, too. “we can start again.” jungkook touches yoongi’s stomach over his shirt. “i—“

“please don’t,” yoongi’s voice is strained, and he finally shuffles away, putting space between them. jungkook’s fingers curl around the fabric of his clothes anyway, tugging, exposing skin by mistake. “it’s no good.” jungkook nods, frustrated, body hot. he clings for a bit more, before ultimately pulling his hand away. yoongi’s way of pushing and pulling and offering and taking back is starting to wear him off. “i’m sorry,” he offers, as if jungkook’s thoughts can be heard out loud.

it’s not on purpose, jungkook wants to think. the way they deal with things is just different— jungkook wears his entire heart on his sleeve, and yoongi’s competitive to the marrow, competitive enough to not let himself be hindered by someone else. he did, when i did , namjoon’s voice recalls. yoongi has already lost once. “hyung,” jungkook calls softly, looking his way. yoongi does the same, almost immediately. suddenly, he doesn’t want to talk about winning and losing anymore. “— you have a dog.”

yoongi smiles, endeared. “yeah, holly,” it’s a loving kind of smile. jungkook stares. “he’s a miniature poodle. very smart.”

a miniature poodle . the image makes jungkook smile, too. “do you live on your own?”

“not since i came back from france,” yoongi’s words are low and raspy, and jungkook likes the way his inflections sound. yoongi ponders. “it’s crowded at my parent’s, though, i should find a place when this is over.”

“— in france?”

it isn’t a question without hopeful ends. are you leaving for good , it asks, and yoongi understands it. “no, i’m going to have to stay in seoul,” yoongi swallows, but smirks. “the national team is based here.”

jungkook joins in with a grin, dramatically clutching his chest. “i’m so happy you’re staying to cheer for me—“ he gets lightly shoved, a bunch of yah, yah, yah , pouring out yoongi’s mouth, and he is shoved until he’s falling onto the floor, laughing.

they’re both in good moods once they stumble into practice later, smiling at each other from across the gymnasium, stealing glances at the way the other moves. jungkook coach whispers instructions and commentary as they sit on the bleachers, watching yoongi fence a few meters ahead, dancing on the piste with such sharpness he’s a blade himself. he has a strong riposte, look at the way he favours his right, that was a sharp one , the comments drift in, but jungkook barely acknowledges them. yoongi’s figure is pretty, lean in white, the red band a stain of colour against his canvas. jungkook’s heart beats harsher against his chest, stomach fluttering. seeing yoongi on the piste is— daunting and beautiful and scary. i can’t beat him , jungkook realises weakly, feeling nauseated. because i want him to win .

he stands, right away. his coach stops talking abruptly. “— what’s wrong?”

“are we done for today?” he asks, faintly. the room around him seems less sharp, blurry on the edges. yoongi’s mask comes off, and he’s grinning, flexing the end of his sabre against the tip of his shoes. jungkook turns before yoongi looks his way. “— i’ll get some rest.”

“yeah, do that, you look pale. and don’t—“

whatever he’s not supposed to do, jungkook doesn’t really hear it. he descends the bleachers quickly, unbuttoning his jacket, not really paying attention to the people that greet him as he walks towards the dressing rooms. he’s halfway undressed when yoongi walks in, towel around his neck. jungkook fumbles with his clothes, wanting to put on a shirt. yoongi doesn’t say anything until he’s close enough, their lockers opposite each other. “— you okay?”

“yeah, yes,” the way he says it sounds cold enough, jungkook hears it in his tone. yoongi stills for a moment, before resuming taking off his uniform. “just tired.”

“— me too,” the rustle of clothes fills up the empty corners between their tamed speech. jungkook tries not look at yoongi’s naked back, tries not to pay attention at the way it curves, at how good his shoulder blades look. “i’m hungry,” yoongi says, then, pulling a shirt on finally, turning to look at jungkook. there’s a fine layer of redness down his neck. jungkook feels wrong all over. “— do you want to, maybe—“

“ah,” and jungkook understands. his thoughts are still hazy. “i’m—,” he sounds awkward. “i don’t have any cash.”

“i’ll buy you.”

“no, it’s fine, you— you always buy.”

“i’m older, it’s—”

“are you serious about winning?” jungkook lets his back against his closed locker, feeling awfully embarrassed. he’s suddenly a mess. taehyung would laugh at him, probably (and then offer advice, good advice, advice he needs). yoongi has always been a thought at the back of jungkook’s  mind, always, for years , a blotch of white and red and raven black, both the inspiration and the villain. he wasn't a villain, though, not all the way in france, where timezones kept them apart, and water, and earth. not until jungkook saw him fence on that first day of the competition. now— now every colour is mixed, and it’s all coloured like yoongi’s tongue, and yoongi’s smell, and yoongi’s grace on the piste. jungkook watches as yoongi’s eyebrows pinch together. “is that— is that what you want?”

“isn’t that what we all want?”

“you keep— helping me,” jungkook sighs. “it’s like you want me to win, and i need to know—”

“what’s this about?” yoongi crosses his arms. another boy walks in, pushing past them with a nod. the noises he makes opening his locker sound too loud. “— talk.”

“let’s— let’s go eat, then,” and so they go, clumsily avoiding to look at each other for a multitude of reasons (because yoongi looks good, with hair mussed like that, with his bomber jacket, earrings dangling) (because he kept his breachers, white socks over them, and it makes his legs skinnier than they are). they don’t go far, but to the same convenience store they often find themselves in, the one right between the gymnasium and the hotel. yoongi doesn’t ask what jungkook wants, he already knows. they only talk again when they’re halfway through their dinner. “i’m sorry, i—,” jungkook chews slowly. “i just—”

“it gets confusing, doesn’t it,” yoongi comments. their eyes meet. “that’s why i think it’s best if we keep it on the piste. it’s not—,” yoongi sniffs, seemingly bothered. “it’s not because i don’t— like you.”

“— do you?”

the way jungkook poses the question makes yoongi huff, shifting on his weight, back sliding down the back of his chair a little. he seems to sink into his jacket, so small and so delicate and so pretty and so soft. jungkook knows he’s not any of those things— that he’s sharp and fast and precise and full of pointy edges. “is that surprising?” yoongi asks, chopsticks poking the food he has stopped eating.

“a bit,” jungkook shrugs, happiness bubbling in his insides liked boiled water, just as scorching. “i’m not—”

“you are,” yoongi cuts in, and he’s flustered but his eyes remain sharp, staring. “you’re good,” he says it again. it puts jungkook through some breathing issues, as if the air is suddenly thin. he looks up at the dark sky. it’s cold, still, but not cold enough to snow. “— in a lot of ways, i suppose.” jungkook scoffs, embarrassed. “you’re distracting.”

“hyung,” and jungkook moves, leaning in, snapping yoongi’s chopsticks away to steal the thin slices of cucumber from his bowl. “maybe we should wear our masks outside the piste, too,” he chuckles, and yoongi smiles. “things would be easier.”

“maybe,” and yoongi nods, agreeing.

they’re blushy by the time they’re walking back to the hotel, and jungkook feels less confused, less intimidated by his own thoughts. he wants yoongi to win, but he also wants yoongi to lose to him, and the conflict puts him on edge. win, and make him proud, lose, and make him happy . two silly mindsets. jungkook decides it’s best just to push those feelings away, compartmentalize them like yoongi does, somewhere inside, at a hidden curve within his heart. but then— but then yoongi softly holds onto his hand when jungkook makes to cross a street, stopping him, and pitter-patter goes jungkook’s heart. his mind goes blank, and heat spreads like wildfire— he holds yoongi’s hand back, entwining their fingers. there’s people around , his brain reminds him. a lady stops beside them, waiting for the pedestrian lights to turn green. jungkook’s heart is beating too fast. yoongi looks down at their feet, but his thumb rubs against jungkook’s skin. oh no, no, no, no, no, no—

the light turns green, shading their hair. they don’t move. “tomorrow,” yoongi starts. “tomorrow you’re going to win your bout.” the numbers count down their time to cross. jungkook nods faintly, but he tugs yoongi closer, leaning in.

“— kiss me if i do?”

yoongi lets go, seemingly putting himself back together, starting to walk. “maybe.”

the lights seem harsher that night, but maybe it’s just jungkook’s vision being blurry. he’s trembling slightly, nervous. his coach slaps his arm reassuringly, saying something. the fencers on the piste are colourless. jungkook works on his breathing, closing his eyes. he hasn’t been this nervous since— well, since the cab ride to the hotel, with yoongi’s hand on his thigh and the high of kissing and the knowledge of what would come. stop thinking about it . yoongi’s a few meters to his right, eyes glued to the competitors fencing in front of them, watching every move. that’s min yoongi, collector of trophies and medals alike, not min yoongi, soft skin and ripe lips against the mirror. jungkook shivers. don’t think about it . “you’re up next,” his coach tells him, patting his back. he’s fencing the boy who beat yoongi the round before, ho kyungtae. his hair is longer, longer than jungkook’s, tied in a neat ponytail down his neck. he looks stoic and ready.

when he’s taken to the piste, hands shake his, and jungkook searches for yoongi on every face. yoongi’s at the back, unable to step closer. he waves, though. jungkook nods, swallowing. he steps forward, acknowledging the other boy, greeting with his sabre. they greet the cheering crowd, even though they can barely see them. jungkook inhales sharply when he shoves his mask down. his mind goes back to yoongi’s bout, to the mistakes he made, and then even past that, to the practice with namjoon, how they schemed together. jungkook wasn’t paying attention that day, too busy staring at the way yoongi bites the corner of his lip to focus on words. he’s won against kyungtae already, before. he can do it again.

allez—!

both of them hold back, testing the grounds around each other, and jungkook sees a chance to take his lead after a second, lunging, stabbing against the side of the boy’s body just as he feels kyungtae’s sabre collide with his ribs. jungkook’s eyes immediately search for the referee, heart pounding as the point is awarded to him, fisting the air. the bout goes on almost sickening steadily— he scores, kyungtae scores, and so on. it’s thirteen to fourteen when kyungtae asks for time out. jungkook heaves by the piste, waiting, water bottle cold against his neck. he sees yoongi again, closer now. he mouths something. jungkook shakes his head briefly, i can’t understand . go for a high sixte , he says again, and jungkook’s eyebrows raise, as he asserts the advice. kyungtae is highly defensive, being very good at stealing his right of way. jungkook thinks that, if he manages to start the parry, he needs to finish it quick. he wipes sweat from his forehead before putting on his mask again.

there’s three seconds, more or less, worthy of time. jungkook feels his lungs burning the moment he steps forward. it’s a point , a quick one, fifteen to thirteen, and jungkook yelps, hands immediately in the air, as the referee gives him the win. there’s a loud explosion of cheers from the crowd, and jungkook jumps in the air, elated. semi-finals, semi-finals , his coach is screaming, that was a genius move — jungkook runs a hand through sweaty hair, heart beating fast as yoongi approaches him, big smile on his face. genius move . “you owe me a kiss,” he blurts out, low enough the people around them don’t really listen to it.

“not here,” yoongi replies, and cocks his head towards the bleachers, stepping away. jungkook wants to follow right away, but someone slides an arm around his neck for a picture, and jungkook has to linger until the next bout starts. by the time he finds yoongi, someone is already scoring. yoongi lifts his head. his eyes are— unreadable. “that was good,” he says. “you did well.”

“you helped,” jungkook shrugs, getting closer, hands avidly searching for yoongi’s body. “you’re— so good, i wouldn’t have—”

“you would have,” yoongi assures him, and jungkook feels a shiver when yoongi’s hands touch his waist. “how’s your wrist?”

“what— yeah, good,” jungkook leans in, breathing in the scent of yoongi’s skin, the same peach that is forever enthralled in his clothes and his hair and his soul. “a kiss— please,” he asks, almost urgently so. yoongi chuckles. jungkook gets a bit closer, hand pressing against the small of yoongi’s back. “ hyung.” he gets kissed, then— on the cheek. jungkook huffs, breaking into a smile. “that’s cheating.”

“you didn’t state clear rules,” yoongi shrugs. jungkook touches the strap of his jacket, pulling, and he holds his wrist. “don’t,” yoongi warns, but his tone is gentle enough. jungkook thinks he wouldn’t have anyway, not under the bleachers.

“then,” and jungkook exhales. he should ask, he shouldn’t kiss someone without a question, but yoongi seems pliant enough, eyes dark and boring into his. their lips touch briefly, and then some, and then more, parting, tongues tentatively searching, and it’s a good kiss. they kiss long enough that by the time they stop, the bout is almost coming to an end. but then jungkook remembers— how rattled yoongi was, how distracted kissing made him, how he lost. a weird kind of embarrassment floods his insides immediately, and he steps away, arms dropping to his sides. “hyung, i shouldn’t have, i’m— please, don’t be nervous, it’s— i didn’t mean—” the words are stuttered, and he gestures wildly.

“don’t flatter yourself, i lost that time because i had other stuff in mind,” the sentence grows smaller as yoongi says it, voice becoming slurred at the end, so slurred jungkook can’t almost hear. yoongi adjusts his uniform. “i’m going to win.”

“i know— no pressure,” he grins. yoongi doesn’t look nervous, he looks— like himself, in that strange duality he exists in, in such a devastatingly beautiful and daunting way that leaves little room to breathe. jungkook wants to kiss him again, and wants to spar him, and wants to turn him around and— “hyung,” he’s breathless, he realises. there are too many things he realises all of a sudden. the ache that seems to rob him of air is named, after all. of course, that’s it . panic settles in a second later. oh, no, no, no, no, no—

“cheer for me,” yoongi smiles, completely ignorant to the sudden, uncalled for enlightenment that happens inside jungkook’s mind. “— just don’t bet all your money—,” he’s still chuckling when jungkook blurts out the words, too fast, all of them, like vomit, and yoongi’s eyes widen, bigger than they have ever been before.

“ i think i’m in love with you— ”

the crow cheers loudly, suddenly, startling them both— the bout is over. jungkook’s heart is beating at lightspeed. panic blinds him of his vision, and he feels weirdly nauseated. no, no, no, no, no — “what did you say?”

“i—” he can’t seem to speak all of a sudden. why, why, why, why now— “i don’t— it isn’t—”

yoongi looks— confused, pained, maybe. he blinks, glancing away, flushed to the bone. he doesn’t love me back , jungkook knows immediately. i don’t want to break your heart , he recalls yoongi saying. it’s all very awkward, and jungkook hates it. “i think we should stick to our original plans for a while,” yoongi’s voice is stern when he speaks again, and he swallows firmly. “we meet on the piste, and that’s all— alright?”

a nod is all he manages, eyes burning oddly. he doesn’t want to cry, crying doesn’t solve things. he sniffs. yoongi lingers. “you’re up next, sunbae,” jungkook tells him, tone empty of feelings. “you should go.”

love is different than liking. jungkook is suddenly aware of that. it’s big and heavy and fragile, and it costs people things. he’s never loved anyone before, but he’s aware of it now. he’s deeply aware of it once yoongi walks away, because the space he leaves is blaring. the silence, not silence at all, is overwhelming. by the time he goes back, eyes lifting to look at the scoreboard, yoongi is losing. his heart sinks some more. no, no, no, no—

“he’s not doing very well,” one of the boys comments, folding his arms. jungkook has a strange sense of dèjávu. “he seems nervous.” he does, jungkook agrees. yoongi’s movements are erratic, and he loses his right of way easily, with every other attack. when he does score, it’s on sloppy mistakes, or sheer luck. “maybe he’s just not as good as we thought.” that’s not it , jungkook wants to say. it’s not it, because sometimes yoongi moves in a way that no one else does, his footwork impeccable, despite the messiness of his arms. jungkook gets closer, heart pounding. yoongi’s opponent makes a bad mistake, a false start, yellow card being given. there’s a small time out, then, just a few seconds for them to swallow water, towel their faces. yoongi finds jungkook’s eyes almost right away. “don’t give up,” jungkook says, loud, and people shush him. yoongi blinks, facing the other way, going back to the piste. 

however, min yoongi loses, ultimately— for some time.

the angry voices of expectators fill the gymnasium, and the coaches discuss with the referees what would be foul play from yoongi’s competitor right at the end of the match. jungkook saw the way he grabbed onto yoongi’s sleeve, briefly, but surely, throwing him off his balance, stabbing him sharply a second later. jungkook had stood up from his crouched position, fast enough to step forward, angry, only to be held back by his coach. yoongi stands at the piste, refusing to leave before the point gets reviewed. he looks tired, and hollowed out, a cut out from what he looked before. this is my fault, jungkook thinks, staring at him, hoping he’d look his way. he doesn’t.

it takes the referee and judging panel almost forty minutes to decide. finally, finally— a red card is shown, and the points are withdrawn, given to yoongi instead. jungkook exhales, head falling forward. the rest of the night is messy. his family drags him to a celebratory dinner once again, taehyung joining them halfway, and jungkook does his best, he does, and he stays until the end, dreading the encounter at the hotel. “— i told him,” he mumbles, as taehyung drops him off, later on. “i told him— how i feel.”

taehyung arches his eyebrows. he can tell, by jungkook’s distressed expression, it hasn’t gone well. “i’m sorry,” he says. “— if you want to talk—”

“later, tomorrow, maybe,” jungkook nods, waving. “send hi to namjoon sunbae.” taehyung blushes, but smiles when he turns away, hands in pockets, already walking away. jungkook watches him for a while.

the corridor in their floor is empty, and it’s empty for a while, for all the thirty-five minutes jungkook stalls right in front of the door, considering whether or not to go in. there’s no sign hanging on the doorknob this time. finally, he touches his key to the reader. the room is dark, as expected. jungkook takes off his shoes carefully, dropping his duffle bag by the closet. “hyung,” he calls, softly. “i think we need to talk.” no reply. jungkook steps closer to their beds, eyes adjusting to the darkness, before pulling curtains a little, shedding moonlight on the wall behind his bed. “i guess—” but yoongi’s bed is empty, done, done in a way that seems too final. jungkook swallows. when he turns on the lights, he notices the lack of — everything. his things are still where he left, yoongi’s things are just gone. there’s an unopened amenities kit over yoongi’s bed. a new pair of slippers. nothing that smells of peach shampoo. when jungkook types, it is with trembling hands.

