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Chapter Text

Yoongi and Hoseok had met when they were children—six and five years old, respectively.
Yoongi’s parents had started sending him to the daycare and after-school center run by Hoseok’s Omma. His parents were always busy with other things (they always seemed to be busy with meetings, travel, whispered arguments behind closed doors), and his brother, much older, was rarely around. So, when school let out, Yoongi went straight to daycare.

Yoongi was a shy child. Quiet. He did his best not to draw attention to himself—something he had learned early. He wasn’t a very physical child, though he had brief bursts of energy. Crowds overwhelmed him. Loud noises made his head ache. Because of this, he kept to himself. Other children saw him as boring or standoffish. They either didn’t approach him at all or quickly lost interest when he didn’t respond with enthusiasm.

Usually, when faced with a loud, chaotic room full of kids, he would find a quiet corner to curl up in—somewhere to do homework or play quietly on his own. On his first day, he found a small alcove between two short bookshelves just big enough to tuck his small body into. Once settled, he pulled out his favorite coloring book—jungle animals—and a small box of crayons. Carefully, he began shading a picture of a leopard in a tree.

He managed to hide out there for all of ten minutes before someone found him.
Yoongi was surprised to see the other boy standing in front of him. He waited for the child to leave, but instead the other boy all but shouted,

“My name is Hoseok, do you want to come play with us?”

He pointed back at the other children who were engaged in some sort of jumping game that Yoongi didn’t understand the rules of - and he didn’t really want to.

Unlike Yoongi, Hoseok was a loud, happy child. He was incredibly active and his easy smiles and kind nature won him many friends.

The longer Yoongi took to answer, the more insistent Hoseok became.
“We’re playing tigers! You can be the leopard! It’s like your coloring!” he added helpfully, practically bouncing in place.

Yoongi flinched slightly. “Stop,” he said quietly. “I don’t want to play that game. There are too many kids... It’s too loud. It makes my head hurt.”
He turned his attention back to the coloring book, assuming the conversation was over. He was wrong. Hoseok didn’t leave.
Instead, he tilted his head and crouched down so their eyes met. After a beat, he lowered his voice to what was likely what Hoseok considered, a whisper.

“Okay... we can just play together. Just the two of us. It’s quieter.”

He plopped down in front of Yoongi, crossing his legs - criss-cross applesauce, he muttered to himself.

“Can I color something too?”

Yoongi didn’t like the idea of tearing pages out of his favorite coloring book, but the way Hoseok was looking at him had him handing it over to the other boy.

Hoseok beamed and eagerly flipped through the pages.
“Wow, you’re a really good colorer,” he exclaimed. “Look at this tiger! Whoa, and this monkey! You used all the best colors!”

He kept flipping until he came across an uncolored picture of a flamingo and excitedly turned it to Yoongi.

“Can I do this one?”

Yoongi agreed with only a little bit of hesitation and didn’t flinch at all when Hoseok unceremoniously ripped the page from the rest of the book.

For the rest of the evening, Yoongi and Hoseok sat with one another and colored. Hoseok chatting animatedly about anything and everything he could think of - about his toy robot, his cat named Bingsu, the time he fell off a slide - and Yoongi quietly listening.

When Yoongi’s brother finally came to pick him up that night, Hoseok handed him his finished Flamingo “as a gift” and asked if he could play with Yoongi the next time he came.

Yoongi blinked. He didn’t understand—but nodded. He was certain Hoseok would lose interest in him like the other kids did.

But Yoongi was wrong, Hoseok didn’t grow tired of him. He didn’t leave. In fact, he went out of his way to spend time with Yoongi, often breaking away from his other friends and whatever game they were playing to do so.

Looking back, they’d been inseparable from that very first encounter.
Their budding friendship came as a startling surprise to Hoseok’s mother. She knew her son could be a bit of a whirlwind—bubbly and overwhelming at times. But every day after school, he gravitated toward Yoongi. They sat quietly in a corner, coloring, building tall towers out of legos, and talking. Well, Hoseok did most of the talking, Yoongi was happy to sit and listen to his friend’s chatter.

It was clear to everyone that Hoseok adored Yoongi. He brought him little snacks and toys, shooed away other children that would encroach on Yoongi’s quiet space and delighted when he was able to draw light laughter from the other boy.

And slowly, Yoongi began to crave Hoseok’s presence. He let himself be pulled into make-believe games, superhero adventures, and dinosaur battles—only with Hoseok, though.

Time passed. When they weren’t at the after-school center, they were at Hoseok’s house, playing video games or building forts in his room.
At Hoseok’s house, Yoongi felt more free than anywhere else in his life. Hoseok’s parents were open and kind. They asked about his day. They let him pick what to eat for dinner. Hoseok’s Appa even gifted him his first MP3 player and helped him load it up with all kinds of music.
It felt warm there—with Hoseok and his family. Safe. A place where he could let down his guard and just be.
Over time, it became Yoongi’s second home.

More than once, Yoongi found himself lingering in that warmth as long as he could, dreading the return to his own home—where meals were often silent, tension buzzed just under the surface, and laughter was something reserved for TV shows.

Chapter Text

Time passed and the boys remained inseparable.

They attended the same primary school, and although they were a year apart and didn’t share any classes, they had lunch together and waited for each other at the end of the day to walk to the center.

Every day after school, Hoseok and Yoongi would meet up by the bike racks and walk to the center to do they homework and hang out until Yoongi’s brother or neighbor finally showed up to retrieve him or until Hoseok’s Eomma took them home for dinner.

Yoongi was smaller than most of the other boys, slight and soft-spoken, but Hoseok always had his back. When they were younger, Hoseok used to be the one stepping in if someone messed with Yoongi. But over time, Yoongi stopped waiting for someone else to protect him. He didn’t know when it had started—this constant tension under his skin, like something was always about to snap—but he knew he hated being looked at, hated being laughed at, hated when people touched his things or talked too loud around him.

He didn’t know why it made him so angry. It just did.

He was scrappy now. Mean, sometimes. Sharp in the way his words came out and how quickly he threw up walls. If someone crossed a line, Yoongi crossed it back - usually with his fists unless Hoseok stepped in before it got that far. 

One afternoon, some older kid decided to be a smart ass and held Yoongi’s backpack over his head, grinning like he was clever. Hoseok, having been drawn by the commotion in the hallway,  rounded the corner just to see Yoongi kicking the other boy so hard in the groin that he dropped the bag and fell to the ground. Hoseok grabbed a spitting angry Yoongi and pulled him away before any teachers came. 

Yoongi didn’t say anything for a while after that. Just walked beside Hoseok, eyes on the sidewalk.

And while Hoseok protected Yoongi from himself, Yoongi often found himself protecting Hoseok from the world.

Hoseok, with his bright and joyous personality, saw the best in everyone. But not everyone deserved that light. Some kids mistook his joy for naivety—and Yoongi could always tell when a laugh came with a sneer. He knew how people could twist kindness into weakness.

So when someone mocked Hoseok behind a smile, Yoongi didn’t stand for it. He’d stare them down until they looked away. And when that wasn’t enough, he’d mutter quiet threats that made their grins falter.

Yoongi may have been small—but his loyalty was fierce.