(23:56) you left

it doesn’t take long for yoongi to reply.

(23:58) i didn’t leave, i’m down the hall

(23:58) i just think it’d be better if we kept a little distance

(23:59) for now

jungkook sighs. and then he hides his face on his palms, the phone pressed against his cheek. his heart beats awkwardly, like a broken thing. the phone vibrates again, and it startles him.

(00:02) did you mean what you said?

“yeah,” jungkook replies to the nothingness around him.

(00:04) i need to figure it out hyung

(00:04) i’m sorry about everything

(00:05) you don’t have to be sorry

(00:05) jungkook-ah

the ending added to his name makes jungkook blush involuntarily.

(00:06) do your best

he doesn’t know what that means, but jungkook feels empty. still— yoongi’s right. distance is better, for the both of them. jungkook breathes in deeply, chest rising and falling. there’s very little winning against one min yoongi, he thought once. it’s still valid. he falls back onto the bed, staring at the ceiling. “i’ll do my best, sunbae,” his words are shivery, lacking strength. “i’ll win.”

(00:11) you too sunbae

Chapter Text

if anything, every ounce of unrequited love is put onto his blade. jungkook flickers his wrist just as he flunges, movement stabbing and poignant, hitting hard and sharp and cutting. he feels— missing , for some reason. his eyes tend to wonder to where yoongi is slicing the air, but it’s no good. they haven’t talked at all since the day yoongi moved, just faint nods being offered, the cruel kind of longing silently exchanged. 

there isn’t proper time to mourn or grieve over a love that didn’t flourish, though. semi-finals approach with a speed that is inhuman, even time is mockingly vile. jungkook’s bedroom remains empty on one side. that, too, hurts. “it’s for the best,” taehyung offers once again, almost quietly, as they stand in line for coffee. jungkook’s still tousled with the short sleep he managed to fit between his training, wary of the dreadful cold, too aware of the hours that separate him from his semi-final bout. his is before yoongi’s. he’ll have to go through hell, and then go through hell again. he sighs. taehyung is still talking, giving him reasons why yoongi’s probably right in leaving. jungkook agrees with all of them, but his heart aches nonetheless. it’s been a few days and all it ever does is ache. “you look like you’re about to be sick.”

“i’m just tired,” jungkook shrugs. they move forward a step. “i’m fine.”

the line moves slowly. jungkook yawns, eyes tearing up. there’s a sore bruise on the side of his hip and he keeps on touching it, to wake himself up. finally, coffees are handed to them. jungkook takes a sip, feeling taehyung’s hand coming to grab his arm as if to turn him. he blinks, raising his eyes, and before he can glance at the nervous look on taehyung’s face, he sees yoongi by the door, staring back, one hand firmly clasped around the strap of his bag. his mouth becomes a line, and jungkook doesn’t know if the redness about his nose is because of the cold or because of him. his heart trembles, wishful. hyung , i’m sorry, i’m sorry, i’m sorry — and taehyung tugs on his sleeve. jungkook’s frozen on the spot. yoongi is pushed slightly as someone comes in. it makes him look flustered and misplaced, so different from the boy on the piste, softer, much softer. the contrasts of min yoongi are too alluring. jungkook sucks in his breath, freeing himself from taehyung’s loose grip, crossing the convoluted space. every step is a small inner battle of confusion and embarrassment and need. every step is a small realisation that he is, in fact, irrevocably falling in love. yoongi looks away. “sunbae,” jungkook’s breathy as if he has run there. taehyung doesn’t follow. vocabulary runs wild inside jungkook’s brain, but his anxiety keeps it all in. yoongi seems to sigh after a moment or two of silence.

“it’s best if we don’t talk,” his voice is monotone, in cold colours like the ones he had offered when they first met. “after the competition ends—“

“ hyung ,” jungkook tries again, stepping closer. yoongi swallows before looking up at him. “— can we walk together back to the gymnasium at least?”

“no,” the word is cutting. jungkook’s heart shrivels, cracking a bit more. “i don’t think that’s wise.”

“if it’s because of what i said—“

“it isn’t because of what you said,” but yoongi doesn’t complete his thought. his ears are red. he looks at the long coffee line. “i better go.” jungkook’s shoulders fall, and he presses hard against the bruise at his hip, trying to feel anything else other than the bitter taste of another rejection. it’s a pain sharper than the pointy side of a blade and right now that pointy side is lodged into his heart. he pushes his own coffee onto yoongi’s hands as he starts to walk away. yoongi raises his eyebrows. “what—“

“i got the one you like,” jungkook mumbles, apologetic. “you can have it, i don’t—“ he shrugs, at loss. “it’s yours.”

it’s not his coffee he gives away. delivered onto yoongi’s thin hands, knife and all, is jungkook’s heart and every dark corner of it. yoongi stares at him for a moment, and jungkook allows himself to be stared, allows yoongi to see what he does to the blood under jungkook’s skin. “thank you for the coffee,” yoongi says, somehow mumbly, cheeks flushing. 

“it’s yours,” jungkook repeats ever so softly. yoongi nods, vaguely. i have to go , he says, stumbling ungraciously on a waiter, bowing to apologize. jungkook watches him go, flustered to the point of shivering. he raises a hand to scratch the back of his head, embarrassed. taehyung joins him a moment later. should we get in line again? , he asks softly. jungkook doesn’t feel answering.

the boy in front of him is taller than he is. jungkook knows his name, but his nerves won’t let him remember. he feels all too much entirely— the hard panels of the piste under the sole of his sneakers, the weight of his sabre, the tight fabric around his body, the sweat that drip down his sides from his armpits, the air that feels hot and stoic inside his helmet. everything is hyperbolic, he thinks, even the lights, burning down on him as if they’re the summer sun in busan. he trembles, he knows he does. jungkook so badly wants to look where the other two competitors wait, watching. so badly he wants to see yoongi that he almost misses the way his opponent flicks his wrist. he dodges, leaping before he can be hit, stabbing quickly. their helmets flash, and jungkook looks at the referee, they both do. yoongi’s right there, then, eyes dark and sharp and just as stabbing. jungkook misses when the point is awarded to him, and he celebrates too late. you can’t lose , he tells himself, sternly. for now, min yoongi isn’t anyone . he swallows. 

his sabre gets touched lightly, the tap inviting for a parry. jungkook knows he isn’t the greatest at defense. his strengths lie in his speed, in the force of his attack, so his riposte is sharp, and the boy on the other side of the piste stumbles backwards, scrambling. jungkook gets a point, and then another. he forgets time, for a moment. he forgets himself, body and blade becoming one. his flunge is precise. jungkook’s so absorbed in the way his sabre cuts the air that he misses the referee’s voice, he startles when the crowd suddenly erupt in cheers, so bad he almost flinches. then jungkook blinks, confused. “you did well, jungkook-ssi,” someone is saying at him, and jungkook removes his helmet, sweaty hair sticking to his forehead, looking around.

there’s happiness in winning. jungkook doesn’t know why he feels so— wistful. his eyes find yoongi’s as his coach takes him off of the piste, an arm around his neck. somehow right now, yoongi doesn’t look so impressive. he looks— rather pale, eyes gloomy. jungkook wants to go to him, and shake him by the shoulders, and demand him to win. he notices the way yoongi’s hands are curled into fists, how his raven coloured hair is messy, how his uniform isn’t pressed. it’s a different min yoongi. it’s a min yoongi jeon jungkook can beat. “i hope you win,” jungkook tells him before walking past him, and his fingers reach to touch yoongi’s wrist, just over the red band he wears, for barely a second. his skin is cold to the touch. then he grabs his forgotten jacket, quickly assembling his bag, and he starts walking out of the gymnasium.

you will want to stay and watch , his coach says rather sharply. you can tell me about it later, hyung . he isn’t wrong, of course not. jungkook should stay and watch, should stand beside the referee and watch yoongi dance on the piste like he does. however, there’s such fear inside his lungs he thinks they might collapse. if yoongi wins, or if yoongi loses— both endings are terrifying prospects. he carries his broken heart to the convenience store, then, shivering in the frigid weather, the uniform barely warm enough. “you don’t look well,” the ahjumma behind the counter tells him, eyeing his forlorn expression as she picks up his choice of noodles.

“i’m fine,” he bows his head a little, and he sounds just as monotone as yoongi did hours earlier. 

“heartbreaks go on the third aisle,” she says conspicuously, nodding her head towards it. 

it makes jungkook snort, smiling. third aisle is where the spirits are. jungkook thanks her kindly, sitting down inside to eat. everything tastes like paper, but he forces the food down, and it warms him up at least. his phone stirs after a while, skidding next to his bowl. he isn’t doing so well, is he? jungkook’s heart leaps as if dropped from the top of a skyscraper. oh no, no, no, no, no—  taehyung is still at the gymnasium, of course, unaware of jungkook’s absence. jungkook groans, pushing the half-eaten food away, resting his forehead on the table. “come on, sunbae,” he mutters. “you can’t lose now.” some time passes, and jungkook feels his back hurts. his phone vibrates again. he dreads looking at it.

(19:37) well, there’s that, then

(19:38) i hope you’re not feeling too guilty

jungkook almost starts typing, heart racing. he almost asks, almost caves in. instead, he stands, quickly bowing goodbye to the ahjumma, footsteps too heavy against the sidewalk. he can hear the cheers from inside the gymnasium as he walks by it. he doesn’t go in. jungkook’s— scared , he reckons. when he first saw yoongi at the start of the competition, he wanted to get to the end of it with him. the feeling just grew furiously inside him, becoming a big lump of attraction and fear and tension and unresolved feelings. he doesn’t want to know if yoongi won or lost. he’d rather be blind to his own fate as long as he can. either he’ll step on the piste in two days to beat him, or he’ll stand across from someone meaningless. it’s hard to know what he favours at this point.

instead of falling onto his own bed, jungkook allows himself to lay down on yoongi’s one. those sheets aren’t the ones he was sleeping on, so they don’t smell like him at all. jungkook breathes in nonetheless, feeling it from memory, the peach sweetness that lingered every time yoongi had showered. the air leaves his nose rather stuttery, and jungkook sniffs. you look sick , taehyung had said. he is, jungkook thinks. he’s terribly lovesick. he groans, pressing his face against the pillow, embarrassed.  

— there’s a knock then, rather soft. jungkook raises his head, confused for a second. the room is much darker than before, and cold, cold, cold. the dry drool at the corner of his mouth is indication he’d fallen asleep. the knock comes up again. jungkook wipes a hand at his face, blinking himself awake, stumbling on his own shoes. his muscles feel rigid. he’s still in his uniform and he smells awfully like sleep and sweat. jungkook doesn’t know what time it is, but considering yoongi looks rather different than he looked earlier when he opens the door, he’d say a few hours went by. he stills, knuckles turning white around the doorknob he presses against too harshly. the air gets stolen out of his lungs. yoongi blinks, almost as if not sure what he’s doing there himself, and his eyes, slightly wide, wander about jungkook’s messy appearance. “i— thought we could talk,” he says just slightly slurrish, as if he’s trying hard to put words together. 

“you don’t drink during the competition,” jungkook points out, ashamed of the way his heart scatters inside his chest. 

“the situation called for it,” yoongi shrugs. jungkook can’t read his face, can’t tell if the he had been drinking alone in his room after a loss or if he’s been out celebrating, someone’s arm around him, a bottle of something french and expensive in his hand. both scenarios leave a bad taste in his mouth. “— can i come in?”

“i haven’t,” he looks down at himself, at his legs still covered by the uniform, and his dirty socks. his ears burn. “i fell asleep, i haven’t showered yet.”

“i can tell.”

still, jungkook takes a step back, heart beating heavily, mouth dry. “if you don’t mind waiting, you can— you can come in, i guess.” yoongi staggers for a moment too long, as if deciding, as if realising coming all the way down the corridor to jungkook’s room also meant coming in jungkook’s room. he looks as if he hasn’t planned. jungkook waits, swallowing, until yoongi finally nods loosely, moving to step in. jungkook inhales on the smell of his shampoo, eyes fluttering close, shoulders less tense. “i won’t take long,” he mutters, closing the door finally, hoping yoongi won’t notice how his old bed is just slightly wrinkled, the pillows used. alright , the mumbly word follows shortly.

he halfs expects yoongi to not be there when he steps out of the bathroom, not even twenty minutes later, hair wet and face bare. he expects it all to be just a strange, highly realistic illusion. but min yoongi, hair the colour of the midnights outside, buttoned down white shirt, figure small and delicate looking, is there, sitting at the edge of his bed as if he had never left. he holds jungkook’s sabre in his hand, analysing the blade. jungkook feels warm inside. “i never paid attention to your sabre before,” yoongi sighs. “it’s a french blade.”

“— yeah,” he manages to say, watching as yoongi runs his fingers down the length. it makes him blush. 

“it looks like mine,” and jungkook wants to say all sabres kind of look alike despite their manufacturers, but yoongi doesn’t seem to be talking to him anymore, so he doesn’t. it takes a moment or two for yoongi to startle, blinking nervously, putting down the sword. their eyes meet again. it’s cruelty to jungkook’s weak heart. “i— thought we should talk.”

“i thought you didn’t want to,” jungkook counters, unassumingly. he allows himself to step towards the bed until he can take the sword from yoongi’s lap, kneeling to put it back into the bag. yoongi shifts on his weight, and the bed creaks. “sunbae,” he finishes pulling the zipper around it. jungkook wants yoongi’s presence as badly as he wants to understand why he’s there after pushing him away. “— i’ve already told you what i had to say.” 

i think i’m falling in love with you.

he remembers how yoongi’s smile quickly faded away when the words spluttered out. “you said you needed to figure it out,” yoongi’s voice is unsteady and hoarse. jungkook stands up again, but it’s too awkward and too close. he sits down, then, besides yoongi, a good chunk of distance between them. “did you—? at all?”

“— yeah,” jungkook nods. he didn’t need to figure things out, not really. he’s known the feeling brewing inside of him for some time now. yoongi just makes him careless enough to say it out loud. “i’m sorry if it isn’t what you wanted to hear, i can— it can go away.” that makes yoongi snort.

“if it can go away, then it isn’t— it isn’t,” love , jungkook understands. yoongi can’t bring himself to say it out loud, apparently. he’s flushed and uncomfortable, from the way he keeps on picking on the sides of his nails. for a moment, jungkook doesn’t know what to say. he’s right. it can’t go away, not that easily, anyway. “why did you say it?”

“because it’s the truth,” jungkook tries, shrugging, head down. his cheeks burn, his neck does too. he can see yoongi’s expression change on the mirror next to the television. it’s confused and— angry. “i’m sorry if i told you at the wrong time.”

“how do you know?” yoongi asks, then, less thorny for a moment. he turns his face, looking at jungkook. “how can you tell if it’s true—“ jungkook starts mumbling i don’t know and they get slightly higher-pitched and more erratic as yoongi keeps on asking, “ how — there has to be a way , ” i don’t know “i need you to tell me how did you know, because i— i need to know ,” until jungkook snaps, pushing himself out of the bed, walking away. yoongi stops talking, they both do. jungkook sighs, and his eyes are watery with shame and unnecessary guilt. yoongi’s all red, looking down at his hands. “i’m sorry.” he offers. “i shouldn’t have come.”

“you shouldn’t have,” jungkook agrees, hurt. being rejected once is enough. we meet on the piste . yoongi rises from the bed. jungkook lifts his eyes to find his when yoongi stops in front of him on the way to the door. they’re dark like his hair, their shape as if crafted by more cutting kinds of blades. “i’ll do my best at the final bout,” jungkook offers, then, trying to sound more proud of his victory than he is. he is proud. just not right there. right there his victory feels sloppy, with lazy arcs and lucky strikes. yoongi would have done better. he should have done better.

for a moment, yoongi doesn’t say anything. he sighs deeply, then says, quietly: “you drive me crazy.” it isn’t the sentence jungkook’s expecting. “you do.”

“i’m sorry i do, then,” jungkook crosses his arms, bothered.

“i’ll go.”

“ go .”

none of them moves. staring down at yoongi, he sees how conflicted he is. jungkook’s all conflicts, too. then yoongi shakes his head, stirring into movement. “you drive me crazy,” he repeats, and jungkook doesn’t expect the shove, and it startles him, and he doesn’t expect yoongi’s hands grabbing onto his t-shirt, pulling him down for a kiss that seems to be fueled on sheer dispute. jungkook’s eyes widen for a beat before he understands what they’re doing, tasting the wine on yoongi’s tongue as he parts his lips. then, it’s— like melting butter, overflowing and hot all over. they struggle against each other, the bittersweet taste of their kiss still sharp at the teeth. “this is crazy,” yoongi mutters under ragged breath, and jungkook feels himself self-combust when yoongi’s hands search under his clothes as they stumble backwards towards the beds. it’s faster than he’d have liked, the undressing, the unbuttoning of yoongi’s pricy blouse, and jungkook kisses down yoongi’s neck as he does so, and yoongi presses fingers at the purple bruise on jungkook’s hip, making him flinch, whining against skin. they both still at the untamed sound, breathing too heavily. jungkook realises faintly they’re on his bed. “— you’re a problem,” yoongi tells him, and jungkook huffs, upset. he’s partially angry at himself for being so easily taken, so thoroughly smitten to the point of blindness. he lets go of yoongi’s shirt. “don’t,” yoongi tells him immediately, leaning in. he sounds keen and apologetic all at once. “go on.”

“— sunbae.” jungkook looks away. “i don’t want to be a problem.”

“i didn’t mean it like that,” yoongi starts, but jungkook’s already backing away, feeling ashamed and childish. “ jungkook-ah. ” ah, the soft way his name is said, the sweet ending added. jungkook feels entirely too inebriated by the way those things make him feel. “you weren’t watching my bout tonight and i—,” yoongi stammers. “i couldn’t fence.”

“— why?” 

“i kept looking for you,” and yoongi breathes out somehow nervously, sounding angry at himself. “i mean i could fence, i just—“  he shrugs. “it wasn’t the same without you watching me.” jungkook knows yoongi can hear how fast his heart is beating, and blood pools on jungkook’s cheeks, burning. yoongi raises a careful hand to push jungkook’s damp hair away from his face. it’s a fleeting kind of movement, one done without much thinking. their eyes find each other, and yoongi’s pupils are blown, but he looks alarmingly— vulnerable. “it wasn’t the same, because i—“ he sniffs. “love is a very heavy word.”

jungkook sucks in his breath, a jolt of happiness running through his body wildly, leaving him breathless. “yeah,” he agrees, weakly. “i know.”

“you do.” yoongi nods vaguely, licking his lips. “how— how do you know?”

it isn’t easy to explain something that overwhelms you entirely. so jungkook leans in, fingers brushing against yoongi’s collarbones, following its contours, pushing under his shirt to uncover a slightly bruised shoulder, and when they kiss it’s vastly different than all of the other times. this time, jungkook kisses with the sort of care that only comes with falling in love. yoongi sighs into it, nodding as if he understands. “like that,” jungkook mutters.

“ah,” yoongi kisses him again, and doesn’t let go this time. it makes jungkook smile. “ i like you ,” the words are shared. “i might be— too,” but jungkook hums, knowing what he means, not wanting to stop whatever they are doing. they can talk later. there’s forever to talk. “i feel like i need to say it,” yoongi continues, but he complains when jungkook whines a hushed you don’t have to , pushing him onto the mattress with some rush. “i don’t like—”

“— being manhandled, yes,” jungkook grins, finding his way between yoongi’s legs, feeling yoongi’s knees brush against his hips. “sunbae,” he whispers close to yoongi’s ear. “just spar with me.” 

fencing is like dancing, and like kissing, and like— more than that. jungkook reckons he feels the same sense of exhilaration holding his sabre as he does holding yoongi’s waist, as they move around on the bed that keeps creaking, the strange, hungry fear he feels on the piste is the same he feels as yoongi kisses down his stomach. his sweatpants get pulled down gently. for a slight of a moment, jungkook raises his head from the bed, wanting to see— but then yoongi’s tongue is hot and wet and jungkook closes his eyes, head falling back against the mattress, everything entirely too much . his mouth hangs open, a muted kind of noise leaving his throat. at some point he tugs gently at yoongi’s soft strands of inky hair, breathing out hot air. yoongi’s breathing is also hot against his skin. “enough?” 

“i’m sorry, i—“

yoongi sits up again, wiping the corner of his mouth. jungkook stares, ashamed and terribly, terribly, terribly thirsty. yoongi’s all red, alcohol and want shading his cheeks and nose rosy hues. his shirt has been pushed down his shoulders. jungkook doesn’t remember having kissed him to the point of bruises. yoongi notices him looking. “these are from tonight, i guess,” he tells him, then, short nails trailing up and down jungkook’s inner thighs. it makes his legs tremble, stomach dropping. jungkook bites his bottom lip. “i didn’t do too well— i haven’t been doing well, in a while.”

“how— how was it?” 

they look at each other. yoongi looks— embarrassed. his hands stop moving, resting against the mattress. “thirteen fifteen,” he replies after a moment. jungkook feels like having his heart yanked out. he won’t fence yoongi at the finals. it hurts just like he thought it would. “you seem disappointed.”

“i am,” he looks away, head falling against the pillow. yoongi moves a bit, and jungkook thinks he’ll leave the bed, he thinks that the mood is muddled. he doesn’t. instead, he leans in to kiss the bruise on jungkook’s hip. the way his body reacts swiftly makes yoongi smile. “sunbae—“

“ hyung ,” yoongi says, low enough. jungkook sighs, eyes staring at the whiteness of the ceiling. “talking about it won’t change the outcome,” the air in his syllables touch jungkook in places that have him clutching the sheets. “we can talk about it later, little one.”

“i’m not little,” jungkook retorts, their banter curling his lips upwards. yoongi huffs. i can tell . “ah— sunbae ,“ the sensitive parts of his body plead some sort of mercy, but yoongi offers very little of it. he helplessly tries not to make a bigger mess of himself as yoongi’s mouth touches him, and trying gets more difficult as yoongi goes further and further. “i thought i was going to do it,” he manages to say, teeth gritted as yoongi pushes a finger in and out of him. it’s painful and good and foreign all at once. he wants badly— for some sort of release, some sort of ending . 

“we don’t have condoms,” and yoongi curls his finger, and jungkook whines, knees closing. it somehow felt too good all at once, the conflicting pain disappearing into the background. jungkook nods nonetheless, even though he’s enjoying the sensation that spreads down his legs, even though yoongi’s finger rub against something inside him that has his toes curling, that is too good . “does it hurt?”

“not like your riposte,” jungkook grunts, laughly airily. 

“does my riposte make you this pliant?” yoongi’s voice is dangerously sweet. he pulls his finger out, though, and jungkook winces the slightest, pressing his eyes closed tight, stars of pain and want exploding behind his eyelids. “we’re too tired, we can do this some other time.” jungkook sighs rather fondly, agreeing with a vague nod. he’s exhausted and sore and about to come. it wouldn’t feel any better than it already is. he holds onto yoongi’s wrist, then, pulling him close until they’re tangling again. yoongi shivers when jungkook touches between them. it doesn’t take them that long in the slightest. it’s almost embarrassing. 

“ touché ,” jungkook mumbles, grinning mockingly at yoongi’s slight disconcerted expression. 

it’s another kind of intimacy, then, they realise all too quickly. they untangle rather awkwardly, and they don’t shower together, yoongi quickly locking himself up as soon as a towel is handed to him. jungkook feels all too naked, wrapped in his duvet, legs shaking, nerves ablaze. every wrinkle of the soft fabric seems coarse to his all too sensitive skin. yoongi’s fingers were like feathers, though. he blushes vividly. yoongi leaves the bathroom to find him pacing about, two open packages of chips on the messy bed. they stare at each other for a moment, then away. i’ll just go wash, yeah you should, i’ll— and their convoluted conversation almost sounds as if it will end up with yoongi leaving again. for the second time that night, he’s still there when jungkook steps out. flimsy expensive shirt, no pants, sitting at the edge of his own bed. jungkook swallows. “can i sleep here?” yoongi asks, demurely.

“i was hoping you would,” jungkook breathes out, relieved. they ignore jungkook’s distressed sheets to find each other under the ones on yoongi’s old bed. it’s a different kind of intimacy, yes. jungkook feels the weight of it in every inch of space. yoongi curls into himself like he used to, back turned to him.  jungkook isn’t sure if it’s an invitation or not. “— hyung.” the call gets a hum in return, a sleepy one. “what are we now?”

“min yoongi and jeon jungkook,” yoongi replies after a moment. he turns, then, and jungkook stares at his profile before yoongi meets his eyes. “why?”

“i want to date you,” the impulsive words sound slightly too brash. they make yoongi smile, anyway, the kind of crooked smile that is followed by a huff and red cheeks. 

“i thought you said after the competition is over,” he offers, but yoongi allows his hand to be held under the covers. jungkook notices how the blush on yoongi’s face gets deeper, even in the dimmed lights. he’s so pretty, it’s baffling. “there’s still one more round.”

“yeah, but—“

“go to sleep, jungkook,” yoongi mumbles, his own eyes closing. if anything, he tugs on jungkook’s hand until they’re close enough. “rest up.” the tension seems to dissipate a little, and jungkook feels his body less heavy as yoongi allows him to fit against him, their bodies adjusting around each other until it’s comfortable enough to sleep. yoongi smells good, and he feels good, and even the thin memory of what they had done earlier is enough to make jungkook conscious of how close they are. but yoongi’s right— he’s tired. his eyelids feel like rocks. he moves closer, though, daring to press a kiss against the side of yoongi’s mouth. it makes yoongi chuckle weakly. “don’t get too comfortable, little one.” jungkook isn’t sure what he meant by that, but he agrees, humming, nose touching yoongi’s neck tenderly. he’s barely awake, barely there for the next set of words. he has fallen asleep by the time yoongi says them, missing them entirely: “you still have to fence me.”

Chapter Text

on the piste, yoongi would have been four meters away from him, standing tall, sharp as usual. on his bed, yoongi’s tangle about jungkook in such proximity that jungkook can’t feel his legs any further, only the weight of yoongi’s. he blinks slowly, waking up, watching yoongi sleep, watching the shape of his mouth, the colours in it, the graciousness of yoongi’s nose, the messy wisps of his black hair. jungkook inhales, shamefully aware of his own body, of how it reacts to waking up like that, of how it reacts to the way it felt the night before. i want to date you , he had said, out loud, just hours before. it remains true that morning. yoongi had touched him. that also remains. jungkook leans forward, lips almost brushing yoongi’s, but not daring to do so without him knowing. his whole entire body yearns. “ sunbae ,” he calls softly, allowing their noses to touch, at least. yoongi stirs, limbs shifting the slightest, eyes looking hazy and blown when they find jungkook’s. “good morning.”

“— good morning.”

they stare at each other, and yoongi blinks lazily. “i wanted to kiss you,” jungkook reveals, voice low. “i didn’t know if you’d let me.” there’s a pause in which yoongi doesn’t say anything. jungkook sighs. “please let me.”

“what if i don’t?”

“sunbae—,” he complains, closing his eyes. if jungkook moves he can feel how close they are, and that kind of knowledge is crass. “ hyung .” yoongi’s lips twitch as if wanting to curl. jungkook tries not to stare at the softness they’re made of, try not to remember too vividly how they felt down his body. 

“i didn’t ask yesterday,” yoongi says, then. jungkook opens his mouth to complain again, but yoongi touches his waist, pressing their bodies together. all of jungkook’s words scatter. he tries his best to stay still, achy, bothered. 

“you don’t really announce your attacks,” jungkook mumbles, thinking of how yoongi moves on the piste, thinking how difficult it is to predict his next movement before it happens. the comparison makes yoongi laugh weakly.

“you think of fencing too much.”

“i think of you more,” the confession slips out, and jungkook swallows, stilling the slightest. maybe yesterday was a one time deal. maybe yoongi doesn’t want to think about the sum of his feelings until the competition is over and done. yoongi looks at him, not saying anything in return, smile getting smaller, some sort of blush on his nose. jungkook likes the way his hair is messy, the way his eyes are still puffy and not as sharp. “you look softer when you’re not glaring at me from across the piste, sunbae.”

“— jungkook,” and yoongi seems to think for a moment. the hand on jungkook’s waist slides further underneath fabric, pressing over the small of jungkook’s back. it’s good, the thigh between his legs, the proximity. jungkook’s breath stutters. “i didn’t ask yesterday.”

for a moment, jungkook’s confused at the repetition, but yoongi’s hand pry under the waistband of his sweats, just barely, and he understands. yoongi hums in agreement when jungkook clashes their mouths together then, and he doesn’t mind the early morning taste on yoongi’s tongue, body too alight to pay attention to anything that isn’t their bodies together. there is some sort of slowness about them, as if they’re not too keen on having to let go soon, and jungkook thinks he doesn’t mind it, because yoongi’s warm all over and they’re still sleepy. he lets out a small contained sound when their hips press together, toes curling as the feeling runs down his legs, pleasant and tingling. yoongi doesn’t stop him when he touches between them, sliding pants down, wanting more than the friction of fabric— he flinches when jungkook touches them together, their teeth clashing awkwardly, the sharp inhale of breath rather telling. jungkook buries his face on the crook of yoongi’s neck, then, hand moving sloppily, cheeks burning. he mouths at a sensitive spot, and yoongi grabs his arm, pressing. they’ve done it the night before, albeit neither last that long. it’s still embarrassing somehow. jungkook feels yoongi jerk the slightest when he moves his thumb a certain way, and it’s good, it’s good. “do you like it?” he can’t help but ask, leaning back again, watching the frown on yoongi’s face, the gap of his mouth.

“yeah,” their foreheads touch. yoongi presses his eyes closed. jungkook wants to watch him unravel, but he can’t resist to kiss, and yoongi kisses him back with the same sort of loving need. “but you’re not fast enough,” yoongi says against his tongue, and jungkook chuckles, kissing him harder, moving faster. it’s jungkook who makes the most noises, the soft moaning swallowed down quickly, alongside yoongi’s chopped breathing. “i’m close,” yoongi tells him in what’s barely a whisper. jungkook nods against their kiss, and his lips are numb and his wrist is painful. yoongi comes first, grabbing about him, shivering as jungkook continues to move until he gets off too, a sheer wave of both euphoria and exhaustion washing out his body entirely, moaning against yoongi’s lips. they breathe sort of raggedly, the same way they do when they come out from a spar. 

“i want to do this every morning,” jungkook says, unabashed, chest burning with heat. his hand is sticky, and he still holds them both, soft movement of fingers making them both stir slightly. “i want to do this for—“ ever , he almost says it, blinking, surprised at himself. yoongi still has the look of elation on his face, eyes closed, cheeks very red.

“i train very early in the morning,” he mentions, after a moment. jungkook’s still staring when yoongi opens his eyes, his tongue licking swollen lips. “this would be counterproductive.”

“you’re not training today,” jungkook points out, grinning. 

“not early,” and yoongi sighs. “it’s a free day.”

it is a free day. a rest day, before the final bout, a day for athletes to sleep in and practice late, for final strategies, last minute pep talk from coaches. jungkook notices the slight hurt in yoongi’s demeanor, almost invisible to the untrained eye, but there. there’s an upsetness about him, and jungkook feels his heart ache all over again, thinking of last nights’ results. i hope you’re not feeling that guilty . he is. “do you want to come practice with me?”

“i think that’s counterproductive, too,” yoongi huffs, finally leaving their slotted positions, pulling his pants up, rolling sideways towards the edge of the bed. he walks towards the bathroom without much more of an explanation, but he leaves the door ajar, and jungkook can see him undressing, fabric falling on the heated tiles. for a second, jungkook only watches as steam comes out from the gap. then he stands up, approaching the door. yoongi’s under the stream of water, hair pushed back from his face, chest and shoulders pink from the possible heat. he stares as jungkook steps in. 

“you left the door open,” and he stares as jungkook tugs the shirt over his head, and he stares when pants are off, and then they stare at each other, eyes meeting. they’ve seen each other, but not in such fullness. yoongi’s body looks strong but soft, and the combination is too sweet on jungkook’s tongue.

“the water is running,” yoongi points out, swallowing. “come in already.”

“okay.” they share the stream of water for some time, jungkook leaning down to kiss yoongi’s shoulders, and jungkook lets yoongi shampoo his hair, nails scratching against scalp. it’s all good until he’s being pushed against the wall, water trickling down his face, trying not to swallow too much of it as yoongi kisses him. they don’t go further than tongues against teeth, mostly because yoongi reaches out after a while, turning off the tap and quickly grabbing about jungkook’s towels to dry. jungkook huffs, skin burning again, biting his bottom lip as he watches yoongi, panting the slightest. yoongi finally looks his way, dry enough, tossing him the towel.

“you’re staring.”

“you’re good looking,” jungkook says automatically, his thoughts filterless. yoongi’s ears get a blush on them, but he leaves the bathroom, not really looking back. he’s infuriating, jungkook thinks, drying himself on his slightly damp towel, listening as yoongi dresses up with the clothes from the night before. he’s buttoning up his sheer shirt when jungkook steps out, heart picking up speed. “are you leaving—?”

“yes,” yoongi nods. “i’m hungry and i need a change of clothes.”

“but, we—“

“this is an important day,” and jungkook knows he’s very naked when yoongi lifts his eyes to look at him, and he somewhat finds himself hiding behind his towel when yoongi’s eyes linger. “you need to practice.”

“let’s have breakfast together at least,” jungkook tries, taking a step closer. “you can come practice with me, if you want.”

for a moment, jungkook is certain yoongi will say no. they’re not in any sort of relationship other than the one that existed in the competition. it’s over for one of them now, and jungkook wants to be something else. yoongi stands, and his hair drips on the white shirt, making the fabric on his shoulders see-through. “sure,” he sighs, and jungkook breaks into a giddy smile. “i won’t go any easier on you now.”

“you can’t go easier on me,” jungkook offers, watching yoongi walk towards the door. “i have to win.”

“yeah,” and yoongi eyes him, looking— strangely small. “you do.” he turns to leave, hand on the doorknob, but jungkook mutters a soft sunbae , wait , tugging on his wrist, leaning closer to kiss him again. yoongi responds weakly. when jungkook pulls back, he’s red on the cheeks. “i’ll meet you downstairs in ten minutes.”

“— right, okay.”

it’s some sort of abrupt ending, one that feels odd and jagged after the things they’ve done and said in the past hours. jungkook stares at the closed door for a minute or two, realising faintly that maybe fencing isn’t something yoongi wants to talk about now. his loss is still fresh, an open wound that jungkook keeps rubbing salt on mercilessly. he sighs, cursing himself, finally turning away.

their breakfast is quiet. the sourness of the competition muddling everything with a bad taste. jungkook looks around, searching for his final competitor, but the venue has only a few people scattered about, none with the fencing teams. he wants to ask yoongi about him, but yoongi doesn’t look like he wants to discuss it. he pushes the food down his throat with some difficulty, then. “i’m supposed to go for a run, to warm up,” jungkook says, watching for yoongi’s expression. “if you want to come together, we can, maybe,” take a stroll out in the park , he wants to say, kiss somewhere hidden . what he says, nervously, is: “see who gets a better time.”

“i don’t like running,” yoongi says rather flatly. he seems to notice jungkook’s slight doleful eyes, because he sighs, adding: “it’s too cold, i’d rather go to the gymnasium straight away.”

“my coach won’t be there until later,” jungkook thinks, but yoongi doesn’t seem too upset about it. “there won’t be anyone there around this time.”

“no,” yoongi shrugs, lifting his eyes to meet jungkook’s. “just us and our blades.”

“— okay,” and jungkook is suddenly anxious about it. he likes kissing yoongi, but sparring him is some other sort of feeling. it’s more vicious, and it’s both scary and alluring. “i’ll go get my bag.”

the gymnasium is empty as they expected to be. coach sent him a message on the way, but jungkook shoved his phone deep in his pocket, ignoring for now. he knows it is childish behaviour, but somehow he think his coach and team wouldn’t be happy with him drilling with yoongi, of all people. they organise around the piste, and stretch in silence. jungkook keeps his eyes on his own legs, and not on yoongi’s ones. he’s not wearing slacks, nor the white trousers, but the fabric is stretchy and it clings to his form anyway. it’s very aggravating. “we can go over simple drills,” yoongi says after they’re proper warmed up. “soviet foil?”