And if there was one thing everyone knew about Min Yoongi, it was that nobody messed with his Seok.

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Things started changing between them as they moved into High School. 

It started slowly. Hoseok joined the dance team—and fell in love with it.

Suddenly, he had dance practice after school two days a week. Then three. Then five. Saturdays disappeared too. He made new friends, loud and cheerful like him, people who matched his rhythm. 

And Yoongi? He hated those days.

On “dance days”, he walked to the center alone. And soon, Hoseok began sitting at a different table at lunch, “Come join us over here, Yoongs. Everybody would love to meet you!” But Yoongi didn’t want to sit with Hoseok’s new friends. He didn’t know anything about them other than they were stealing his best friend away. “I’m okay - enjoy your lunch,” he says as he grabs his paper bag and heads out to the school courtyard. 

The quiet was louder than ever. Hoseok still smiled at him whenever he passed him in the hallways, still beckoned him with a wave from across the cafeteria, but the walks, the lingering after school, the easy closeness—they were slipping through Yoongi’s fingers.

At first, he waited. Assumed it was temporary. But the more Hoseok danced, the more distance grew between them. And eventually, Yoongi stopped going to the center altogether.

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Without Hoseok, Yoongi realized just how empty things really were. Without Hoseok to anchor him, the days blurred and cracked around the edges.

He knew he wasn’t the easiest person to be around. He was too quick to anger, too quiet, too intense. His shyness and anxiety read as cold. He got it.

But that didn’t make it hurt any less.

And that loneliness, it twisted inside him. It turned sharp. Violent.

He snapped at people who looked at him the wrong way. Shoved past classmates in the halls. Some days, he hoped someone would say something—anything—so he’d have an excuse to lash out. To punch something. To make someone else feel as off-balance as he did.

But most of the time, no one did.
They just avoided him. Like he wasn’t worth the trouble.

That might’ve been the worst part.

He didn’t know what to do with all the hurt and noise in his head—the exhaustion that clung to his bones like damp clothes. His house was too quiet sometimes, and too loud at others—his parents arguing, or ignoring him, or questioning everything he did like he was already some kind of failure.

He didn’t know why it felt like this. Why he woke up already tired. Why he got so angry just standing in line for lunch or listening to kids laugh too loud in the hallway.

He just was.

As the months passed, the sadness settled into his chest like a weight. It sat heavy on him. Constant. It chewed at his insides. Frustrated him.
Made him feel like he was about to explode from the inside out.

On a whim, he started writing—ugly, messy truths that spilled out of him in ink. Streams of consciousness at first. Then rhythm. Then rhyme. He filled notebooks before he realized what he was writing was poetry. Before he realized what he was writing was rap.

For the first time, he could shape the storm in his chest into something that made sense.

It didn’t fix him.
But it helped him breathe.

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Since Hoseok was often too busy to hang out after school, Yoongi spent most days alone—wandering the city, writing, and listening to music. He was drawn to hip hop artists like T.I., BIG, and Eminem. Their rawness, their rage, their relentless honesty—it cracked something open in him. The things they rapped about, the pain they carried, felt familiar to him. Real. It made him want to try. 

When he started out, his notebooks were full of ugly, half-formed thoughts. But the more he wrote, the more things started to take shape. His writing becomes more metered, his stream of consciousness reflections now peppered with imagery and metaphor. Something close to poetry. Something close to music. At least it feels like something. And, though most days he still feels like he’s drowning, Yoongi feels a spark of passion ignite in his chest for the first time. 

He still missed Hoseok. God, he missed him. And he hated that he was angry about it—angry that Hoseok had found something he loved. Angry that he was happy. Jealous that Hoseok could make new friends so easily, while Yoongi still struggled to make eye contact with kids he’d known for years. He didn’t want to resent him. But he did.

And underneath all of that anger was the sadness - the ache that Hoseok, his Seok, the one person who used to see him, really see him, was slipping away.

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That summer, after his second year of high school, Yoongi worked up the nerve to go to the underground for the first time. He’d known about the scene for months, maybe years. But he'd never gone. He was too quiet. Too awkward. Too afraid they’d laugh at him.

He didn’t battle that first night. Didn’t talk to anyone really. He just watched. But when he left, his chest felt lighter than it had in months. Yoongi went back every night for a week until he finally got the nerve to throw his hat into the ring.

When they asked what name to put him down as, he said, “Suga.”

He lost his first battle. But it wasn’t a disaster. His opponent shook his hand and told him he had something. That he should keep going - he was a natural. The compliment pleases Yoongi more than he’s willing to admit, but it was nothing compared to the thrill and catharsis he felt on stage. The feeling of being heard. Of putting something ugly and vulnerable out into the world and not being swallowed by it.

From that moment, Suga becomes a regular in the underground rap scene.  

Yoongi started throwing everything into rapping; producing his own beats, writing and recording alone in his room, pouring all of himself into the one thing that made him feel like maybe he had something to offer.

And Hoseok? He was busy. Dance. Theater. His endless parade of friends. They saw each other maybe once a week, and even then, Hoseok still smiled like nothing had changed.

But everything had.

Yoongi could barely look at him without guilt gnawing at his insides. Hoseok’s warmth used to feel like home. Now it just made him feel like a failure. He knew he was being a shitty friend—ignoring texts, dodging invites, missing performances. He knew he could do better. But he didn’t. Couldn’t. The effort felt impossible. And the more Hoseok tried, the more Yoongi pulled away. Until once a week became once a month. And then…less.

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Near the end of Yoongi’s last year of high school, Hoseok’s smile started to crack around the edges. Yoongi saw it happen in real time—the way his eyes stopped lighting up, the way his voice got quieter when Yoongi didn’t respond. Yoongi thinks it’s because he’s finally realized how broken he is. 

Maybe he was only holding on out of loyalty. Out of pity. Because how could anyone still want him around when all he did was disappoint?

Yoongi knows he’s a terrible friend, that he doesn’t make an effort to join in when Hoseok invites him out with his new friends. That he has missed more of Hoseok’s dance performances over the past two years than he’s attended. He expects Hoseok to go out of his way to spend time with Yoongi, but not the other way around and he hates himself for it. And the angrier he gets at himself, the angrier he gets at Hoseok for making him feel that way.

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The break came on a gray afternoon, the kind where everything felt too loud and too silent all at once. Yoongi has finally agreed to Hoseok’s 200th text asking if he wanted to grab a milkshake. “We’ll go to that place you like. I won’t even tease you about your feelings about mint chocolate - crazy as they are.” Yoongi wasn’t feeling great, but had agreed. 

They were talking—about something small, meaningless—and Yoongi felt it snap.

He couldn’t stop himself.

“I think we need to stop this.”

Hoseok blinked, his spoon halfway to his smiling mouth, “Stop what?”

“This,” Yoongi snapped, gesturing vaguely. “Whatever this is. Pretending we’re still…whatever we were.”

Hoseok’s smile wavered. “Yoongs—”

“We’re not the same anymore. You’ve got your friends. Your dance. Your perfect little life. Just…go be with them. Stop wasting your time trying to fix me.”

“Is that what you think I’m doing?”