“alright,” and he goes over his bag, picking up his sabre, checking the tip, the grip of his wrist. the drill is fairly easy, movements edged in jungkook’s mind from years of practice. yoongi doesn’t hold a sword, keeping a distance from him, working as a target point, too good at dodging jungkook’s light stabs. they’re not wearing uniforms, and playing with sabres without the kevlar protection can be just slightly bruising. jungkook groans, annoyed, when he fails to touch yoongi again. 

“your footwork is slow today,” yoongi comments, hands on his hips. “you won’t get close this way.”

“i can get close some other way,” jungkook winks, knowing it flusters yoongi, watching, pleased, as his cheeks colour. “touché—?”

“ en garde ,” yoongi tells him sternly, but he smiles the slightest, positioning himself again. it’s difficult, to catch up with yoongi’s speed. he’s smaller and lighter, and his feet move fast. “good,” yoongi says when jungkook finally stabs his side, flinching the slightest. jungkook breathes out heavily. “i’ll get my sword— you attack.”

“okay, coach,” he says playfully, watching yoongi look through his bag, running careful fingers over the blade of his sword. it makes him blush, and jungkook looks away, huffing. 

they go through the drill for almost an hour, yoongi having the better hand at it, his controlling attacks much more poised and thought out than jungkook’s ones. the strong points of yoongi’s fencing techniques lies in his very well rehearsed movements, and they’re clean cut and well finished to the point jungkook’s embarrassed about his own sloppiness. the weak points of yoongi’s fencing techniques is that he doesn’t know how to counterattack recklessness— and jungkook’s fencing is all about that. so when he goes for a ballestra just because he saw an opening for it, swinging his body out of the way of yoongi’s spot on stab, yoongi scatters, unsure of what to do, getting stabbed on the shoulder harsh enough to hurt, wincing. they pant, and jungkook lets his sword go, tugging yoongi closer to kiss over the reddish bruise, then up his neck, and yoongi squirms. “not here,” he says, pressing fingers over the bruise. they stare at each other from too close. “that was good, clever.”

“i didn’t mean to hurt—”

“it’s fencing, bruises happen,” yoongi swallows, stepping back. “we should gear up before you try to impale me next.”

the sentence makes jungkook giggle. “did you just make a joke—?” but yoongi sighs, rolling his eyes, already walking towards his duffle bag. “ sunbae , you’re cute.”  he follows yoongi anyway, and he drops his bag next to yoongi, and yoongi looks up at him when jungkook stands in front of him, hands on the sides of his hips. “can i take off your clothes?”

“i’m keeping the pants,” yoongi tells him, and jungkook understands it isn’t a negative completely. so touches yoongi’s skin underneath his shirt, raising it as his fingers slide over ribs. yoongi’s very still, staring. “little one,” he calls, and jungkook stops, sucking his bottom lip in. somehow the mocking pet name doesn’t make him upset, not completely. “we’re wasting time on the piste.” and jungkook dares to start complaining, but yoongi pulls his own shirt off, tossing it on the bench, hair messing up. jungkook lets his eyes linger on collar bones and the structures under yoongi’s chest, on his flat stomach, where the pants grip. “your turn.” it’s very easily that jungkook gets rid of his own clothes, hoping for things that go beyond what they’ve done in bed. they’re not in bed, no. they’re in a locker room, one where someone could come in at any given time. yoongi leans over, and jungkook inhales, holding his breath. there’s no kiss, though, just rustling as yoongi move to grab jungkook’s uniform. “here, i’ll strap you up,” he says, low and close, and jungkook feels himself get hot too easily. yoongi dresses him carefully, tugging the breeches over his legs, placing the plastron underneath his arm, and jungkook’s mouth is awfully dry by the time yoongi reaches between his legs to strap his lamé. he closes his eyes, breathing out. “you look tense.”

“you,” and jungkook swallows, feeling yoongi adjust his uniform in rather fastidious fashion. “i didn’t think we’d need our lamés for practice, that’s all.”

“we don’t,” yoongi replies, looking up at him again. “i just wanted to put it on you.”

jungkook snorts, laughing weakly. “ hyung ,” he mumbles, grabbing onto yoongi’s sides again, his skin cold to the touch. “take it off, then.” yoongi looks at him for a moment before reaching out again, fingers grazing over the fabric of his breeches, unstrapping the lamé. “i need to kiss you,” jungkook stutters, already leaning forward, and yoongi nods, his back against the closed locker as jungkook kisses him, humming softly as he tastes the spearmint on yoongi’s tongue, their bodies close. he’s suddenly glad they won’t have to face each other in the final bout, because yoongi makes his legs weak in a way that it hampers him entirely. yoongi’s body is still cold, as is the surface of the lockers. he pulls back, feeling yoongi bite softly on his bottom lip before letting it go. “you should put on some clothes, it’s cold here.”

“yeah,” yoongi’s all flushed, and he blinks, obviously flustered. jungkook smiles, warmth spreading down his limbs. “help me out,” he asks, cocking his head towards his bag, and jungkook’s too giddy about it, happily dressing yoongi, letting his hands linger on skin and fabric until yoongi’s even redder. “no lamé,” he says weakly, when jungkook makes for the gear. “we established that already.” jungkook grins, taking his off, and they leave their things behind, adjusting socks and breechers, tugging on gloves. their swords are still on the piste, and they look similar, like yoongi had said. then, they look across from each other on the piste. jungkook feels a rush of adrenaline, fingers tingling. yoongi raises his sabre. “no disengages,” he says, softly. jungkook nods. “watch your tempo.”

“i will, sunbae,” jungkook nods, putting on his mask. yoongi does the same. “ en garde .” they both position themselves at the line. the piste is the one set for the competition, slightly raised, sturdy. jungkook likes the way it feels under his shoes, likes the way it’s yoongi standing at the other end. “ pret ,” he takes a soft breath, exhaling slowly through his mouth. yoongi barely moves. “ allez— ”

their assault is lighthearted, at first. jungkook’s parry is weak, much like yoongi’s lunges. they hardly speak, aside from the sparse word or two of signal. yoongi’s have the better hand, even as they ease into more competent footwork, less childish play. he’s fast, faster than jungkook can guess, stabbing him continuously. it frustrates jungkook— losing, but also knowing yoongi’s better and yet they’re not fencing in the final bout. “you’re too carefree,” yoongi tells him after an attack, jungkook’s parry too slow. “clear your mind, jungkook.”

“i’m just—,” and they move against each other, blades clashing. he’s already starting to sweat, hair sticking to the sides of his face. “you should be there.”

“i should be where?”

“in the finals,” he attacks, managing a bind, and yoongi walks backwards, staggering. “you should be in the finals with me—” somehow his sentence has yoongi scrambling, and jungkook loses his balance, too, and they move without elegance, towards the end of the piste. jungkook attacks again, forcing yoongi to back it up further. “you should be—”

“i don’t know what you’re talking about, i am ,” and yoongi sounds tired, and he stops moving altogether, arms gesturing vaguely, just as jungkook lunges, blade finding air, body turning, out of balance completely, falling . yoongi tries and hold him, but the end of the piste is too close, and jungkook feels all the way up his leg when he steps in false, ankle snapping with blind pain as he falls on his side, letting out a loud painful groan, sword rolling away. “fuck— jungkook ,” and yoongi’s already removing his mask, letting it fall with a dull thump, grabbing about jungkook’s body. 

the pain on his ankle is rather telling. jungkook breathes harshly as yoongi pulls his mask up, too. he stares at him, at his eyes, how wide they are, how he’s never seen yoongi look so pale. “— what did you say?” but yoongi doesn’t seem to be listening, already untying jungkook’s shoes. jungkook stops him, grabbing his wrist. “did you go through?”

“of course i went through,” yoongi huffs, and he looks angry, and sickly. “jungkook— of course i went through, didn’t you know?”

“no,” jungkook blinks, and his ankle is throbbing, the skin burning up with searing pain. he tries to breathe through his nose, slowly. “no, i thought— i thought you were out.” his heart is racing, beating so fast it makes his chest ache all over. yoongi stares at him for only a moment before pushing his hands away, removing his shoes and sock. jungkook’s ankle is swollen already, skin quickly turning purple. “it will go away if i ice it,” jungkook says quickly, watching as yoongi’s expression sinks. an injury like that might mean he’s out, might mean he won’t be able to fence, that the whole entire season is over, that he’ll have to heal before trying again, in two years. they both know it. yoongi stands, muttering something about going to get ice, grabbing jungkook’s forgotten jacket as he runs out. jungkook allows himself to lie down, his back against the floor. the pain is a constant throb. he feels nervous. he grabs onto the hilt of his sword, bringing it closer. it can’t be over like that. it won’t be. 

when yoongi comes back, he’s sitting up, legs stretched in front of him. his ankle looks worse. yoongi drops the plastic bags from the convenience store next to him before kneeling down again, the package of ice making jungkook hiss. it hurts against his warm skin. yoongi looks through the bag again, tossing a small package of pills towards him. “it’s ibuprofen, take two,” he swallows. “it’ll help ease the pain as we go to a hospital.”

“i’m not going to a hospital,” jungkook snaps, shaking his head. “it’s nothing, it doesn’t even hurt.” yoongi glares, pressing the ice package more firmly against his ankle, and jungkook winces involuntarily, a small yelp leaving his mouth. “ sunbae .”

“you need to take care of that,” yoongi doesn’t raise his voice, and jungkook thinks he’s unable to, after all. “i hurt you, we need to—”

“you didn’t hurt me,” jungkook grabs his wrist again. “sunbae, let it go, i’ll be fine.”

“no, jungkook, you—”

“ let it go ,” and jungkook pushes yoongi away as softly as he can, and yoongi sits back, staring at him, looking helpless. “i’ll be fine, i’ll bandage it, i won’t even feel it.” yoongi opens his mouth, then closes it again. he looks angry, and hurt. jungkook leans, reaching out towards him, pushing his messed up hair away from his eyes. he can’t help but huff, a small smiling lifting his lips upwards. “you went through.”

“jungkook, you can’t fence —”

“i can fence,” jungkook makes a point of saying, taking his hand away, swallowing. “i’ll show you tomorrow,” he’s stubborn, he knows that. he’s so stubborn he barely flinches when he makes to stand, pain blowing up behind his eyes as he steps faintly. yoongi’s hands hover about him, not touching, as he stands up, too. “i’ll win, i told you i would.” for a moment, they don’t say anything else, but yoongi follows him wordlessly towards the bleachers, and he’s brought bandages, and so they silently wrap jungkook’s foot with it, as tight as possible, pain relief patches underneath. yoongi works slowly, carefully, adjusting the bandages, and he looks irrevocably pained himself. “it’s not your fault,” jungkook offers, gently. the pain is a numbing feeling now, warming his skin. yoongi ties his shoelaces, then sits beside him. jungkook stares. “it’s not hyung’s fault.”

“it’s not fair if you’re hurt,” yoongi breathes out, sounding tired. “we can talk to the committee, they can postpone it—”

“tokyo is next year,” jungkook reaches to hold yoongi’s hand, pressing on his fingers. “we can’t.” yoongi makes a noite, something that sounds upset. “i’m going to be fine, it’s a small injury.”

“— i won’t go easy on you tomorrow, if you choose to go through with it,” yoongi turns to look at him. jungkook nods. “i won’t go easy in the slightest.”

“i know,” jungkook smiles at him, their fingers laced together. “you wouldn’t be sunbae min yoongi if you did.”

despite his obviously bothered demeanor, yoongi breaks into a small smile. jungkook doesn’t get a chance to enjoy it, as people come in, his coach amongst them, and yoongi lets go of his hand quickly. jungkook stands, and the pain on the heel of his foot is thwarting and sharp. he swallows, waving at yoongi before walking towards his coach, forcing his body not to limp. practice, from then on, is just a flash of red and pain. the drills are long and harsh, and jungkook’s slower than usual. he knows yoongi’s looking at him from across the gymnasium, so he stands straighter, ignoring the throb that makes his leg weak, advancing on his attack. “you’re too stiff,” his coach tells him, at some point, and at least his mask hides jungkook’s hurt expression as he bites down his lip, trying not to groan. “maybe take a rest for an hour,” he continues. jungkook nods.

“yes, coach.”

the single hour goes by too fast. jungkook takes another ibuprofen, and falls asleep on the bleachers. being shaken awake isn’t good, his whole body hurts. he’s sure he’s running a fever by the time practice ends, late at night, too many hours of slow torture for his ankle to handle. he ignores yoongi completely, wanting nothing but a bath, an ice bucket to shove his foot in it. taehyung calls him, but that gets ignored, too. jungkook takes a taxi back to the hotel, and the walk to his room is rather harrowing. he sits on his bathtub, clothes and all, feeling the hot water fill it up. removing the bandages shows a level of purple and red that isn’t good. the muscles underneath his skin are swollen, twice the size of his other leg. it’s awful. the hot water at least appeases the pain, and jungkook soaks in it for a while, breathing steadily. he can’t fence like this, but he has to. there’s too much at stake, and his pride is harsher than the pain. jungkook wants to win, he’s wanted to win for the whole two years he’s spent preparing. he sighs, finally removing his clothes, dropping them in a soggy, soaked mess by the tub. when he finally gets back to the room, he hears the faint knocks on the door. 

yoongi’s holding a silver bucket of ice on his arms, and a plastic bag that smells like samgyeopsal. they look at each other, for a moment or two, before jungkook lets him in. “we shouldn’t see each other,” jungkook comments, following, limping, towards the desk. yoongi makes him sit in the armchair.

“we’re not getting married, we’re fencing ,” yoongi huffs, eyeing jungkook’s foot before starting to get some of the ice in the plastic bag. jungkook groans softly when it gets pressed to his skin. “don’t move for as long as i’m here.” jungkook nods, watching as yoongi opens containers of take out, giving him chopsticks, offering him a portion. they eat in silence. jungkook feels guilty. yoongi probably does so, too. the ice feels good. it takes away the burning. 

“thank you for the food,” he mumbles, looking up at yoongi. he’s still standing, his back against the desk. 

“it’s just take out, it’s nothing,” yoongi says, voice low and steady. “you should eat well before tomorrow.” he looks over to jungkook, then sighs heavily. “i’ll get you a shirt.” jungkook smiles at his food as yoongi goes through his suitcase, pulling out a black shirt, gesturing towards jungkook to put it on. he isn’t wearing pants, the white towel covering until his knees, but that doesn’t seem to bother yoongi that much. “you can still pull out,” yoongi offers after a moment. jungkook swallows, sauce getting in the corner of his lips. “we can still talk to the committee—”

“i want to go to tokyo,” jungkook says over yoongi’s sentence. “i worked a lot to get there, maybe more than you,” and he knows he’s being unfair, but yoongi has had far more opportunities than jungkook has had, and that will always be something picking at the back of his mind. “i’m good enough, i’ve won enough competitions,” he puts the container on the desk, leaving it unfinished. “i won’t give up now, it’s only a strained ankle.”

“it isn’t giving up, it’s just—”

“ sunbae ,” jungkook raises his tone just a little. it’s enough to make yoongi stop talking, looking away, obviously bothered by his slight coarseness. when he talks again, it’s much softer: “promise me you will fence me tomorrow.”

“— i told you i would,” yoongi exhales, putting his food down as well. “you drive me crazy.”

jungkook can’t help but smile. “i know,” he reaches up, holding onto yoongi’s sleeve. “sleep with me.” yoongi turns to look at him, faint blush on his cheeks. “just sleep, sunbaenim.” okay, yoongi mumbles, picking up his food again, shoving it into his mouth as if to have something to do with his hands. jungkook’s smile gets wider, and he starts eating again as well. when they’re both done, yoongi piles their containers, and helps jungkook to bandage his foot, sliding pants over his legs, putting him to bed. jungkook lets him do all of those things too easily. “closer,” he mutters, when yoongi turns off the lamp, sliding under the covers next to him. “please.” yoongi complies, sliding an arm around jungkook’s waist, tugging their bodies close. in the dim lights, he can’t see yoongi’s expression. there’s only the contours of his edges as jungkook’s eyes adjust to the darkness, and the weight of his body, and his breathing close.

“tomorrow,” yoongi starts, carefully. “no matter the outcome, you’ll take care of your injury when it’s over.”

“i’ll kiss you when it’s over,” jungkook says instead, sleepy but cheeky enough. “on the piste, i don’t care.”

“no bodily contact on the piste, little one,” yoongi seems to yawn, and jungkook sucks in his breath when he feels yoongi’s lips on the side of his neck. “ corps-à-corps n’est pas autorisé ,” the kisses follow the words in french, and jungkook hums, pleased, warm. he brings yoongi closer, muttering something about liking when yoongi speaks french, and yoongi seems to huff, amused, but he lets jungkook kiss him nonetheless. “we should sleep,” he says after a while, against his mouth, and jungkook almost doesn’t feel the throb of pain on his ankle, hot somewhere else. “it’s a long day tomorrow.”

“okay,” jungkook agrees, blinking lazily. “i won’t go easy on you, either,” he says, after a heartbeat. “just so you know.”

“i would not expect you to, jungkook.” they adjust themselves to fit together, eyes closing, breathing slowing down. “i’ll let you kiss me if i win,” and jungkook chuckles, noticing that yoongi says if and not when, because maybe, just maybe, they’re finally equals in yoongi’s point of view, on the piste, where it matters. 

“— i guess you'll have to wait a long time, then.”

Chapter Text

yoongi moves first, like he often does on the piste. his hair is between jungkook’s fingers, soft and dark, and jungkook tugs at it, not truly gently, but needy, his free hand pressing against the small of yoongi’s back. they’re slightly sweaty as they’d be in practice, jungkook feels his forehead damp, and he raises his head from the pillow, clashing their teeth together, moaning against the softness of yoongi’s lips. he tastes like all the body parts he’s explored, and jungkook feels all of it on the heat of his tongue. yoongi smiles, biting on his lip before pulling back, and he moves faster, and jungkook jerks, a spasm of pleasure shooting up his spine. he presses his eyes closed, letting yoongi set the rhythm he likes, the fast slapping of limbs, and jungkook only breathes out heavily, small gasps loose on his throat. he coils when he feels the cold tip of a sword on his neck. yoongi holds it, and the tip jabs under jungkook’s chin, pressing against his adam’s apple, making him gag. the arch of the sabre is pretty. yoongi stops moving. “sunbae,” jungkook whimpers, aroused and confused all at once, blinking.

“i’m going to hurt you some more,” yoongi says, but it doesn’t sound much like him. jungkook’s eyes widen, and he opens his mouth, heart racing. “you get it, right,” yoongi huffs. “you’re broken,” a shrug follows. “i can fence alone.”

sunbae —

the room is still dark when jungkook sits up on the bed, the beating of his heart so loud he hears it all about him, deafening. he’s drenched in sweat. for a moment, jungkook thinks he can feel it, the tip of yoongi’s sabre, hurting him. for a moment, he thinks he can still feel their skin together. jungkook swallows heavily, forcing his lungs to exhale, releasing the grip on the sheets. he’s hot, too hot. yoongi’s asleep still, curled into himself, hair tousled, expression so peaceful he doesn’t look like the cutting image of his dream self. jungkook blushes vividly. his alarm clock goes off a minute later, and he flinches, startled. at that, finally, yoongi stirs. it’s ten to six. “— you’re awake,” the mumbled sentence follows softly, voice so different than the one jungkook still hears in his mind. he opens his eyes just as jungkook turns to fully look at him. “you don’t look okay.”

“i had a— bad dream,” his words are small. yoongi stares at him pointedly before sighing and tugging jungkook back down, raising himself just enough to hug, nose touching the side of jungkook’s jaw, lips following a moment later. jungkook lets him be cuddled, enjoying the feel of yoongi’s body around him. 

“was i in it?” yoongi asks, almost gently. jungkook only nods. they’re quiet for a few minutes, yoongi barely mouthing soft kisses on the side of jungkook’s neck, making him shiver with touch of tongue or teeth, eyes closing. then he pulls back the slightest. jungkook turns his head, looking at him. yoongi’s pretty shaped eyes are still puffy, some faint purple rings under them. they stare at each other. “is your ankle hurting?”

yes , he needs to say. the pain is strange, as if he’s being continuously stabbed with a blunt knife that cuts skin nonetheless. it’s a constant, dull throbbing. his muscles are rigid, up his leg. it isn’t good. still, jungkook can’t bring himself to say it, can’t bring himself to be honest. “no, i think the ice helped,” he lies instead. “you’re always taking care of me.”

“you’re distracting if you’re hurt,” yoongi presses his lips together, and jungkook likes the way he says it and the way his cheeks grow redder as he does. it makes him smile, too fond. “it bothers me.”

“because you like me,” jungkook leans closer, touching their noses together. the nightmare is a blur in his mind, now. real life min yoongi and his nightshade hair is much softer, much tender, no matter his switchblade stare on the piste. 

“yes,” yoongi breathes out. jungkook’s heart leaps, summer salting inside his chest rather drunkenly. “i like you.” jungkook’s still smiling to widely when yoongi kisses him on the corner of his mouth. “— but i need to go back to my room. coach is coming over at nine and i want to sleep.”

“you were sleeping just now,” jungkook mutters against yoongi’s mouth, searching for his tongue. they kiss languidly, between words, between breaths. jungkook likes the way yoongi grabs about him, like the way he tastes. 

“i won’t be able to go back to sleep if i stay with you,” yoongi’s deadpan sort of comment makes jungkook giggle, kissing him a bit harder. 

“hyung,” jungkook calls softly a moment later, near yoongi’s ear, hand snaking under the hem of yoongi’s pants. “it wasn’t entirely a bad dream— some of it was good.” yoongi stills slightly. “i could show you—“

“ yah, hands ,” yoongi snaps sternly, making jungkook giggle again, but he retreats, kissing yoongi’s exposed shoulder instead. jungkook pulls back, allowing yoongi to see how flushed he is, how his pupils are wildly blown with the imagery in his head. “later— after,” yoongi licks his lips. “when it’s over.”

the faint promise of sleeping together after the competition is finally over is just as sheer as the promise of talking about their feelings and deciding what they want to be to each other. jungkook fears those moments more than he fears the piste, maybe more than he fears losing. he’s come to terms with the idea that he partially wants yoongi to win— but whatever the outcome is, one of them will hurt. sex won’t fix it, or make it less obvious. it might even hurt deeper. “we should just talk— when it’s over,” jungkook offers, earnestly, voice small. “i think we’ll have a lot to talk about.” yoongi seems to study his expression, his eyebrows lifting just the slightest. in the slightly darkened, grayish morning hues that colour the bedroom, he looks too stunning to be real.

“i want to tell you a lot of things,” it’s a sentence jungkook didn’t expect to hear. his heart picks up a steady space, stumbling every other beat. me too , he mutters, breath ragged as yoongi reaches out, pushing jungkook’s hair out of the way, behind his ear. “jungkook,” their eyes meet. “i need to to back to my room.”

“— okay.”

it takes a lot of effort to stand, jungkook notices. he swallows the sour tasting pain, following yoongi to the door. he’s probably pale, his blood pressure weak as pain flares up his leg, but yoongi doesn’t seem to notice, not in the weak light that has started to creep in from behind the curtains. yoongi opens the door. jungkook grabs about him before he can properly leave, closing the door again as yoongi’s pushed against it, and they both sigh into the kiss. jungkook doesn’t want to let go. he winces when he moves, and so he pulls back fast before yoongi can notice. “i’ll see you before the bout,” yoongi tells him, lips a bit swollen, reddish. jungkook nods. “rest a bit longer.”

and then he’s gone. jungkook lets out a pained groan as soon as he tries to move back to the bed. he has to half-limp the rest of the way. it’s a quick removal of the tight bandages, and jungkook assesses the damage, prodding softly on the purple skin. it hurts and it’s all swollen. fencing requires good footwork. his heel feels like it’s being skinned when he touches it. jungkook exhales heavily, hiding his face on his palms. it isn’t going to be easy winning. he probably won’t. he shakes his head, then, pushing the thoughts away. he can’t lose. he can’t . jungkook wraps his ankle again, wincing at every firmer touch over damage, until it is hidden away. falling back asleep isn’t that much of a problem. he finds his eyes too heavy, his body too achy, much like his heart. jungkook stares at the pillow where yoongi was just minutes ago. if competitiveness was coloured something, jungkook reckons it'd look like the shades of night sky raven on min yoongi's hair— he thought that before. there’s only a few more hours of it, of the constant need to beat each other, to prove better, to be better. jungkook isn’t sure what they’ll be without it.

when his eyes open again, it’s near eleven. his coach has called twice. jungkook sighs. i’ll meet you at practice, i overslept , hyung , he texts him, apologising. the bout is in eight hours. there’s enough time. he feels rested, at least. he’ll look less as if he’s in pain if he’s rested. maybe. hopefully. his phone buzzes. taehyung’s message is short. i’m at the lobby . he is, indeed, when jungkook comes down some twenty minutes later, looking rather different from the businessmen and foreign tourists that seem to populate the area around the bar. “i thought i’d walk you to practice,” taehyung smiles at him, standing up. he looks about jungkook’s, frowning. “you look strange.”

“i’m not strange, just nervous,” jungkook shrugs. not limping is hard, so jungkook walks slow, almost too slow, and hopes taehyung reads that as just his nerves acting up. 

“ah,” taehyung pats his back. “i saw your enemy leaving with his coach when i arrived.” jungkook blushes the slightest. taehyung doesn’t know they’ve kissed, doesn’t know they’ve— done things, said things. he wants to keep it a secret for now. it’s better that way. “have you talked to him again after you—” told him how you felt, the quietness completes his sentence. outside, the air is still crisp and cold and it makes jungkook’s eyes water with the breeze. he shakes his head negatively. “he’ll be difficult to win.”

“i know,” jungkook swallows. he steps with his heel, and pain spreads out. taehyung is looking at him, so jungkook forces himself not to react too openly. “i’ll win, hyung, i told you i would.”

“you look a bit pale,” the comment is soft. taehyung sighs. “come on, let’s get food first.” jungkook only nods, stomach empty. he does feel weak, but it’s possibly the result of shutting down his pain, ignoring it. when taehyung speaks again, it’s rather quietly: “— do you mind if namjoon hyung joins us?” jungkook looks at him, raising his eyebrows. there’s just a slight blush on taehyung’s face. “i was going to meet him after dropping you off, but—”

“i don’t mind, hyung,” and he doesn’t, really. jungkook grins, elbowing taehyung’s side playfully. “ advantages, ” he says, reminding taehyung of their early conversations in the beginning of the competition. taehyung pushes him away, chuckling. 

namjoon is an advantage, in some ways, maybe. he knows yoongi from an early age, have seen his style of fencing change over the years, has beat him in the same competition before. namjoon is an excellent fencer. it doesn’t look like it, from his calm, temperate personality outside of the piste. jungkook remembers watching him at the london olympics, though. remembers how he sliced through russia’s defense in neat, careful movements. whereas yoongi is a dancer, namjoon is a chess player. he’s already at the small noodle shop they met the other time when taehyung and jungkook arrive, a nice dark trenchcoat keeping the chair next to him occupied. taehyung takes it, and jungkook watches as he winks down at namjoon before sitting down next to him. “i thought you’d be practicing since first light,” namjoon comments, ears a bit pink, clearing his throat.

“no,” jungkook shrugs. “coach wanted me rested before we do drills and go over a few of— sunbae’s performances,” he sniffs, grabbing about the menu even though he barely sees the words, eyes unfocused. “then it’s only strategics and prep.”

“my favourite part,” namjoon smiles at him. they’re silent for a bit, choosing their dishes. when the waitress goes away with their menus and orders, namjoon continues: “what’s your take on hyung’s performance?”

somehow jungkook doesn’t think of the piste, but of the bed in their shared hotel room, the wrinkled white sheets, the smell left on them, yoongi’s slight panting against him, the feel of him, the warmth of his mouth. jungkook coughs, choking on spit, forcing down a glass of water, flustered. taehyung eyes him strangely. he tries not to look at any of them. “he’s still better than me,” jungkook huffs. “he does something, he— moves certain ways i can’t seem to foresee.” namjoon hums, nodding.

“i think he might be better than me these days,” he offers, shrugging. “i think he might have been better than me when i won.” jungkook lifts his eyes, finding namjoon’s expression, slightly surprised. “it’s possible to be better and still lose, you know.”

“— did he let you win?” some sort of bad taste fills up jungkook’s mouth. he hasn’t seen that bout, at the time he was just a junior fencer, too many miles away to travel to seoul to watch a competition. 

“ hyung? ” namjoon’s eyebrows raise in mockery. “no, he would never do such a thing, he likes winning too much.” then how — jungkook starts, confused. “his achilles heel was that he made me think i could.” jungkook’s mouth closes. he thinks of yoongi’s way of pushing him away, of keeping him at a distance for as long as he could, and he thinks of the way yoongi challenges him and gives in to him, his words, you’re a good fencer, you will win tomorrow, you need to get to the finals . “he believed in me, more than i did, maybe,” namjoon chuckles. “and then on the piste i wanted to prove him right.”

“make him proud,” jungkook voices, his own feelings overflowing in a torrent of colours inside him. it’s an overkill, and it’s suffocating. he might win because he wants to make yoongi proud— and that will hurt him, too.  namjoon stops talking, his gaze steady on him. then he nods, smiling. “i understand.”

“yeah, i had thought you would.” namjoon’s expression is unreadable, but jungkook’s still blushing, thinking he let out a lot of it, not knowing what taehyung might have shared, either. “he will come out with daggers, but he’s given you some of his own, too,” jungkook nods again, blinking the warmth sensation inside him. yoongi likes him . he likes him enough to enable jungkook to win. “you just have to stab him right.”

“you sound like you want jungkook to win,” taehyung comments, chewing on his food. namjoon smiles, turning to look at taehyung too fondly.

“don’t get me wrong, jungkook’s a fine fencer,” and he turns to jungkook again, smile still in place. “you are.” jungkook mutters thanks, sunbae , stuffing his mouth to avoid speaking. “but hyung deserves the spot, too. he’s fought hard for it,” a pause. “he likes you, though. i don’t think he’s ever liked anyone like that before.” jungkook stops, strings of noodles against his chin, blinking at his bowl. his heart beats too fast. he forces himself to swallow, ears hot. “so i’m not placing any bets.”

“he doesn’t,” jungkook tries, wiping his mouth. “it’s not like that— it’s—”

“romeo and juliet,” taehyung offers, and namjoon agrees, nodding. “in fair seoul where we lay our scene.”

“ hyung ,” jungkook complains, but he can’t help but smile. “i,” he speaks softly. the smile doesn’t leave his face, but he hides it, touching his nose, scratching skin that doesn’t itch. “i like him, too.”

“you’re easier to read,” namjoon says, smirking, and jungkook chuckles. “that goes for the piste, too,” he adds. “just a heads up.”

“— thanks.”

yoongi isn’t at the gymnasium when jungkook walks in later, watching some of the staff prepare the piste for the last bout. is the same raised one he stepped out of, but coloured red now, lines white. there’s just one other practice piste, which means yoongi won’t come in anytime soon. jungkook imagines him at the private club he goes to, remembers how yoongi looked against that mirror. then he stops thinking altogether. “why are you limping?”

the voice of his coach startles him, and jungkook blinks, looking at him, not noticing how he’s been walking. his mind races with an array of excuses, and he gestures vaguely. “there’s something in my shoe, i think, i don’t know,” he blurts out, obviously nervous. coach’s eyebrows come close, one of them arching. “i’m going to get dressed,” jungkook makes a point of walking straight, not allowing himself to flinch, his foot burning. it feels less hindering after he’s taken a painkiller, and he manages to escape the first drills, more interested in watching yoongi’s past performances. there’s only a few recorded officially, as most regional championships aren’t. the first video is from last year’s asian fencing championship, in thailand, when yoongi came in second in men’s sabre. the camera focuses on him when he steps onto the piste, mask pushed back from his face, his fringe raises with it, only a few strands of dark hair over his eyes. jungkook feels his mouth dry as his eyes linger on the way the uniform wraps about yoongi’s figure. he sighs,  forcing himself to remember yoongi has had four years over him to improve his technique, to accumulate points, to become the fourth best fencer in the AFC last year. he should be focusing on that instead of the way his legs look. still, and jungkook swallows, it’s difficult . “is he up against oh sanguk sunbaenim?”

“this round, yes, he’ll lose,” his coach replies, his tablet already full of annotations on yoongi. “we’re only watching the ones he lost,” jungkook frowns. “his mistakes are more important.” 

jungkook presses his lips closed for a moment. “i suppose you’re right, hyung.” he doesn’t say he’d really like to watch yoongi win, too, watch how he celebrates, if he’s always so stoic with it, so collected. maybe he’ll see it live later. “what’s his position now in the FIE?” last time jungkook checked, yoongi was sitting at number eight in the world. 

“he’s ranked up since last year, he’s fifth,” jungkook watches, absorbed, as yoongi steps fast towards sanguk. he misses it, though, losing his right of way too fast. “he’s ranked number two nationally, though, but i’m sure you know that.”

“yeah, i do,” jungkook sighs. right now, nationally, he’s just two positions under yoongi. if he wins later that night, the points will probably surpass his, and jungkook would bump him down to third. it isn’t a bad perspective. in the screen, yoongi scrambles after a whipover, and jungkook imagines him cursing under his mask. “he trains a lot with kim namjoon sunbae at a club here in seoul.”

“yes, but they have vastly different styles,” his coach presses a key on the keyboard and the video speeds up. he makes some more annotation as it goes on. “and namjoon has fallen in rankings after hurting his wrist.” they watch it in silence for a while, then, as yoongi slowly loses his composure in front of certain defeat, movements messy and nervous. “you need to make him lose it like that,” and jungkook looks away, blushing again. it’s impossible not to. “if you wall him, he might crack.”

“i can do that,” and maybe jungkook thinks in too many ways he can do that but not all of them are on the piste. he needs to stop thinking. he’ll lose if he keeps this up. his coach pats his back when the bout is over, closing the laptop before jungkook can see yoongi’s face. let’s move to the piste, let’s follow up his movements . they drill for a while, reenacting the match, finding the breeches in their play, and jungkook ignores the pain on his ankle, how jarring it is after a while. too many hours of drills and bout-watching follow. they watch yoongi lose so many times jungkook almost believes he isn’t that good to start with— only to have his ass handed to him on the piste when he fails to find the patterns in his movements. yoongi’s a dancer, namjoon a chess player, but jungkook— jungkook is just a mess of a lot of feelings and a injury that keeps on dragging him about. his coach doesn’t completely notice. he says his footwork is scrambling, and jungkook blames his nerves, and coach reminds him that’s what took yoongi down, to which jungkook replies only with an annoyed, childish groan. they order food when it’s three hours before the match, and he finally gets to sit down at the bleachers, breathing heavily, body sore. they’re done. they’re done with parrys and ripostes, they’re done with repetition drills. after this, there’s only the piste and yoongi to beat. jungkook’s heart does an achy sort of thing. he wipes his sweaty hands on a towel before fumbling around his bag for his phone.     

i know i kissed you just a few hours ago but i want to do it again . the words are typed quickly, before jungkook gives up on sending them. it’s bothersome, the feeling of missing yoongi. the reply comes quickly, and it startles him. he’d thought yoongi would be at practice, phone turned off. it’s a mutual feeling . jungkook huffs, smiling, heart racing, and he lets out a small noise, too overjoyed. he thinks of ways to reply, ways to leave yoongi flustered on the other side of the phone, but his phone buzzes again, and jungkook looks down at the new message: i’m already on my way there .  jungkook’s smile widens. “i’m going to take a shower,” he tells his coach, quickly finishing his food, mouth still full as he grabs his bag, walking over to the locker room. the water is turned to cold, because jungkook needs his body to calm down the slightest, or he won’t be able to fence well. his foot will be a problem, he doesn’t need other parts of him acting up. jungkook feels as a crossroads as he stands in the cubicle, cold water washing down on him. he shivers, lips trembling a bit. he didn’t think it’d come to this— to choosing a winner instead of just fencing for it. jungkook wants to know if yoongi feels as troubled, as torn. probably not. yoongi wants to win. he’s said so too many times before. jungkook is the weak link in their dynamic. he closes his eyes, sighing. 