Yoongi looked away. “You don’t get it. I hate this place. I hate feeling stuck. I want to be someone. I don’t want to rot here chasing small dreams with small people.”

He regrets the words as soon as they leave his mouth because he knows they’re untrue. The silence that followed was brutal.

Yoongi finally looked up—and saw something in Hoseok’s face break.

Then: a small, brittle smile. “Right. Got it.”

And just like that, Hoseok left.

Didn’t look back.

Didn’t have to.

Yoongi felt the door close behind him like a punch to the gut. Whatever fragile hope he’d been holding onto that they’d find their way back to each other—that maybe Hoseok still wanted to—snapped in half.

After that, they only saw each other in passing. Brief glimpses in the hallway. A flash of familiar laughter that Yoongi ignored, on purpose.

Yoongi isolates. He buries himself in music. Went to school, came home, produced until his eyes burned. He publishes a full album on Soundcloud that he’s sure no one will listen to. He’s decided that he wants to be a producer. He wants to make a name for himself so he kept going. Kept creating. Kept moving forward, even when it felt like he was standing still. He doesn’t think about the hole he feels open up in his chest when he catches a glimpse of Hoseok in the school hallways.

He told himself he was fine.

And he never noticed that the only time Hoseok stopped smiling was when he looked at Yoongi.

Chapter Text

Yoongi gets into college across the country for music production. 

He packs up his life into a box and two duffle bags. He doesn’t say goodbye to his family, which he doesn’t regret. He doesn’t say goodbye to Hoseok, which, in his weakest moments, he does.

He gets a shitty job and a shitty apartment that he can’t afford.

Once he’s settled, he starts to explore the underground scene in this new town.

It’s here that he meets Namjoon for the first time, and from that moment, Namjoon is always around.

Namjoon is a year younger than him—Hoseok’s age. He graduated high school early and, surprisingly is in the same college and the same program as Yoongi, chasing the same dream. He raps and writes and wants to change the world somehow. He’s tall and smart and sort of a dork, but he stays late at the studio with Yoongi, eating ramen and working on tracks. He brings Yoongi coffee in the mornings when he knows he’s been up all night. He listens to Yoongi’s mixes and gives honest—sometimes brutal—feedback.

“You’re using too many layered samples here,” Namjoon says one afternoon, twisting a pen between his fingers. “The lyrics are strong, but the track’s muddy. It’s losing your voice.”

Yoongi glares at the monitor. “Then fix it,” he mutters, no real heat behind it.

Namjoon grins and slides a USB across the table. “Already did.”

Once, when Yoongi was feeling exceptionally low, he ghosted Namjoon for more than two weeks. When he finally dragged himself out of that familiar pit of despair and worked up the nerve to say something, Namjoon just patted him on the back and said, “It’s cool, man. Everyone’s got shit they deal with. I’ll listen if you ever want to talk about it.” Then he started rambling about the new comic café that opened on the west side of campus.

This is how Yoongi knew he had a new best friend.

By their second year, Yoongi and Namjoon move into a new, equally shitty apartment together and stay there until they graduate. Namjoon comes to know everything about him. He knows about Yoongi’s shitty family and his dream to make a name for himself. He knows Yoongi is most productive at two in the morning and prefers his coffee black and aggressively strong. He knows about the fog of anger and sadness that comes and goes without warning, and—after one too many drinks in their shared living room—he knows about Hoseok.

Over time, Yoongi starts to know Namjoon just as well. His taste in music and manga. His clumsiness and tendency to overthink. The way he doesn’t know how to relax unless someone physically drags him out of the apartment to touch literal grass. The way his hands move when he’s excited about something—quick, imprecise, like his words are too big for his body.

It’s around their second year together when Namjoon tells him he’s thinking of changing his major.

“I love music,” he says, arms crossed, staring out their kitchen window like the answer might be in the parking lot below. “But I think I want to get my PhD. Become a researcher or maybe a teacher. I don’t know, man.”

Yoongi doesn’t say what he’s thinking: that it feels a little like Namjoon is leaving him behind. That without music, what do they even have in common?

He swallows that down and forces himself to elbow the other boy playfully, “You’re throwing away a life of fame, money, and women just to deal with snot-nosed kids all day?”

Namjoon laughs, nudges him back. “Guess I’ll have to live vicariously through you then.”He always knows what to say to make Yoongi feel lighter.

Now that he’s far from home and all the rot he left behind, Yoongi starts to understand himself a little more. He talks to Namjoon and begins to suspect that the self-loathing gnawing at him might not be moral failure—that maybe it’s his brain chemistry making him feel tired and angry and worthless. Maybe it’s not who he is—just something he’s been forced to carry. 

With conscious effort—and Namjoon’s relentless support—he starts taking better care of himself. He cooks actual food instead of living on takeout and instant ramen. He starts sleeping more than four hours a night. And, reluctantly, he starts seeing the school shrink, which he hates and loves in equal measure.

He sees his counselor once a week or so. They talk about everything: how he’s feeling now, what he wants for the future. Sometimes, they talk about the past.

One day, the therapist recommends he write letters. “To people who hurt you. To people you hurt,” she says. “You don’t have to send them. But say what you need to say. Get everything off your chest.”

That night, Yoongi writes a letter to Hoseok. He tells him how it felt to be pushed aside and left behind. He writes and rewrites a hundred different apologies for pulling away and for the things he said. He tells him about the things he wishes they could have done together. 

He rips it up before even signing his name.

He tosses the pieces in the trash, but one scrap falls under his desk. He leaves it there.

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Later that year, Yoongi finally meets Joon’s high school sweetheart, Seokjin, after a year of only hearing stories.

“Call me Hyung,” Jin says, shaking Yoongi’s hand like they’re at a family reunion. “I’m tall, handsome, and I have a great sense of humor. You’ll learn to love me.”

Yoongi stares. “I doubt that.”

Jin winks.

By the end of dinner, Yoongi is laughing anyway.

One night when Jin is staying over at their apartment, Yoongi overhears Namjoon tell Jin he loves him for the first time. Jin just rolls his eyes and shoves Namjoon’s shoulder playfully.

“Of course you do. What’s not to love?”

Namjoon grins, but there’s something soft in it—something reverent. He looks at Jin like he hung the stars in the sky and Jin, underneath that cloak of bravado, is looking at Namjoon just the same.

Yoongi watches them from across the room and tries to stamp down the jealousy that coils in his chest. He doesn’t want Jin, not like that. But he envies the ease of it—the way they orbit around each other like gravity is a given.

One night, after more than a fair amount of alcohol, Jin leans his head on Yoongi’s shoulder and asks, “You ever been in love?”

Yoongi doesn’t answer right away. He stares at the condensation on his glass, feels the weight of memories pressing behind his ribs.

“I’m not sure,” he finally says. “But… I think I could have been. Once.”

Jin hums like he understands, but he doesn’t press.

Chapter Text

In their final year of university, Yoongi lands an internship as a junior producer at a mid-sized media company in the city. It is grueling work with long hours and shit pay, but he loves it. He loses himself in the studio—mixing tracks, collaborating with artists, learning the ropes. When graduation comes, they offer him a full-time gig, and Yoongi says yes without hesitation.

Namjoon announces he’s moving in with Jin now that the older boy has finished culinary school.