“you’ll get sick again,” yoongi’s voice comes from behind him, and jungkook startles, starting to turn as yoongi steps in, reaching out to turn on the hot water instead. “don’t,” he says, softly, holding jungkook’s waist, then, keeping him still. “just stay like this for a while.” his hands slide tentatively over jungkook’s stomach, bringing him closer, and jungkook feels himself tremble as yoongi touches his cheek to jungkook’s shoulder. “i forget you’re tall.”

“hyung, someone—”

“no one will come in,” yoongi mumbles. “i just wanted to make sure you were alright.”

“i’m — alright.” jungkook’s heart says otherwise, beating in a rapid sort of scramble, leaving him breathless. “i didn’t hear you come in.”

“i’m light on my feet.” that makes jungkook huff, smiling at the tiles, wanting to turn and kiss yoongi all over. “how’s your injury?”

“painful,” he replies, not wanting to lie. it doesn’t matter now, they’ll have to fence. injury or no injury. “i’m fine.”

“okay,” yoongi seems to sighs, but the noise of water is louder. jungkook moves, then, freeing himself from yoongi’s hold, turning to look at him fully, but— he stops, eyes widening to round spheres. yoongi smiles a little, an embarrassed thing that curls his lips upwards. his nose is red. “well — do you like it?”

yoongi’s hair is— bleached, white, so light it almost catches lilac shades on the semi-wet wisps. jungkook raises a wet hand to touch it, and it’s a bit coarser than before, but still soft near the roots. it’s cut, too, buzzed at the back and sides. jungkook swallows. the faint tones of his skin seemed to have changed with the lighter colour, and yoongi looks healthy and good and pretty, just as pretty as before, maybe just less soft. jungkook realises he’s been staring for too long. “i like it,” he mutters, too enthralled with the way yoongi looks, hands on the sides of his face. “can i kiss you?”

“yeah,” and he brings yoongi closer, then, until they’re both under the stream of water, and yoongi mumbles complaints between his lips, but jungkook just smiles, kissing them away. “just kissing for now, alright,” yoongi reminds him when jungkook presses their bodies together. “we leave everything else for later.”

“okay,” jungkook nods, pulling back the slightest, lips dripping water. yoongi’s hair is darker when wet, but not the midnight shade from before. “you look good,” he can’t help but say. “different.” 

“i thought you wouldn’t like it,” yoongi comments, clearing his throat, going for the towels. they shut off the shower. the locker room is still empty, but they can hear the noises outside, the people filling up the bleachers for the last bout of the competition. jungkook feels thrill running down his spine. the thrill may also come from watching yoongi a few steps away, as he bends to get his stuff out of the duffle bag, the fine lights of his body only partially hidden by his towel. jungkook tries and look away, but then he notices the colours on his clothes.

“you’ve gotten a black uniform,” his surprised comment makes yoongi look up. “ sunbae. ” jungkook groans, pinching his nose bridge, aware he’s too naked and that yoongi is staring. “i won’t be able to fence you if you look like that.” 

“you will,” yoongi seems to laugh weakly. “come here, i’ll bandage your foot.” jungkook hides behind towels as yoongi kneels in front of him, quietly aiding to his swollen foot, his fingers warm and caring. jungkook watches him, unable to look away, warm all over the place. he sucks in a breath when yoongi finishes, leaning in to place a kiss on his thigh. hyung , he startles, hands hovering over yoongi’s damp hair. “sorry,” yoongi shakes his head, blushing, standing up and starting to move away. “i shouldn’t have.” jungkook grabs about him, bringing him closer, leaning in to kiss over his hipbone. yoongi stills before grabbing the sides of jungkook’s head, facing him upward. they stare at each other. they’re both obviously breathless.

“let’s get dressed,” jungkook offers, swallowing hard. his voice comes out breathy. yoongi nods, letting him go. they slowly get dressed in opposite sides of the bench, forcing their eyes to look some other way, ignoring the cheers outside, the slight tension that seems to crack particles in the air. jungkook wants to spar yoongi as much as he wants to do all the other things that are clogging his mind with mud and slight embarrassment. when someone comes in, one of the assistant trainers, they both startle, taking steps away from each other even though they’re not that close. “your coaches are needing you soon,” the assistant says, gesturing over his shoulder. 

“yeah, we’re coming,” yoongi replies, trying not to sound so flustered. 

they leave plastrons and jackets behind, tossing over their uniforms their regular sweats, and jungkook touches over yoongi’s wrists just barely when they leave the locker room. they won’t talk anymore, not until later. their equipment is brought over to different ends of the piste. jungkook feels suddenly too anxious. he looks over his shoulder towards the bleachers, but his eyes can’t focus on anything or anyone. he knows his parents are there, and taehyung, and possibly namjoon. or maybe namjoon is over at yoongi’s side, with him, giving him suggestions on how to beat jungkook. jungkook presses his lips closed. “get your lamé checked,” coach says, and jungkook stirs into movement, giving his lamé and mask to the trainer assistant. it joins yoongi’s black ones as they check the conductive wires. “how are you feeling?”

“like i’m going to be sick,” jungkook replies before he can manage to stop himself, and then he meets coach’s eyes, blinking. “other than that, i’m fine.” 

“you’ll win,” coach says, a heavy hand on jungkook’s shoulder. “he’ll attack mercilessly, you need to parry and riposte as strongly as you can,” jungkook nods. “you’re bigger than he is, so use your counter-attack to push him into a corner without being able to evade.” somehow that sounds a lot simpler than it is going to be. with his injury, jungkook only hopes to be as fast as yoongi to be able to start a parry. he knows he’ll have to work defensively as much as he can, and that defense isn’t his forte. yoongi knows that, too. jungkook steals a glance to the other side of the piste, where yoongi’s already stretching. he probably didn’t practice at all. he looks confident enough. he is confident enough. jungkook feels a bit more sickly. his coach is still talking, and jungkook just mildly pays attention to it, nervous all over: “—try and keep your cross-steps clean so he won’t be able to score unless he’s close enough.”         

“i’ll do my best, hyung.”

“i know,” there’s a pause. “now go warm up, it will start soon enough.”

for about thirty minutes, jungkook pushes himself to forget the noise around him, the white lights that illuminate the piste as if it’s a stage, the quiet humming of the crowd that has started to feel restless in the wait. disconnecting his mind had been easier before, in the grand prix, in other competitions, because in none of them he could see min yoongi. back then, there was distance between them, distance and just the sense of a mindless crush, nothing further. now he can’t focus enough because he knows what he’ll see if he opens his eyes. he does, anyway, and flinches the slightest, yoongi too close, hands on his pockets. he smiles down at jungkook. “we’re supposed to take pictures together.”

“— are we?”

“yes,” and yoongi offers him a hand. he looks good in his black uniform. jungkook can’t stop thinking about it. yoongi’s hand is warm, and he pulls jungkook up too easily. “how’s your foot?” the repeated question is said low and careful. a photographer circles them. jungkook shrugs. he feels yoongi’s hand slide down his back, resting on his hip, fingers barely pressing. “— can i hold it here?” 

“yeah,” and jungkook tries and smiles at the photographer, the flash exploding into phosphenes in front of his eyes. the moment the camera is lowered, though, yoongi retreats his hand, taking a step away. jungkook still finds it strange to look at him and his new colours. yoongi’s expression isn’t telling, and jungkook doesn’t know if he can ask him how he feels. instead, he offers yoongi his hand. “good luck, sunbaenim.”

for a moment, yoongi doesn’t move. then he takes jungkook’s hand in his, and his skin is cold to the touch, his palm clammy. you’re nervous , jungkook thinks, eyebrows raising the slightest. yoongi nods, as if he can hear it out loud. “good luck, jungkook-ssi.” jungkook can’t help but tug a little on yoongi’s hand when he tries to let it go, but he sees the warnings flaring in yoongi’s pupils, and he knows there’s too many people looking at them. jungkook watches yoongi go with a hole in his chest. 

“— are you friends again?” namjoon’s voice startles him, and jungkook turns, feeling like a kid who’s being caught doing something bad. he doesn’t answer, mouth dry. “that was a very longing stare, just there.”

“ sunbae ,” jungkook says, exasperated, and it makes namjoon chuckle. 

“i just came to say good luck,” namjoon holds his hands up in apology, but jungkook’s face is still burning. “taehyungie can’t come closer but he asked me to tell you you’ll win.” taehyung is somewhere in the bleachers, but jungkook can’t see straight with all the lights on his face. he smiles a little, though, waving vaguely in different directions, hoping he sees. “i know you’ll put up a good fight.”

“i’ll win,” jungkook replies shortly, but he knows it comes out as uncertain as he feels like it. if namjoon notices, he pretends he didn’t. “would you be able to win if you were fencing someone you,” a pause. jungkook looks around, heart beating awkwardly. “— someone you like?”

“no,” namjoon replies sincerely, shaking his head a little. “i would let them win involuntarily.” jungkook breathes out, heart rattled. “but you’re not me.” 

“i will win,” he forces the words out again. they sound more sure of themselves now. “i want to win.”

“it’s bound to be a great bout, then.”

he doesn’t properly say anything else, as a news reporter comes closer, and namjoon agrees to a small statement, polite smile still in place. jungkook goes back to stretching, growing more nervous as the minutes seem to take hours to go by, the pain in his foot increasing slowly but sharply, making him flinch every other time. it’s tiring to not step with his heel, it makes his leg muscles burn. jungkook’s too focused on numbing the pain when his coach touches his shoulder, voice rather stern. it’s time, jungkook . “okay,” he mutters, and suddenly his breathing is ragged and his body’s shivering. his blood pressure drops the slightest. jungkook forces himself to walk towards the end of the piste, joining yoongi and the referee. trainers help the both of them into their lamés and their masks are returned. “don’t go easy on me,” he asks, barely a whisper, as he stands besides yoongi.

“i won’t,” yoongi replies, and then he sighs. jungkook doesn’t know what else to say. he’s already losing, he thinks, but whatever words that were finding their way out of his mouth get swallowed— jungkook stills, sucking in his breath, feeling yoongi touch his fingers so softly it is barely a thing. jungkook blushes furiously, looking down at their feet. there are so many things going on around them that no one notices. he closes his eyes before hooking his pinky with yoongi’s. the intimate, reckless gesture leaves him breathless, but jungkook feels warm, warm all over, so warm he could lit up the olympic pire if asked. yoongi doesn’t let go. jungkook smiles at the ground.  “don’t go easy on me either.”

“promise,” jungkook nods, and he dares a glance to yoongi, his profile, his eyes, the way his red ears contrast to his hair now. they let go. yoongi glances back at him, finding his eyes, just a thing of a stolen kind of look. then someone announces the bout will start. 

there’s sound and a booming voice that reverberates around the gymnasium, but jungkook listens to everything as if he’s underwater, every noise muted by the sound of his own heartbeat in his ears. yoongi steps onto the piste first, the referee follows, and jungkook staggers just a second before joining. the lights are hot against his face. he feels himself sweat and shiver at the same time. yoongi’s name is announced first, and he steps forward to salute the cheering crowd. jungkook stares at a fixed point ahead, wondering if he’s smiling, wandering if he looks confident or if his face is the impossible blank of the bouts before. the referee greets the crowd next, bowing. jungkook almost misses his own name getting called, but it works to unclog his ears and suddenly jungkook can hear everything and everyone and the call of the bleachers is enough to make him smile, stepping forward, offering his sword in a flair, bowing. he’s still smiling when the referee turns to greet them both, and he’s still smiling when he has to greet yoongi. yoongi’s face is all pale, his lips look bitten. jungkook glances down at them for a moment, and yoongi seems to notice because when they start turning away from each other there’s colour about him again. then it’s the end of the piste, it’s looking at yoongi as they get corded, it is being stared back. they’re told to get closer to test their wires again. jungkook limps before remembering to pick his feet, and he fakes a stretch. they touch swords slightly, then poke each other. both of their masks flash green. the referee gives them the okay.

when jungkook gets back to his starting line, the silence isn’t just inside his head. the crowd has grown quiet, so quiet jungkook’s afraid his deranged, lovesick heartbeats will be heard by too many people. he pushes his mask down, swallowing. yoongi walks so silently towards his line that jungkook thinks he’s floating. “ en garde ,” they move closer. “ pret ,” jungkook holds his breath. “ —allez !”

neither moves, not within time, and the referee calls the start off. they adjust their positions again. jungkook licks his lips. you have to move first , he tells himself. but at the next allez , nothing happens again. the crowd seems to make a collective kind of noise when the referee gives them a warning. yoongi seems to shake his head, as if to remind himself of what they need to do. jungkook forces the same thoughts onto his muscles, hoping their memory will provide him with movement. for a third time, though, both of them miss the attack. “gentlemen, step close now,” the referee says, sounding mildly upset. jungkook takes off his mask, standing next to yoongi in the middle of the piste. he feels embarrassed. “i’m going to start this bout again, but if there’s no attack i’ll take this as a refusal to fence and both of you will get black carded.” jungkook blinks, mouth opening to say something. “i don’t want to hear it, you know the rules. en garde line, please.”

jungkook makes himself breathe through his nose, long breaths, calming himself down. move, even if it doesn’t work into a point , he thinks, waiting. yoongi looks too still on the other end of the meters that split them. spar with me, hyung . the gymnasium is quiet again. this time, they move. carefully, but they do, and jungkook’s the first to engage, forcing yoongi into defense. their blades touch lightly, briefly before jungkook cuts, moving into a feint, stepping fast towards yoongi. he groans as his feet hurt, but his sword touches the side of yoongi’s body, and both their masks flash. he can hear yoongi’s heavy breathing behind his mask. the point is awarded to jungkook. i can win, i can win, he thinks, walking back to his end, the extension cord pulling. jungkook swallows, noticing his eyes are watery from the sheer effort of ignoring the pain on his foot. he breathes out. they start again. yoongi’s merciless this time, quick footwork taking him into a too fast flunge, and jungkook barely has the time to stagger backwards before he’s hit on the side of his arm. he can hear his coach telling him to go steady as he makes his way back to the en garde line, shaking his head. jungkook observes yoongi’s stand in front of him. let him attack, parry and riposte, let him attack, parry and riposte. it’s easier said than done. yoongi quickly falls into staggering attacks, movements fast, then slow, and jungkook tries to take on the blade, but yoongi’s derobement goes clean jungkook’s able to dodge only once before getting a point taken out of him. yoongi fists the air as his mask flashes green, and jungkook curses, dragging his hurt feet down the piste again. 

the idea of losing muddles jungkook’s disposition fast, and his injury makes him slow like a man full of stones in his pockets, sinking underwater fast. i won’t go easy on you, yoongi had said. don’t go easy on me, jungkook had asked. there’s nothing easy in the way yoongi’s moving. he’s sharp and steady and cruel in his advances, forcing jungkook to move backwards and defend, forcing him to use stronger parry, their blades clashing mid-air, metal in their ears. he manages to steal yoongi’s right of way twice, his opposition going through in a quinte, stabbing sharply at yoongi’s sides again. this time, he celebrates, the rush of hope surging around his body, warm and honey-like. they’re six-three now. there’s still a chance. the minutes once again start to feel too long. each attack and counter attack lasts seconds, the clock starting and stopping, just like jungkook’s heart. yoongi pushes off his mask, taking hair off his face, his expression focused, eyes stabbing. jungkook watches him do it, the flash of red of his ribbon the only touch of colour about him. he loses his attack too quickly, then, mind clouded by the person behind the mask. jungkook curses himself, raising a hand to ask a moment for the referee, kneeling down, touching his ankle, tired. he quickly pretends to be lacing up his sneakers. it’s starting to feel too much, the pain. yoongi is staring when jungkook stands up again, and their eyes meet. there’s a lot of worry in yoongi’s eyes. jungkook swallows, then shakes his head at him, let it, go, hyung, let it go . yoongi doesn’t, though, he raises his hand, too, kneeling the same way jungkook did, unlacing his sneakers, starting to do them again. jungkook blinks, then huffs, smiling, looking the other way, grateful for those seconds of respite. the referee asks them to stand en garde again, too soon. jungkook inhales, letting go of the air slowly through his mouth. the inside of his mask is too hot already. 

in the future, jungkook watches the last attack of the bout on his laptop screen, analysing the myriad of small things that happened, both wrong and right. there’s not a lot he recalls. the details are hazy. there’s a sinking feeling in his stomach, that’s for sure. the pain on his ankle is blaring. yoongi’s one point to win, jungkook’s missing two. he just needs to hold him back long enough. en garde , long enough. prêt , long enough. allez! , long enough. he retreats as soon as yoongi steps closer, keeping his sword ahead of him, feeling the beat of yoongi’s sword, soft at first, then rapid. he parries finally, seeing the slight curve of yoongi’s arm, finding a spot to attack, lunging forward. his vision goes red at once, pain shooting up his leg, so blunt jungkook cries out, and maybe, maybe yoongi notices, hears , maybe yoongi sees past his mask to the way jungkook’s eyes water so fast, because he lets go of his sword at once and before jungkook can understand what’s happening, before his foot can touch the floor again and hurt even worse, he’s being shoved back, falling flat on his back, sword rolling away from him and off the piste. the referee shouts something, the crowd shouts something, and jungkook breathes heavily, raising his mask, eyes too wide. yoongi raises his mask too, and his chest rises and falls in such rapid matter that it looks as if he’s been running for miles, for days . he looks panicked, pale, lip bloody probably from a bite. jungkook can’t hear the shouts of the crowd or the voice of the referee, and he doesn’t see his coach yelling and pointing to yoongi, asking for a black card. 

“hyung,” jungkook finds his voice to mutter, panic bubbling in the back of his throat, tasting like coal.

“ corps-à-corps ,” yoongi swallows hard, blinking as if to understand what just went on. his hands are shaking bad, jungkook can see. “i’m—,” he wipes his lip, looking at the blood that probably smears on skin. “i’m sorry.”

“ hyung —”    

“we ask the fencers to stay on the piste as we review this foul,” the referee says loud enough both of them hear. yoongi stirs into movement, shoulders dropping, as if only then realising the possible consequences of his actions. jungkook heart sinks. 

“please talk to me,” he asks, voice low. there’s so much noise in the gymnasium that he doesn’t think anyone can make up their words if any. 

“you were going to hurt more, i,” yoongi exhales heavily. he finally looks down at jungkook. “i didn’t think.”

“you should have,” but jungkook’s grateful somehow. he’d have put his weight on his ankle again, and it wouldn’t do him any good this time. if yoongi hadn’t pushed him, he would maybe hurt without chance of repair. yoongi moves a little, as if deciding, and then he sits down next to jungkook on the piste. jungkook adjusts himself, extending his legs next to yoongi’s, looking at him. he doesn’t know what to say. thank you, you’re stupid, i’d do the same . what comes out is: “i want to hold your hand.”

yoongi looks at him, looking startled. “— aren’t you mad at me?”

“— i don’t know,” jungkook shrugs lightly. “i don’t know yet.”

“fair,” yoongi manages to say, pale and shrinking into himself as if he’s withering. jungkook leans closer, recklessly, but the referee calls for them to stand, and they quickly comply, and yoongi grabs jungkook’s arm to help, but maybe it looks different than it is supposed to look, because someone calls him to back away. yoongi does so, looking down. he picks up his sword. jungkook can’t see past the harsh white lights that warm them up.

“we reviewed the attack and considered it to be foul play and unsportsmanlike behaviour,” the referee tells them. jungkook can hear when yoongi sucks in his breath. “a black card will be issued—”

“i’m hurt,” jungkook says right away, stepping forward, not being able to control his words. the referee raises his eyes at him. “i got hurt yesterday, sunbae was trying to help,” a quiet rush climbs the bleachers. “please review the entire bout, don’t— don’t issue a black card.”

for a minute, he thinks the referee will tell him off. but the man seems to think for a moment, then goes back to the referee stand, calling in the coaches, gathering behind the laptop to review images, maybe. jungkook sighs, looking sideways at yoongi. yoongi looks as if he’s about to be sick. they wait for over thirty minutes, keeping too still sometimes, sitting down others. they don’t talk. jungkook doesn’t know what to say. he’s angry, mildly, and worried, very, and confused, for most part. he presses an ice pack against his ankle, feeling his sock get increasingly damper. finally, the referee returns to the stand. jungkook stops breathing. “after consideration on the matters regarding this bout, we have reached a decision with the jury alongside the trainers present and this decision will go through the legislation and disciplinary committee for further evalutation,” he clears his throat. “we’re issuing a red card for fencer min yoongi for bodily contact, nonetheless the motives,” a red card . jungkook breathes out. that means yoongi loses a touch. he still wins. “fencer min yoongi also earns a second red card for irregular movements on the piste.” two touches. they’re tied . “but for favouring an opponent, despite the matters of concealed injury,” jungkook’s eyes grow in size. “we’re suspending fencer min yoongi for two months from national competitions, and all the points awarded to him during the grand prix will be removed from his rank.”

“ that’s not fair —” it isn’t jungkook who says it, but someone in the bleachers, jungkook can’t tell. his heart is pounding too loudly. 

“for fencer jeon jungkook we’re issuing a red card for dishonest fencing and his behaviour will also be reviewed by the committee.” a quietness falls around the gymnasium. jungkook sweats, despite his uncontrollable shivering. “fencer jeon jungkook has collected the most amount of points during the competition and thus will be granted the gold medal,” some sort of cheer rises around the bleachers, but even the crowd seems confused. “the awarded medal can be taken away if the committee deems it invalid.”  the referee stops for a second. “the bout is finished.”

for a moment or two, the whole gymnasium is quiet. but then sound erupts, first in slow, unsure claps, but then thundering cheers, and the flashes of phones and cameras, and jungkook blinks, feeling too exposed. his name is the only one left on the electronic board. he doesn’t know exactly what to do, but then trainers are rushing to him, and his coach, and they’re sitting him down, stripping him of his sneaker and  sock, and too many people gather around him, to the point jungkook feels suffocated. he looks around, frantically, but can’t see yoongi through the small group closed about him. yoongi isn’t anywhere, not when jungkook is helped to the locker room, not when doctors quickly patch him, not later, when he leaves, having changed into sweats, limping towards the small podium built over the piste. he recognises two other fencers, the ones with the higher ranks alongside him. none is yoongi. jungkook’s eyes keep searching about, head turning. yoongi isn’t anywhere. it’s difficult to smile. he wants to, but it doesn’t come out too well. the medal is heavy against his chest when it’s given to him. heavy and thick and real. he’s never gotten one before, and it might not last. it should have been yoongi’s. it should have been jungkook’s, if he had fenced right. photographs are taken. he mutters the words to the national anthem halfheartedly. it’s too long before everything’s done. too long of a time, too many reporters, too many prying questions, too many people to greet. his parents look mildly upset, his mother worried more than ashamed, and taehyung just looks confused and wanting to ask as much as many questions as everyone else. “i don’t feel like going nowhere,” he tells them, weakly, head down.

“you’ll come home tomorrow,” his father’s voice is slightly stern, his face in a frown. “we’ll wait for the answer from the committee, then.”

“— yeah, okay.”

jungkook sits on the border of the piste again, watching as people leave the gymnasium. many come to him, too many. at some point he’s tired of smiling. his coach approaches him last. “you should go and rest your foot,” he says, tone a lot like jungkook’s father’s. “you don’t want to make things worse.”

“i just want to stay a little longer, hyung.”

“— did he know you were injured?”

“yes,” jungkook sighs. “i don’t want to talk about it.”

“we have a long train ride tomorrow,” his coach staggers for a moment. “for all is worth, you fenced well, tonight, kid.” that makes jungkook huff, smiling a bit. he gets his hair messed up, and then his coach is leaving as well. jungkook waits a bit longer, waits until only a couple of people stay back, starting to clean up. then he stands, limping towards the bleachers, towards the small hidden spot he knows too well. yoongi’s there, still wearing his uniform, the lamé sort of hanging from his arms, loose. he’s sitting on the floor, legs extended in front of him. he doesn’t look up when jungkook stops in front of him.

“i thought you had left,” jungkook finds his voice. 

“i did, i came here,” yoongi looks up, finally. his eyes are red, maybe a bit puffed. jungkook doesn’t ask, even though he wants to. yoongi sniffs, looking about jungkook’s appearance. “you look better.”

“i’m not better,” and jungkook finally moves, going to sit besides yoongi, their bodies close, their legs touching. yoongi looks at him, still. jungkook pretends he isn’t. “sunbae shouldn’t have done it,” he swallows. “why did— why —” somehow, yoongi laughs weakly, and jungkook turns his head, glaring at him. “ hyung. ”

“you know why,” yoongi replies, quietly, smiling disappearing slowly until his lips are pressed into a line. “you know why.”

“i don’t,” jungkook presses. “i don’t know why you would—”

“you’re a problem,” a small thing of a shrug follows. jungkook halts, words going amiss. yoongi’s expression doesn’t change, his tone is still soft and slightly nonchalant. “i wasn’t thinking about anything else but you.” the pause is tense. jungkook stares. yoongi turns to him, and he exhales slowly. “i’m in love with you.”  

for a moment that drags, jungkook can’t say anything. they stare at each other. then jungkook snorts, heart missing a few dozen beats at once, and his shoulders shake when he laughs. it’s a nervous kind of laughter, from being confessed to in all the words he’s wanted to hear. it fills him up with butterflies that tickle and numb the pain on his leg. yoongi nudges him with his elbow. “i’m not worth thinking about on the piste,” jungkook offers, shaking his head, and those aren’t the words he wants to say, not in the least. yoongi huffs, smiling. “i’m not,” but yoongi reaches out, touching jungkook’s chin, turning his face towards him again, and jungkook’s words sort of become a slurred out mumble. when yoongi leans closer, jungkook closes his eyes involuntarily. “do you— really? love me?”

“yes,” there are no further explanations, no demands, just the heat of yoongi’s breath, his touch on jungkook’s skin. “i’m going to kiss you,” the sentence is quiet, it’s sweet. jungkook nods, expectant. yoongi’s lips brush against his, warm, slightly dry, slightly tasting of iron still. jungkook’s mouth parts too easily, too eager, and when yoongi finally kisses him, jungkook’s breath stutters. they kiss almost tentatively, as if they haven’t done it before, as if none wants to push the limit. yoongi pulls back too soon. he looks down between them, to the medal against jungkook’s chest. jungkook opens his eyes, finding yoongi’s darkened expression. “they’ll not overrule it, you’ll make the team,” he says, after a pause. “you’re a good fencer.”

“you should have had it,” jungkook says right away. “if i hadn’t hurt myself, you would have won.”

“— yeah, i would have,” and that makes jungkook giggle, nose scrunching. “but you put up a good fight, even hurt.” 

“i did.”

“maybe one day we’ll fence each other again,” yoongi offers. “a real bout, not just a spar.”

“i’ll win,” jungkook teases him, but yoongi only smiles, muttering a small maybe . “here, sunbae,” he lifts the medal over his head so he can pass the ribbon over both of their necks. yoongi blushes considerably. “it’s yours, too.”

“you’re cheesy, little one,” yoongi tells him, but he looks less blue in his corners. they kiss again, a bit more urgent now, and jungkook likes the way yoongi’s hand slides on his side, pressing against the fabric of his clothes, until they settle on just over his hips. jungkook pushes the lamé away, but it makes yoongi laugh against him, too tangled in his own uniform. “i’ll get dressed, we can,” he seems to like the way jungkook kisses the side of his jaw, because yoongi shivers the slightest. jungkook smiles. “we can go and get food.”

“i’d like that,” jungkook says against yoongi’s neck, and he thinks he isn’t hungry, not for food, anyway, but he just wants to be near yoongi for as long as he can. 

it’s late by the time they leave the gymnasium behind. the streets are empty, cold. they bundle together, steam coming off their mouths. the convenience store owner greets them knowingly. maybe it’s the blush on their cheeks or the way jungkook holds yoongi’s hand behind his back, jungkook doesn’t know. “do you want some—?” yoongi asks softly, head pointing towards the small collection of wines. jungkook shakes his head.

“i think i want to be sober,” he says, voice low. 

“i’ll get food, then.”

“no, i,” jungkook tugs on yoongi’s sleeve. “i’ll buy tonight. i want to,” he sniffs. yoongi looks at him, eyebrows raising. “i want to buy you dinner.” it’s hardly dinner, it’s mostly two packages of instant noodles, some slices of cheese and eggs. yoongi doesn’t complain, though, or comment on it, and he looks happy to be eating as they sit outside, braving the cold breeze together, sharing a can of coca-cola. “— were you hungry?”

“yeah,” yoongi huffs, mouth full. “thank you.” he finishes before jungkook does, cheeks flushed. jungkook smiles at him, too fond, offering the food between his chopsticks quietly. yoongi takes it, humming, pleased. he chews, sniffing. “should we talk?”

“i guess,” jungkook nods. he finishes his food, pushing the empty bowl away, wiping his mouth with a spare paper napkin before sitting back, sighing. “i’m going back home tomorrow,” he thinks it’s better if he says it at once. yoongi doesn’t seem to react. “i’ll wait for the results there.” he turns, looking at yoongi’s profile. “— are you going back to france?” yoongi shakes his head. “then—”

“i’m going to stay,” he shrugs. “i want to stay.” 

“what about,” and this time yoongi looks at him. “me?” he thinks for a second. “us?” yoongi’s eyebrows raise, but he breaks into a small smile, the corners of his lips curling in a pretty way. jungkook looks down at it, then lifts his eyes too fast.

“you, us,” yoongi leans closer to place a soft kiss on jungkook’s cheek. jungkook likes it, how tender it is. 

“i told you,” they stare at each other, their faces close. “i want to date you.” he inches forward, kissing yoongi rather tamely, their tongues barely there, their lips tasting of coca-cola and hot sauce. “then all the medals i win will be yours.” that makes yoongi laugh, and the way he does it, so openly, makes jungkook’s heart races. he seizes the opportunity to kiss yoongi more deeply, still feeling him laugh through it, joining him at some point. “don’t laugh at me, sunbae.”

“we can date,” yoongi says it, and jungkook pulls back at home, eyes wide. really? “just not on the piste, i think we can both agree that doesn’t work well for us.” he reaches forward, pushing jungkook’s hair away from his eyes. jungkook nods, i agree . “how’s your injury?”

“same, i reckon,” jungkook shrugs. “why?”

“because i thought we could spar,” there’s a pause. jungkook swallows. “if you’re not in pain, i mean—”

“they gave me enough meds, i don’t feel that much pain,” jungkook’s too eager, he knows, it sounds like it. “i can spar.” he tugs yoongi closer. “i want to spar.”

the way to the hotel is quick and silent. when they emerge from the station, both jittery and restless, jungkook halts a few steps from the entrance, holding yoongi’s sleeve. taehyung and namjoon are in front of the hotel, seemingly chatting, steam leaving their mouths in small clouds. jungkook didn’t want to have to talk to them— he didn’t want to have to talk to anyone, actually. yoongi follows his stare. for a split of a second, jungkook wants to turn away, but namjoon looks over taehyung’s shoulder, raising a hand to wave. taehyung turns, looking at them. yoongi doesn’t seem to keen on the talking part either, and jungkook pretends to lean on him for balance and not because he feels like protecting him somehow. “i was worried about you,” namjoon says as soon as they’re close, looking at yoongi. “you didn’t pick up your phone, hyung.”

“i didn’t want to talk.” yoongi’s answer is monotone. “i still don’t want to.”

“i know,” namjoon nods. “i was just worried.” his eyes turn to find jungkook’s. “congratulations.” jungkook remembers they’ll be team members, then. that they’ll train together, soon, that they’ll fence together for the next years to come. somehow, it feels odd. “i’m sure you’ll do well on the team.”

“thank you, sunbae,” jungkook bows, voice weak. he feels like namjoon will say something else, and he feels the tension of yoongi’s body against him, so he straightens his back again, pushing the words out. “we have a lot to talk about,” yoongi stills slightly. “we’re— we were hoping to be alone.”

taehyung and namjoon look at each other. taehyung huffs, amused. “we weren’t planning on staying with you, jungkook,” he shoves jungkook’s shoulder softly. “we just wanted to make sure you were okay.” jungkook scratches the back of his head, embarrassed. “is your injury taken care of?”

“yeah,” he breathes out. “i have an appointment tomorrow, back home,” taehyung nods, that’s good . “we can talk on the way to the station, hyung. i’ll check out around nine.” he looks sideways to yoongi, who’s staring at the ground. “— okay?”

“sure,” taehyung nods, and when namjoon doesn’t move, he touches his arm, tugging. “we’ll go, you look tired.” it’s an odd kind of goodbye, but both jungkook and taehyung feel the strangeness about yoongi and namjoon. if anything, they probably need to do some talking of their own. “i’ll text you.” 

yeah, that’s alright , jungkook mumbles, already maneuvering yoongi towards the entrance, bowing at the bell boys. the hotel is quiet around that time. jungkook hopes his coach isn’t somehow waiting at his door, and he’s grateful to find the corridor empty. yoongi stops moving as soon as they leave the elevator. jungkook looks back at him, puzzled. “i’m sorry about that, it was awkward,” yoongi says. 

“it’s okay,” jungkook offers, reaching out, holding yoongi’s fingers lightly. “you’ll eventually talk.”

“i suppose,” and yoongi sighs. “i’ll go to my room for a bit, i want to,” he waves vaguely. “clean up.”

a blush warms jungkook’s cheeks, and he clears his throat, nodding. they walk to opposite ends of the corridor, carrying duffle bags with their rattling swords. jungkook thinks he ought to take a shower himself, smelling sweat as soon as he takes off his jackets. he moves around the room later, hair wet, tugging on sheets, adjusting pillows. he doesn’t know what yoongi means entirely with wanting to spar, but whatever it is, he wants it. he wants every bit of yoongi, every corner and edge. when the knock on his door comes, his hair is almost all wet, and jungkook startles, standing up at once. yoongi looks clean and sleepy and soft, light hair drying up to messy, wavy strands. jungkook tugs him in by the front of his shirt, locking the door behind him quickly, the no disturb sign crooked on the other side. he smells good, yoongi does, of his peach shampoo. “he thinks i really pushed you,” yoongi huffs, walking towards the bed. he means namjoon, jungkook understands, following him. “i haven’t  told him— i haven’t told him about me and you.”

“he doesn’t know?”

“not everything, not yet,” yoongi touches the sheets. jungkook’s eyes follow the movements of his fingers, mouth watering. yoongi turns. “thank you for waiting.”

“you didn’t take that long,” and it’s a lie, because jungkook counted the minutes, pacing around. the hour and a half took too long to pass. “you smell good.” yoongi watches as jungkook moves closer, as he raises a hand to touch yoongi’s shoulder, as if to adjust his clothes. “ hyung ,” jungkook calls, tenderly. “— we’ve done too much talking.” yoongi hums in agreement. “we can,” and jungkook swallows, feeling suddenly shy. “do something else, maybe.”

the hand on yoongi’s shoulder run down his arm rather slowly, until they can hold hands, fingers pressing together. “spar,” yoongi smiles up at him. “i’ll teach you,” jungkook’s cheeks flush red, and he feels hot all over, nodding vehemently before crashing their lips together, teeth and tongues meeting, and it’s a messy kind of kiss, sloppy with bottled want and slight starvation. they push and pull against each other, neither wanting to forfeit the lead, but yoongi eventually steals jungkook’s right of way, tugging his clothes off, undressing himself, too. much like in the piste, they stand still, staring at each other. jungkook likes the way yoongi’ flushed in the right places. “bed,” yoongi gestures with his head to the bed he used to sleep in, and jungkook complies, crawling over soft sheets until he can sit against the pillows, watching yoongi join him, pushing his legs slightly open. jungkook thinks they’ll kiss, he thinks they’ll make out the way they usually do, bodies close, breathing together— he doesn’t expect yoongi to come just slightly closer, taming jungkook’s hair with a brush of his fingers. “i wanted to give you something,” jungkook blinks, heart skipping a beat. yoongi seems to think for a moment, then he’s leaning down, grabbing his clothes, searching the pockets until he pulls out a red band much like the one he wears on his wrist, except not as worn out. he offers it to jungkook. “can i put it on you?”