Yoongi feels unmoored for all of two seconds before Joon says, “We’re actually looking for a two-bedroom if you’re interested.”

Yoongi raises an eyebrow.

Namjoon shrugs like it’s no big deal. “Rent in the city’s expensive.”

Yoongi snorts. “You do know your boyfriend has a trust fund, right?”

“Yeah, well,” Joon says, scratching the back of his neck. “We like having you around.”

Something about the way he says it makes Yoongi feel warm all over.

And that’s how Yoongi ends up with two roommates.

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The apartment isn’t anything too special—Yoongi insisted that they find a place where they could split rent evenly. It’s a five-story walk-up with refurbished flooring and windows that rattle when it rains—but it’s big for the price and near everything that matters. Close enough to the university for Joon, to the studio for Yoongi, and to Jin’s restaurant in Itaewon, where he recently got promoted to sous chef after completing his apprenticeship.

Jin’s schedule is chaotic. He usually works afternoons through late nights. But still, most mornings, Yoongi finds him at the kitchen table in his robe, sipping black coffee that Yoongi brewed from his favorite mug. They sit in comfortable silence, drinking their coffee side by side, listening to the city start to wake up around them until Joon stumbles out of their room rushing to get to class on time. 

Jin doesn’t say much—he’s not a morning person—but he always sends both of them off with packed lunches and a tired but genuine smile.

“Don’t forget your headphones,” he tells Joon one morning, tossing a banana into his bag.

Yoongi watches him shuffle back toward his room and his bed and thinks:
Maybe this is what family feels like.

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Once their new routines settle, Yoongi and Namjoon start making music together again—not for fame or validation this time, but just for the joy of it. They revisit the underground scene now and then, but most of their work happens at home.

Their home studio is really just Yoongi’s walk-in closet lined with foam panels and tangled cords, but it works. They take turns recording, mixing, layering beats. On quiet nights, the apartment hums with low bass and distant laughter.

They upload their tracks to SoundCloud under a shared handle and build a modest but loyal following.

Yoongi doesn’t think about success. He doesn’t think about the past much either.

He just raps with Joon and drinks Jin’s coffee and sees his new therapist twice a month and, for the first time in a long time, he feels steady.

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About a year into their new life in the city, Namjoon walks through the front door with a stranger trailing behind him—a young man with a shy smile and a backpack slung over one shoulder. His name is Jungkook and “he could use some friendly faces, Yoongi. Be nice.”

Jungkook moved to the city not long ago and is currently attending university and working as an intern at a media company that directly competes with Yoongi’s which Jin finds hilarious. 

“They really just have me fetch coffee,” the youngest says with a blush. Namjoon throws his arm around the kid’s shoulders with casual familiarity, already smitten with his own find.

Jungkook, it turns out, is a huge fan of their music. He mentions it awkwardly over dinner, like he didn’t mean to say it out loud. “I’ve been following you guys on SoundCloud for years,” he mumbles, eyes flicking between Yoongi and Joon. “I can rap all of Respect, even the fast part.”

Namjoon groans into his drink. “Oh god, don’t encourage him.”

But Yoongi feels the corner of his mouth twitch upward. He won’t admit it, but the attention delights him in a way that makes him feel twelve years old again. He watches the kid rattle off lyrics and thinks, Jesus. He’s serious.

Jungkook is shy at first—always polite, always offering to help with dishes, cleaning up without being asked. But it's obvious he looks up to them. Especially Namjoon. Whenever Joon gets going about politics or art or starts waxing philosophical, Jungkook looks up at him with big, round eyes, reminding Yoongi of an overeager puppy.

Yoongi groans internally as he feels his heart melt in his chest each time the kid glances at them and then back down at his hands.  

That first night, Jungkook stays for dinner courtesy of Jin and compliments the food no less than 10 times, thanking them profusely for feeding him, “Thank you. This is my first home-cooked meal since I moved to the city.”

Jin freezes, mid-sip of tea. “You’re joking.”

Jungkook shakes his head, eyes wide. “No, really. I eat mostly convenience store stuff.”

Jin slaps his hand on the table. “That’s it! Namjoon, we’re adopting him.” He points at the youngest, “Convenience store, he says. Do you know how much sodium is in one of those cup-noodles!?”

Yoongi laughs under his breath as Jin continues his diatribe. “Call me hyung, then,” he says casually.

Jungkook beams. “Yes, hyung!”

From that moment on Jungkook becomes a constant in their little family.

They learn more about Jungkook as the months go on: he’s double-majoring in business and music, dances competitively, and is somehow still keeping up with his internship. It makes Yoongi tired just hearing about it. He tells the kid that he has to make more room for sleep.

“You’re going to burn yourself out,” he says one night, watching Jungkook nod off mid-bite at the kitchen table.

Namjoon snorts into his tea. “You should follow your own advice.”

Yoongi flicks a piece of kimchi at him. It hits Namjoon’s glasses with a wet splat.

Namjoon yelps. Jin nearly drops the rice cooker from laughing.

Jungkook blinks awake, confused, then grins as the table erupts in laughter, easy and bright.

Chapter Text

Jungkook starts spending more time at their shared apartment—after work, between classes, on the weekends. He raids their fridge and eats all their groceries, he brews their most expensive coffee that Yoongi gets from 'the good grocery store', he steals their wifi and leaves his textbooks scattered across every surface.

“It’s closer to campus,” he says, which they all know is barely the truth.

But after the third time Jin catches him napping on their couch and the fifth time he forgets to bring a charger, they give up and hand him a spare key.

“Don’t lose it,” Jin warns, tossing it across the kitchen. “And if you’re going to be here, at least help with the dishes.”

“Yes, Omma,” Jungkook says, and ducks as a dish towel flies past his head.

________________________________

A few weeks later, Jungkook introduces them to his friend who isn’t a boyfriend, but just a friend: Taehyung. He and Jungkook met through Taehyung’s best friend Jimin (“My soulmate, Kookie. Get it right.”) who dances in a performance troupe with Jungkook. 

“He’s an artist,” Jungkook explains as they walk into a bar on the edge of the city. “He graduated last year and he’s an amazing photographer.”

“Of course he is,” Yoongi mutters under his breath.

Taehyung greets them all with a wide grin and a ridiculous oversized sweater. “This place has cheap drinks and a free jukebox,” he announces. “I accept no criticism.”

Over the course of the evening, he somehow cons Yoongi to buy all of his drinks (“You’re older—it’s tradition!”), steals two of Namjoon’s shots while his back is turned, and begs Jin for a piggyback ride to the bus stop because his “legs are for art, not walking.”

By the end of the night, Jin’s wheezing with laughter, Namjoon is mock-offended, and Yoongi—despite himself—is smiling into his hoodie sleeve.

He likes this kid. He’s loud. Affectionate. Unapologetically himself. He reminds Yoongi of another loud, happy boy he once knew—one Yoongi tries not to think about too much anymore.

In seemingly no time at all, Taehyung becomes just as embedded in their lives as Jungkook. He has a different energy than anyone else in Yoongi’s life—always moving, always touching. He drapes himself across them like a weighted blanket whenever they're watching movies or playing video games, arms thrown over shoulders, legs folded into laps like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

At first, Yoongi stiffens under the weight. He’s not used to people taking up space so comfortably. But Taehyung doesn’t ask for permission—he just exists there, warm, sprawling, and way too heavy, damn it. 

Eventually, Yoongi stops resisting. He starts pulling Taehyung’s legs up onto his lap when they share the couch. He even finds himself absentmindedly running his fingers through Tae’s hair during slow afternoons. When he notices the younger boy nuzzle into the touch like a cat, he pretends not to.

Taehyung begins showing up even when Jungkook isn’t around. After his shifts at the café, when Jimin and Jungkook are tied up with dance practice, he slips through the door like he belongs. Sometimes he curls up on their couch and plays video games with Jin or comes in to listen to Yoongi and Namjoon’s recording sessions, eyes closed, mouthing along to the lyrics. 

Taehyung has a passion for hip hop, even if his technical ability is somewhat…lacking.

“I wouldn’t call myself a rapper per se,” he admits once, sprawled upside down across the armchair. “But I feel it, you know?”

Yoongi shrugs. “Feeling it’s half the battle.”

Taehyung grins. “So I’m halfway to a rap genius?”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

________________________________

And then there’s… Jungkook.

Every so often, Yoongi catches him watching Taehyung wistfully from across the room—eyes soft, lips parted, chest rising with something quiet and slow. It's a look Yoongi recognizes. Has worn. Has hidden.

But Jungkook is careful. He never lets himself get caught. Always glances away just in time. Always smiles like nothing’s there.

Yoongi almost feels sorry for him. Until one night, Jungkook spills his soda on himself and lifts the hem of his shirt to blot it dry. Which does nothing but expose his ridiculous, sculpted, absolutely unnecessary abs in a way that catches the light juuust right.

Taehyung stares like he’s ready to climb Jungkook like a jungle gym.

Jin, thankfully, is too focused on plating dessert to notice. Yoongi sighs, leans over, and mutters under his breath:

“You’re an idiot.”

Jungkook blinks. “What?”

Yoongi leaves him with that and turns back to his drink, biting down a smile. He’ll leave the kid to figure this one out on his own.

________________________________

Yoongi is riding a high he hasn’t felt in a long time as he steps off the stage and makes his way toward his friends gathered around a tall table near the bar. His heart’s still thrumming from the adrenaline, his fingers tingling with leftover energy.

He startles when a pair of enthusiastic arms wraps tightly around him from behind. “That was amazing, hyung!” Taehyung wraps him tighter and lifts his feet off the ground in exuberance. 

“Yah, put me down, you giant beast!” Yoongi yelps, wriggling until Tae finally sets him back on solid footing, though he keeps his hands firmly on Yoongi’s shoulders, steering him toward the group like a proud stage mom.

“Everyone bow before Suga, rap god!” Taehyung declares dramatically, voice ringing out over the hum of the bar.

Yoongi rolls his eyes and flicks him in the forehead. Tae cackles and bows low in exaggerated reverence.

Namjoon greets him with a grin, clapping him on the back and handing over a glass of amber liquid. “Good round. Here—this is the best whiskey they have here.”

Yoongi takes a sip and instantly makes a face at his best friend.

Namjoon grins and shrugs, “I mean… it was five dollars.”

Yoongi sneers at the glass, but tosses the rest of it back grimacing, “You’re trying to kill me.”

Jungkook is looking at him with wide eyes. “Seriously, hyung, I knew you could rap, but I’ve never heard you rap like that. I didn’t know you had it in you.” 

Yoongi scoffs, mock offended, “I’ll have you know, I am a lyrical genius. Just ask Namjoon.” 

Namjoon raises his eyebrows. “I mean… ‘genius’ is a word that one could use.”

Yoongi points at him triumphantly. “See?”

A voice Yoongi doesn’t recognize pipes up with a teasing lilt, “Did he actually say genius, though?”

Yoongi blinks, finally registering the unfamiliar face in their little circle. A fourth person—slight, silver-haired, and dressed like he walked straight out of Yoongi’s own closet—leans against the table, sipping something pink and deadly from a straw.

“Who’s the kid?” Yoongi asks.

Taehyung lights up. “Oh! This is Park Jimin—my bestie and all-around cool guy. The apple of my eye. The Watson to my Sherlock. The Sasuke to my Naruto.”

Jimin shoots him a sideways look. “I’m not dying for you, Tae.”

Taehyung clutches his chest. “That’s rude, but fair.”

He turns back to Yoongi. “Jimin, this is Yoongi-hyung. Resident rap genius, in case that wasn’t clear.”

Jimin smiles at him offers a small bow, polite but confident. “Nice to meet you, hyung.”

Yoongi sizes him up. The kid is cute, he thinks. His silver hair catches the dim light like a halo. He’s dressed head to toe in black—boots, skin-tight pants, a loose and flowy v-neck that dips lower than necessary. Even with the extra boost from his boots, Yoongi guesses they’re the same height. Close enough, anyway.

“Ah, the dancer,” Yoongi says. “I thought you’d be taller.”

Jimin straightens, scandalized. His whole face scrunches up in an adorably affronted pout. “Well, you’re no tall drink of water yourself!”

Yoongi snorts, nodding approvingly. “I like this one.”

Jimin blinks, halfway through a retort, then grins like he’s won something.

“I knew you would!” Jungkook says, practically vibrating. “Jimin’s roommate, Hobi-hyung, was here earlier too—but he left a little bit ago. I guess something important came up.”

Yoongi hums, distracted. Something about the name pulls at him, tugs on a thread buried too deep. Hobi. Hoseok. But he doesn’t let himself pull on it.

“Ah,” he says, brushing it off. “I’m sure I’ll meet him sooner or later.”

Chapter Text

“Sooner or later” ends up being sooner. 

Not two weeks pass before Yoongi is back at the same bar, scanning the crowd for Namjoon’s lanky frame. He’s late, but with good reason. Yoongi spots Taehyung’s bright hair like a beacon in the back corner and starts swaggering his way over. The bar is packed, strangers bleeding into their tiny enclave. Yoongi isn’t a fan of crowds, but he’s in too good a mood to care—he’s got news to share.

“Sit down, children, Hyung has an announcement!” 

Jin looks up from where he’s leaning against Joon’s side, chatting with Taehyung, “Yah, listen to this guy! Can’t even put his plates in the sink before he leaves in the morning, but comes waltzing in making demands like some big shot.” 

“Joon, control your wife.”

“Who’s the wife?!” Jin squawks. Namjoon catches his tipsy boyfriend around the waist and pulls him into his lap before he can launch across his lap and out of the booth.

“You’d make a great wife, babe.” Joon kisses his cheek. Jin settles back against him, preening.

“Damn right I would. Best wife you could dream of! Just look at this face.”

Yoongi smiles at his friends, feeling quite fond of them in that moment. He’s about to launch back into his announcement when a startlingly familiar voice off to his right freezes him in place.

“Hey, Yoongi.”

Next to Jungkook, there's a man with a too-familiar smile. It’s almost exactly the same—just sharper now. Grown.

“Hoseok?”