“yes,” jungkook says softly, raising his arm, feeling the insistent fluttering inside his stomach. yoongi ties it, loose enough it doesn’t hurt but tight enough it won’t fall off. jungkook shakes his wrist, smiling. “i like it.”

“as long as you have it, you have me,” yoongi shrugs, cheeks in reddish hues. 

“you’re the one being cheesy now, sunbae,” jungkook opens a smile too wide, leaning forward to kiss yoongi, arms grabbing at his waist to bring him closer. “let’s spar,” he says against yoongi’s mouth, feeling him straddle his legs, breathing ragged. “one hit.” yoongi nods against him. “en garde,” his hands press over skin and yoongi shudders the slightest, their kiss deeping. “prêt,” jungkook moans low against yoongi’s tongue, feeling fingers explore his chest. yoongi pulls back, and they breath together, staring. jungkook forgets what he was saying. the only words that stumble out are faint and too filled up with heat: “i love you.” yoongi smiles, huffing, kissing him again. 

— allez.   

(

in fencing, the rules are set: no bodily contact between fencers . still, jungkook doesn’t think he can keep his body away from yoongi’s. it’s difficult to part ways the next morning. they do it awkwardly, smelling of each other, red bands on wrists, red marks on necks and ribs and thighs. i’ll see you when you’re back , yoongi tells him, i’ll wait . the way to the station is rather bleak. it’s a cold day, like every other day he’s spent in seoul, as if the city lives in perennial winter. taehyung hugs him goodbye at the station. they’ll let you in the team , he says, and jungkook barely nods. his coach waits for him at the platform. jungkook approaches him, trying not to limp. “hyung,” he says, after they’ve boarded. “can i schedule a meeting with the committee?”

“— why?” and jungkook looks out of the big windows of the train, sighing.

“i think i want to give my place to someone else.”

)       

Chapter Text

en garde—

“don’t move like that—“

yoongi’s voice is strained and breathy, and jungkook exhales, body sore already. “how do you want me to move?”

“i—,” a soft noise follows. jungkook waits, head spinning. “it will end too soon if you go too fast,” the slightly annoyed timbre to yoongi’s voice makes jungkook chuckle, his cheeks flushing, his body hotter than before. they’re tangled in a rather clammy embrace, and yoongi’s legs feel heavy around his waist, but jungkook almost doesn’t mind. it’s been too long— weeks that turned into months and distance. jungkook missed sparing, but he missed how yoongi felt after a bout much more. he smells like the piste and like the fabric of their uniform and like the cold steel of their blades. jungkook sighs, pressing his teeth against the crook of yoongi’s neck. “i’m sweaty, don’t bite me.”

“i missed you,” jungkook starts, weakly. he both wants to keep moving and wrap his arms around yoongi in a hug. “it hurt.”

“we were together this whole week,” yoongi’s hands touch the sides of his waist more genty, his legs sliding slightly. his chest is moving fast, still, and jungkook can hear his heartbeat. his own goes with it, awry. “we practiced, we—“

“like this,” jungkook raises his head, then, to look at yoongi’s expression. he’s all soft and disheveled. “i missed you like this.”

“— yeah,” yoongi says after a pause. his pupils are blown. they forgot to turn off the lights, so every flicker of light looks hyperbole in his irises. “i missed you, too,” jungkook nods, pressing their foreheads together. “keep going, it’s— it feels good.”

“it will end too soon,” jungkook is the one complaining now, brushing their lips together.

“pace yourself,” yoongi starts, and it makes jungkook laugh again, and he loves, he loves, he loves so much . “don’t put all your weight on hips, pay attention to where you can score a point.”

“are we fencing—?”

yoongi smiles, and it’s pretty, the way the corner of his lips look when they’re curled upward. “yes,” he clears his throat, eyes finding jungkook’s, darker now, hooded. “jungkook,” he manages, weakly. “spar with me.”

they smile at each other before kissing, and jungkook feels the same sort of exhilaration he feels when he first steps on the piste, and it’s always like that with yoongi, it has always been like that. they move together, until they can’t move anymore, breathing heavily, weak jolts down spines, fingers intertwined besides yoongi’s head, red bands on their wrists with the same knots. “i missed you,” jungkook mumbles again, voice hoarse. yoongi hums, sounding sleepy. he pulls out, the sensation good, but yoongi looks too tired to go again, and jungkook just wants to lay down with him, close. 

“we should shower,” yoongi sighs, but jungkook shakes his head.

“stay there, i’ll get a towel,” yoongi doesn’t move, eyes closed. “— was it too much?”

“no,” he moves slightly, and jungkook likes the way his shape looks when he’s naked. “it was the finals, i’m exhausted.”

“you’re getting old,” jungkook tries, grinning, tossing the towel over yoongi’s torso before jumping onto bed. yoongi goes yah, but it’s too weak, and he’s smiling, too. “it was just the olympics, nothing much.” a pause follows. yoongi blinks, opening his eyes, looking up at jungkook. “— i’m sorry.”

“yeah, it was just the olympics,” yoongi repeats, a soft huff following. “you don’t have to feel sorry.”

“i’ll understand if you don’t want to talk about—”

“i don’t want to talk,” it’s supposed to be stern, but yoongi only sounds low and gentle, his fingers touching jungkook’s, tugging slightly. “come sleep,” jungkook goes, because jungkook thinks he’ll always do whatever yoongi asks him to. they wrap themselves in each other, and jungkook inhales the brine of yoongi’s skin, feeling content enough to do just that. “your swordplay was good,” yoongi mutters. “you fenced better than me.” jungkook blushes at that, swallowing. yoongi goes on, his fingers gently drafting through jungkook’s hair. “your riposte was fast, and i couldn’t tell what was your next move.” hyung, i, jungkook starts, but yoongi continues: “ the little one will surely be a fine addition to south korea’s team — they were right.”

“— are you angry at me?”

“angry? no,” yoongi turns around, and their eyes meet, their breathing mingling. “no, i’m— i’m proud of you.”

he’s been confessed to two years before, an somehow making yoongi proud feels almost like it— the heat that simmers under his skin, the short of breathness, the heart that races. jungkook feels both happy and terrified. “i love you,” he says, unfiltered. yoongi blushes, his nose getting red. “don’t stop loving me.”

“i won’t stop loving you,” yoongi offers, and he doesn’t say with a smile, but with fond eyes, and his low, soft-spoken words. he means it , jungkook knows. then he huffs, and his face turns proper scarlet: “you’re as distracting as ever.”

“min yoongi-ssi,” jungkook chants, coming closer, their noses touching. he asks, cheeky: “— what did you do when you were away from me? did you dream of me?” yoongi starts mumbling an embarrassed sentence, but jungkook’s hand slide down his side, and he brushes their lips together. “did we do it on the piste, in your dreams?”

“ yah ,” yoongi laughs, and jungkook knows it is the most perfect sound in the world, more perfect than the cheer of the crowd when a point is scored. jungkook loves fencing, and he belongs to fencing, but he loves yoongi all the same, and all of him belong to yoongi, too, feverishly, wildly. “let’s sleep, you said you wanted to try and go sightseeing before we take the flight back.”

“tokyo isn’t all that great,” jungkook mutters, pulling yoongi closer. “you’re better.”

(the next morning, jungkook blinks lazily, feeling more well-rested than before. yoongi’s asleep, still, turning the opposite way, breathing heavily. he stands, then, shuddering at the cold of the room, grabbing about a bathrobe to cover his body. tokyo is sprawled out outside of the olympic village. if he squints, maybe, he can see the skyline, the criss-crossed power lines, the blueness of the city. they probably won’t be able to go sightseeing, it’s late already. they’ll be flying home soon. jungkook swallows heavily, chest aching. there’s a lot of explaining to do back at home. it feels scary to go. “you’ve been standing there for a while,” yoongi’s voice startles him, and jungkook turns, cheeks heating up. “— it’ll be fine.”

“we don’t know that.”

“we don’t, but it doesn’t matter,” yoongi sits up, too. his hair is messy, and sweaty. “i’ll stab anyone who comes near you.”

that makes jungkook huff, laughing. “— there will be reporters,” he offers, though, walking slowly towards the bed, sitting down at the edge. “i haven’t talked to my parents, either.”

“jungkook,” yoongi touches his hand, pressing his fingers in between jungkook’s, and jungkook turns to look at him, warmth pouring through the tentative fear. “i’ll be there.”

“right— we should pack.”

“no,” yoongi pulls on him, and jungkook bends easily. “you’re distracting with that bathrobe, too.” jungkook pretends to whine, letting yoongi manhandle him with some difficulty, laughing all the way into a messy kiss. when yoongi pulls apart, he still has that look about him, the fond one, his pupils blown and warm in the faint sunlight. “— we’ll be fine.”

“yeah,” jungkook nods. “we will.”) 

pret — 

( that piste is different.

if anything, it looks way longer, as if it is infinite. it isn’t, though, not really. the gymnasium is quiet. there’s a thrum in the air, a constant hum of low conversation, the voices all coming from the dark. it’s always dark, in a fencing bout. the lights belong to the piste and the people on it. jungkook shifts on his feet, changing his weight to the ankle that never got hurt. the other feels somewhat numb. his sabre is heavier than usual, some other kind of weight on it. when he breathes, it fills his mask with warmth. the man that steps on the other side is already wearing his mask, too, and he adjusts his jacket lazily, tugging. jungkook looks down at his feet, eyes closing. it’s just another bout somewhere else. he’s been in competitions before. it never made him nervous. his stomach knots. jungkook forces himself to breathe slowly. 

“fencers,” someone says, and jungkook stirs, walking towards the middle of the piste, eyes watering weirdly. he shouldn’t be wanting to cry. it’s okay, it’s okay. he moves his sword, lifting his mask slightly, greeting the crowd. he probably looks flushed, and worried, and sweaty. “ en garde ,” he missed the greetings of his opponent, and he purses his lips together, walking to position. “ pret ,” the voice comes. jungkook feels himself shiver. “ allez— !”

he moves, and he gets stabbed almost immediately, a riposte so fast he barely could catch it. jungkook curses, seeing the red lights blink around him, shameful. it’s just another bout. it’s just fencing. make yoongi proud, make yoongi proud . yoongi is watching him, he knows, watching him jitter, nervously. he knows jungkook’s nervous, by now. it’s no use to try and hide it. jungkook stills himself, pushing his thoughts away. he positions again, feet light. his ankle gives out a dull kind of pain, a ghost one. jungkook ignores, stepping forward as the referee tells them to, sword swaying, pushing himself into a jump to get a point. it works, he sees green, and he screams, a rather harsh, snappy, yes! , loud. he hears his couch’s voice, and other fencer’s. he loves feeling that kind of rush. it almost makes him forget the pain, and the nervousness. the assault goes on— he gets behind, a point, then two, until he starts attacking better, until his lunges work, until he moves without much thought, not letting his adversary foresee his moves. jungkook forgets the competition, forgets the points, forgets the olympics. there’s only that piste, and the infinite borders of it, and that man, on the other side. he scores another point, and his heart sinks, the crowd screaming, and jungkook barely realises he’s won until his teammates are screaming around him, their limbs pressing, his mask being pulled out, the cameras stuck to them, to him.

but—

jungkook looks at end of the piste. he sees the mask on the floor, and the french flag on his arm, and jungkook steps away, untangling himself from victory to walk down that piste, the endless piste, and the camera follows, every second of it broadcasted to millions of people. yoongi is red and sweaty, and jungkook holds over his red band, touching the skin of his wrist. he doesn’t ask, nor he stops to think, there’s absolutely nothing on his mind but— yoongi tastes like fencing, like the exhilarating feel of victory, and jungkook’s ears block out the sounds, and everything is white noise and yoongi’s taste. they pull away. yoongi’s lips are red like him, now. he huffs, his lips curling only slightly. “— you won.”

“i told you i would win,” jungkook repeats, heart ramming against his chest. “i love you.”

“i know,” yoongi nods. there’s so much around them that jungkook’s afraid to look somewhere else. yoongi holds his hand, then, and his heart flutters. “we’ll talk later, go get your medal.” 

“you’ll get one, too,” jungkook tries, stepping close again. 

“i’ve got something better than a medal, i think, i,” yoongi sniffles, and then he looks around, maybe noticing the cameras on them, noticing the screaming crowd, noticing the big smiles of their teammates. “— right, maybe a medal is pretty nice, too,” jungkook laughs at that, and he pulls yoongi into a hug, feeling him laugh, too. so what’s your story? a journalist is asking, you look good together, maybe we can get an interview? )

allez!

“where do you want to put your medal?”

it’s yoongi who asks, and jungkook turns, still holding a heavy box of yoongi’s books. he’s seen it in movies, that kind of scene, that kind of feeling suddenly translated to reality— yoongi, in his fancy-looking blouses, the sabres they used on their olympic match behind him on the wall, his expression soft-looking, the red band on his wrist contrasting to the blue ribbon of the medal, standing there, just a meter or so away, in the living room they’ll share. their home .  jungkook breathes out, heart skipping. “i don’t know,” he offers, staggering. “i mean— we don’t have furniture yet.”

“that’s not true,” yoongi says, ignorant to the way jungkook’s heart beats all wrong now, love overflowing his chest, soaking through his clothes. “we have our sabres, and those books, and a bed.”

“hyung,” jungkook calls, his fingers numb from holding. i love you, i love you, i love you . “you have your jacket, too.”

“ah, yes,” yoongi huffs, eyes going to the white and blue and red jacket, his cheeks flushing. “do you think it will work out?”

“living together?”

“being teammates.” he shrugs. “we haven’t been teammates yet.”

“we haven’t lived together yet,” we lived in that hotel room for weeks , yoongi starts, a pout to his words, and jungkook chuckles, stepping close, the box between them. yoongi looks up, cheeks red. “you deserved this spot.” 

“i know,” yoongi nods, and jungkook smiles at that, because of course yoongi knows he’s good enough. “you can put that box down,” he says, and jungkook does as he told, and he lets yoongi holds against him, pressing his cheeks on the warmth of his sweater. it’s not often yoongi is touchy, so jungkook lets him be, wrapping arms around him, kissing the side of his hair. “paris next,” he mumbles. “i’ll be almost thirty, maybe i won’t make the cut.”

“you’re thinking four years in the future,” jungkook complains. “— paris, then.”

“i’ll win,” yoongi says, his voice slightly more like himself, less small, more certain. jungkook likes that voice. 

“i’m going to beat you,” he warns, sternly, the way he did years ago, in the hotel room where he first fell in love (no, no, that’s a lie) (he first fell in love on the piste). “just a heads up.”

for a moment that drags, yoongi doesn’t say anything. maybe he doesn’t remember their back and forth, maybe he’s forgotten how those beds smelled like, or how badly jungkook wanted him. he opens his mouth to say something else, but: “i’d like to see you try,” yoongi finally says, voice low and raspy. jungkook smiles, and it gets too big, and when he lifts yoongi off from the floor, he’s laughing. “yah—!”

“in paris— i’ll ask you to marry me,” jungkook tells him, then, looking up. yoongi blinks, cheeks flushing immediately. “on the piste, i will.”

“you’re very theatrical for someone who graduated business,” yoongi mutters, but jungkook knows he likes it, knows it made his heart skip, probably, like his own did a few minutes ago. the subject is dropped, then, and they slowly go back to bringing the boxes in, and jungkook wears yoongi’s national team jacket, and they share takeouts in the middle of the living room, using books in french as plate holders, watching the latest GP on jungkook’s old laptop. they stumble onto bed too easily, later, and jungkook feels so exhausted when they’re done with each other he feels like he could sleep for over a week. yoongi’s looking at him, some sort of fondness about his look, his fingers playing with jungkook’s hair. “if you win, i’ll say yes,”  he says, voice low. jungkook smiles, dragging himself close until they’re sharing a pillow.

“i might lose,” he points out. “then what?”

“los angeles,” yoongi responds, lazily, a small smirk on his face. jungkook laughs, bumping their foreheads together. “no, i,” he gives a halfhearted shrug. “you’ll win, i know you will.” jungkook waits, watching yoongi struggle, flushed and all too flustered suddenly. “then you can ask, and i’ll say yes.”

“paris, then,” jungkook repeats, sleepy, lovestruck. “i need to start practicing.”

“we’re waking up at four-thirty, for a run,” yoongi points out, kissing jungkook’s forehead before turning the other way, folding into himself like he does when he sleeps. jungkook watches the back of his head, smile still lingering. yoongi doesn’t react much when he inches forward, kissing the nape of his neck. he goes on, voice just slightly affected: “then at six we’re starting practice rounds.”

“yes, coach—”

[interviewer] so how is it feel like to come out like that in front of so many people?

[jeon jungkook, medalist] (pause) daunting, but (pause) freeing.

[interviewer] we heard that there was a backlash from some of your sponsors.

[jeon jungkook, medalist] yes, well, they can find another gold medalist to support, but (pause) i don’t think there are many of us. (laughter)

[interviewer] you met min yoongi-ssi when you were both trying out for the national team, two years ago?

[jeon jungkook, medalist] no (pause) well, yes, but i knew him from before, of course. 

[interviewer] did you break up when he went back to france?

[jeon jungkook, medalist] no, we have been together since the competition.

[interviewer] and how did it feel to win over your partner?

[jeon jungkook, medalist] i didn’t win over my partner, i won over another skilled athlete. (pause) yoongi-ssi is my partner outside of the piste, we can still compete as athletes, we have before.

[interviewer] but he let you win, at the national team comp — no? you sustained an injury.

[jeon jungkook, medalist] he didn’t let me in, he pushed me away from a worse injury. we already went through that process with the committee, there’s nothing else to add. 

[interviewer] then what’s next for jeon jungkook? 

[jeon jungkook, medalist] paris, and another gold medal. (pauses) and a wedding.

[interview cuts off]