He looks good. Still lean, a little lanky, but the baby fat is gone, leaving a jawline Yoongi doesn’t quite remember being so defined. His limbs, once awkward and gangly, now fluid and graceful. But the smile—God, the smile is exactly the same. Yoongi stares at that smile, trying to reconcile the now with the then.

Jimin glances between them. “You two know each other?”

Yoongi nods absently, brain swimming.

When was the last time he saw that smile directed at him? Senior year, he thinks. Right before it all fell apart. They’d gone for coffee before Hoseok’s Saturday rehearsal. Yoongi, barely functional before caffeine, tried desperately to keep up with Hoseok’s chatter, trying to make the best of the little time they spent together. He’d nodded off, head jerking forward, only to snap awake insisting, “I wasn’t sleeping! I heard everything you said!” Hoseok had laughed so loud the barista threatened to kick them out.

“How?” Jimin’s voice breaks through the haze of memory.

“Huh?”

“I was just asking how you and Hobi-hyung know each other.”

Ah. That’s a question.

How does one explain what Hoseok once was to him? How do you explain someone who was, at one point, your everything? Who filled your days, your plans, your head, your chest?

“We went to high school together,” Hoseok answers.

Yoongi blinks.

Well. That... hurts.

For all that Yoongi was agonizing over the exact words for what Hoseok was to him, “went to high school together” had never crossed his mind.

“Yup,” he says, swallowing down the sting and looking at the table. He misses the way Hoseok’s smile falters.

Jimin glances between them, confused by the shift in both his hyung’s demeanor. “Huh. Small world.”

“Yup.” Yoongi feels numb. When was the last time he felt like this?

“What was it you wanted to tell us, hyung?” Jungkook’s eyes are wide and open—bless the kid. His presence helps Yoongi shake off some of the static.

“Oh, right.” Yoongi clears his throat, re-centering himself.

'You’re a grown man. You haven’t seen him in years. Get over yourself, Min Yoongi.'

He doesn’t look at Hoseok. 

“Well,” he says, slipping into that “big shot” persona Jin mocked earlier, “you are now looking at a Junior Producer who, as of Monday, will no longer have the ‘junior’ besmirching his title.”

The table erupts into cheers and chatter at his announcement.

“Congratulations, Yoongi-ah!”

“That’s amazing!”

“Does this mean drinks are on you tonight?”

Namjoon slides Jin off his lap and stands up to put a hand warm on Yoongi’s shoulder. His voice drops, genuine. “Congratulations, Yoongs. I’m really proud of you. You deserve this.”

Yoongi smiles softly at his best friend, one of the people he loves most in the world, who has always supported him and loved him like a brother should. “Thanks, Joon-ah.”

Joon leans in just slightly closer, eyes flicking toward Hoseok who is watching the two of them carefully, then back and whispers, “We can talk about the other thing later, if you want.”

Yoongi swallows. His throat’s tight. God, he’s lucky to have Joon.

Ugh. Too much emotion.

He clears his throat and looks down at the table. Joon pats his shoulder once and lets it go, sliding back into the booth next to his boyfriend. Neither notice Hoseok’s gaze drifting away.

“But, really hyung, does this mean drinks are on you tonight?”

Yoongi reaches over the table and lightly smacks the back of Tae’s head, “Kids, today. No respect for their elders!” 

Taehyung pouts dramatically, lashes fluttering pathetically. “But hyung, we’re starving artists!”

“Starving artists who eat all my food and drink my coffee.”

“Our food!” Jin yells.

Jungkook leans over Tae’s shoulder and joins the lash-batting. “Please, hyung.”

And Yoongi—he’s a sap, really. He really can’t deny them anything.

“Yah, fine. ONE round. And I’m choosing the drink!”

The cheers follow him to the bar.

He’s standing at the bar, fingers tapping against the wood as he waits for their order. A familiar presence sidles up beside him. He glances—and there’s that smile again.

“Do you need any help?”

Yoongi turns and takes the man in properly now. Hoseok’s grown but he’s not much taller than Yoongi himself - thank god. He’s in light-wash jeans and an oversized blue sweatshirt. His hair sticks out from under a pale yellow bucket hat, soft chestnut brown. He’s still as beautiful as Yoongi remembers him to be. Of course.

“You look good,” Yoongi says instead of answering. He doesn’t look him in the eyes. Why is this so hard?

“Thanks, you too.” Silence stretches. Yoongi picks at a loose thread on his jeans; Hoseok now the one tapping a rhythm on the bar. He was never this hesitant before.

“What did you order?”

“Oh. Um, Vodka Cranberry,” Yoongi replies. “Basic white girl cocktail, I know—but Tae loves them. Jin too. Basic bitch that he is.”

Hoseok laughs, that familiar, unfiltered laugh, smile back in full force. “You love them.”

Yoongi snorts. He can’t help glancing back at the table, all his ridiculous people squeezed into one booth. “I do.”

“That’s good.” Silence again. They used to know how to fill it.

“Congratulations on the promotion by the way.”

“Oh. Yeah. Thanks.” 

The drinks arrive. Hoseok grabs four. Yoongi pays and gathers the remaining three. As he turns, Hoseok pauses and meets his gaze fully.

“I’m really happy for you, you know. Looks like you’re well on your way to having everything you always wanted.”

The smile is sincere - his eyes happy as he walks away.

Yoongi watches him go.

And wonders why it makes him feel like shit.

________________________________

Everyone loves Hoseok.

Jungkook, Taehyung, and Jimin call him hyung and are constantly draping themselves over him like oversized golden retrievers. They gush about how amazing he is—how phenomenal a dancer, choreographer, and instructor. Hoseok laughs it off with a blush high on his cheeks, modest as ever, and quickly changes the subject.

At some point in the evening, Jin—true to form—throws a handful of salt at Jimin during a particularly heated pun war and shouts, “If you don’t back down, I’ll a-salt you again!”

The eye-rolling is intense and the groans are deafening, but Hoseok’s bright laughter rises above them all, ringing out high and clear. Jin throws his head back and laughs too, tears gathering in his eyes.

Later, he’ll say that was the moment that solidified his affection for the younger man.

Worse still—for Yoongi, anyway—Hoseok and Namjoon hit it off immediately. Maybe it’s because they’re the same age, but they speak to each other like they’ve known each other for years, not hours. Something about their cadence syncs up effortlessly. Inside jokes are already forming.

Yoongi tells himself he should be happy about it. Really, he should. But it rankles that his childhood best friend and his current best friend get along so well. 

God. When did he become so petty?

He watches as Hoseok gets pulled into the center of the group again and again—Jimin begging for dance advice, Tae challenging him to a ridiculous body roll contest, Jungkook asking if he teaches private lessons. Hoseok meets all of it with grace and open arms, like he’s always belonged.

Yoongi can’t help thinking that Hoseok is more effortlessly folding into this friend group—this family—than Yoongi ever has.

And isn’t that a kick in the teeth.

It shouldn’t bother him. What happened between them was almost ten years ago. It’s not like he hates Hoseok. He doesn’t. He likes him. Or. He liked him, past tense. Maybe more than liked…

And just like that, Yoongi realizes—he doesn’t really know Hoseok anymore.

Years change people. Life does.

Look at him.

Maybe he’s being too weird about this. Maybe it’s all in his head. Hoseok probably hasn’t thought about him once since they graduated, so why is he still hung up on some dumb feelings he had when they were kids?

‘Because he was the person you loved the most and you lost him. It’s okay to feel sad about it,’ a voice in his head that sounds frustratingly like Namjoon’s pipes up. 

Yoongi glances over.

Hoseok’s laughing again, head tilted back, mouth open, hands clapping in front of him. There’s so much light in him. There always was. And it makes Yoongi smile, despite himself.

He forgot how much energy Seok’s joy could bring into a room. How much it used to bring into him.

Maybe it doesn’t have to be weird. They were friends once. Maybe they could be friends again.

Start fresh.

‘Maybe start with a long overdue apology? A clean slate?’

Yoongi rolls his eyes. God, even in his own head, Namjoon is an insufferable know-it-all.

Chapter Text

Yoongi is spiraling.

His therapist warned him it would happen sometimes. That even when things are good—especially when things are good—it can sneak up on him.

He just doesn’t understand why now.

He loves his new role at the company. One of his songs was just picked up by a relatively well-known idol group. He has a solid group of friends who put up with him, who care. He’s even started rebuilding something with Hoseok. A tentative sort of pseudo-friendship, maybe. Something nice but…cautious.

So why does his brain insist that he’s miserable?

At least now, he can recognize it for what it is. He can name it. Manage it, even if he can’t stop it. 

It still sucks though. 

It always starts the same way: with irritation.

Everything his friends do seems to piss him off. Namjoon can't decide on a dinner spot, and Yoongi bites his head off for it. Taehyung leaves his shoes out again, and Yoongi snaps. Jin uses one of his coffee mugs and Yoongi lashes out like it's a personal betrayal.

Stupid shit. Things that wouldn’t even register on a normal day.

He drags himself to work, but can’t focus on anything. He stares at a blank screen for hours. The same four bars loop in his headphones, and he hates every second of them. He’s half convinced it’s only a matter of time before he’s fired. Before everything unravels. He’s anxious and paranoid and so fucking exhausted. 

He sees how the others start tiptoeing around him. How the kids—his kids—start giving him space that feels more like distance. And he hates himself for it.

So he avoids them first.

He starts coming home late. Stops lingering in the living room. Retreats into his bedroom like it’s a bunker because it’s easier that way. Less guilt if he doesn’t see their faces. Jimin calls his name when he walks through the front door one night. Yoongi doesn’t answer. Doesn’t pause. Just walks straight to his room and shuts the door.

As the latch clicks, he hears Namjoon’s voice behind it—quiet and careful, “He doesn’t mean anything by it.”

Yoongi collapses onto his bed fully clothed and the tears finally start to flow. They fall hot and fast and merciless as guilt claws its way up his throat. They don’t deserve this, he thinks. Any of it. They don’t deserve me like this.

That’s what finally pushes him to call Dr. Lee. She clears time for him that same week. Emergency sessions. A lifeline. Yoongi thanks her in a choked voice. She tells him she’s proud of him for reaching out. Says he should be proud of himself too. Yoongi stares at the wall.

He doesn’t feel proud.

______________

Some days later, Yoongi is starting to feel a little more like a person…like himself again. He knows he has some apologizing to do.

Dr. Lee had reminded him how important it is to keep the people he cares about in the loop with how he’s feeling—how accountability matters even when his emotions feel like something he can’t always fully control. Especially then.

That morning, when he steps out of his bedroom before work, he finds Namjoon sitting on the kitchen counter, legs bracketing Jin’s hips, the two of them nursing mugs—tea for Namjoon, coffee for Jin—deep in quiet conversation. They both look up when Yoongi clears his throat.

“So,” he says, scratching the back of his neck, “I’m a shitty roommate.”

Namjoon smiles easily. “Well, we already knew that.”

Yoongi lets out a short laugh and turns his gaze toward Jin. Namjoon’s used to him, sure—but Jin…

“We’re not mad at you, Yoongi,” Jin says, calm and direct. “I don’t like that you took your anger out on me and Joon and the kids, but I’m not mad.”

Yoongi flinches. “I know. I’m sorry. I’d like to say it won’t happen again, but...”

“But we’re family,” Jin finishes for him. “It’s easy to fight with family because you know they’ll always forgive you.”

Jin moves to pour himself another cup of coffee. He grabs a mug for Yoongi too and slides it across the table. Yoongi stands still for a beat, fingers tightening around the ceramic. He wasn’t expecting those words from Jin. He’s not sure why.

“Will you?” he asks, voice soft.

Jin squints. “Will we what?”

Yoongi doesn’t look up. His eyes are fixed on his hands, curled tightly around the mug. “Always forgive me?”

There’s a pause. Then a glance—Jin looking at Namjoon, something unspoken passing between them. Jin sets his cup down and walks around the table to where Yoongi stands, shoulders hunched, folded into himself.

He gently takes the mug from Yoongi’s hands and places it on the table. Then, without warning, Jin pulls him into a hug.

It’s rare—Jin hugging him. But Yoongi folds into it instinctively, arms sliding around Jin’s waist, face pressing into his shoulder to hold back the tears threatening to spill again.

“Always,” Jin murmurs. “Sometimes it may take a minute. But you’re stuck with us.”

He leans back and smiles down at Yoongi. “I’ll have you know, Joon and I are ride or die bitches. You couldn’t get rid of us if you tried.”

Yoongi smiles—small, but real. The most genuine one he’s mustered in days. “Thanks, hyung.”

“Yah, you hear that, Joon? Hyung, he says. We should hug more often—maybe then you’ll start treating me with the respect my stature deserves!”

Yoongi pushes away with a groan. “Well, moment ruined. I’m going to work.”

He grabs his jacket, mask, and bag from the hook near the door.

“Hang on. I’ll walk with you,” Namjoon says, hopping off the counter—and promptly knocking over his half-full cup of tea. He freezes, eyes wide. Jin sighs loudly from behind him.

“Go,” he waves him off. “I’ll clean it up, you big oaf.”

Namjoon flashed his dimples at his boyfriend and kisses him on the cheek before quickly grabbing his bag and following Yoongi out the door. 

They walk in comfortable silence for a few blocks, side by side, the city waking up around them. When they near the intersection where they’ll have to split, Namjoon speaks.

“He’s right, you know.” Yoongi glances over. “About you being a big oaf? That’s not news, Joon.”

Namjoon snorts. “Nah, never about that. About the ride or die part. You’re ours, hyung. No matter what.” Yoongi’s heart stutters. He swallows hard, blinking up at the traffic light. Not again. No more crying today, damn it.

He groans. “Oh my god, shut up. I can’t handle any more genuine goddamn emotions right now. I’m tapped out.”

Namjoon laughs softly and pats his shoulder. “Okay, hyung.”

The walk signal blinks green on Namjoon’s side of the street.

“I’ll see you later, Yoongs.”

Namjoon steps into the crosswalk, and Yoongi watches him go. Something tugs at him—sudden and sharp. “Hey! Joon!” Namjoon turns, halting in the middle of the sidewalk as annoyed pedestrians stream around him.

Yoongi steels himself. Say it, you coward.

“Love you.”

Namjoon’s face softens, dimples deepening. “Love you too, hyung.”

______________________________

Saturday mornings usually find them at the café where Taehyung works.

Namjoon and Jungkook are regulars, often camped out with laptops and textbooks to study while sipping overpriced lattes. Over time, it’s become sort of a tradition—one that draws the rest of them in, whoever’s free. They cram into a cozy corner nook at the front of the café, a space they’ve quietly claimed as theirs.

Taehyung is usually too busy to sit with them, but he waves from behind the counter when he can, and when he finally gets a break, he drops into one of their chairs—or more often, into Jungkook’s lap with zero warning and even less grace.

Yoongi can usually be found slouched on one of the couches, chin to chest, half-asleep as the others chatter and laugh around him.

But this week, he’s wide awake. Overly awake. And more than a little anxious. He knows Jin and Joon have forgiven him. But the kids are different. They’re new to Yoongi and all his bullshit. They don’t owe him the kind of grace Jin does.

So with anxiety heavy in his gut, he pushes open the café door—and barely has time to blink before he’s ambushed.

“Hyung!” a voice shouts.

A second later, the long, surprisingly heavy form of Kim Taehyung slams into him.

“Yah! What did I tell you about manhandling me, you brat?”

“Sorry, hyung, but I haven’t seen you in ages!”

“It’s been, like, a week and a half.”

“Exactly!”

Yoongi shoves him off with a groan, but there’s a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. He glances toward their usual corner and finds five pairs of eyes watching with varying levels of amusement. He draws a breath and heads toward them, Taehyung’s long arms still draped lazily across his shoulders.

Even though he can’t detect any anger in their expressions, Yoongi feels the unease creep up again. He locks his eyes on Hoseok’s bright, open smile and uses it like an anchor.

“Hey,” he says.

They’re quiet. Not unkindly—just waiting, giving him the space to speak.

“Look, I know I’ve been kind of shitty these past few weeks.” He runs a hand through his hair, nerves sparking under his skin. Taehyung gives his shoulders a small, grounding squeeze.

“It’s… I’m working on it. But sometimes it just hits me—this thing—and I get angry, and paranoid, and then it feels like the house is crumbling and the world’s ending and there’s nothing I can do to stop it. Anyway. It sucks. I didn’t mean to be such a dick.”

Jiminie, bless him, jumps in to stop his word vomit before Yoongi can spiral any further.

“You don’t need to explain yourself, hyung. We get it. I spent a lot of years in a really similar place, and I still struggle sometimes. You don’t ever have to feel guilty for having some bad days.”

Yoongi exhales, long and shaky. “I shouldn’t take it out on you guys, though.”

Jungkook lets out a soft laugh. “Well, no, but we’re not that delicate, hyung. We can handle some harsh words every now and then. Just don’t make it, like, a habit.”

Yoongi smiles at their youngest and nods in agreement. He looks at them all, one by one—his people, his chaotic little tribe. He meets Joon’s gaze and finds a familiar warmth there.

His throat tightens.

“I’m not good at ‘sorry,’” he admits.

He startles as a hand slips into his, gentle and sure. He looks down to find Hoseok beside him, eyes kind.

“You don’t have to be good at it, hyung. You told us how you were feeling. That’s enough.”

He gives Yoongi’s hand a quick squeeze before letting go, slipping back as if it were nothing.

But it wasn't nothing. Not to Yoongi.

He stands there for a moment, surrounded by the people who love him—not in spite of who he is, but because of it. The family who knows and understands him better than he sometimes understands himself. The family he’s chosen and built, one piece at a time.

And for the first time in a while, he feels like maybe he’s going to be okay.

Chapter Text

Hoseok has been texting him. 

Random little thoughts, stray moments from his day. Yoongi isn’t great at texting back—he never has been—but he makes an effort for Seok. The more time he spends with his childhood friend, the more he notices how much the boy he once knew has changed. Grown into himself. Smoothed some of the rough edges. Become someone Yoongi really, really likes knowing.

So he makes the effort. 

The other man seems to appreciate the feeble attempt. Apparently, Hoseok doesn’t mind his slow replies—he just keeps texting, dropping in whenever the mood strikes him. Sometimes it’s a weird emoji combo after a long dance rehearsal. Sometimes it’s gems like: ‘Saw a squirrel put 5 WHOLE NUTS in its mouth on my way to the studio today. What a time to be alive.’

And sometimes, when Yoongi is feeling particularly sociable, their conversations stretch across hours—days, even and go well into the night. They talk music, swap stories, debate the finer things in life: iced vs. hot coffee (iced, obviously), vampire vs. werewolf bites (vampire, no contest).

Yoongi looks forward to those texts more than he’d ever admit.

And if his heart jumps a little when he sees “New Message – Seok” light up on his phone? That’s nobody’s business but his own.

___________________________

“Should I get Jungkook flowers? Would that be weird? I can’t bring him flowers. That’s weird. But maybe he’d like them?”

Yoongi had had enough, “Oh my god. Just get the kid flowers!” 

It’s a sunny Sunday afternoon. He, Jin, and Taehyung are on their way to a showcase the dance studio is putting on. Taehyung’s been spiraling about the gift situation since they left the house.

“But what if it’s too weird!? Like, is that something friends do for each other?”

Yoongi scoffs, “Kid, you and Jungkook are ‘just friends’ like Jin and Joon are ‘just roommates’.” 

At the mention of his name, Jin—the eldest, and self-proclaimed most mature—chimes in.

“Okay, how about this. We get flowers for all of them. That way it’s not weird, and Tae can keep pretending the bouquet is for ‘friendship’ and not the boy he secretly wants to bone.”

Yoongi freezes. “Did you just say bone?”

“I can say what I want.”

“Okay, old man.”

Tae mutters down at his feet, still red in the ears. “I don’t want to bone him…”

Yoongi gives his shoulder a patronizing pat. “Sure, kid.”

Before Tae can start up his protests once more, Jin claps his hands loudly, “Right! Flowers. Lucky for us, there’s a florist a few blocks away.”

Of course there is. It’s near Jin’s restaurant, so naturally he knows exactly where to go.

When they arrive, Jin starts delegating immediately. “Tae, you grab something for your dream lover. I’ll get a bouquet for Jiminie. Yoongs—you get Hoseok.” And just like that, he’s off.

Yoongi sighs, long-suffering. He knows nothing about flowers, let alone what counts as an appropriate post-performance bouquet. Roses are standard, right?

He wanders aimlessly for a bit, considering a bunch of pink roses until something in the window catches his eye. They’re unassuming, a little messy, and they make him smile. A big, cheerful bouquet of simple white and yellow. If he didn’t know better, he’d say they were smiling back at him.

Perfect.

At the register, Jin and Tae are already waiting. Jin’s holding a classy bouquet of red roses—classic, understated, very Jiminie. Taehyung clutches an elegant spray of lavender stock and purple roses, nervously inspecting each bloom.

“I hope he likes it,” he mutters.

Jin glances at Yoongi’s daisies and raises a perfectly skeptical eyebrow.

Yoongi stiffens, suddenly self-conscious. That look.

Jin just smirks and turns away to pay. Yoongi doesn’t know what that look means, but for a second, it makes him want to stick his tongue out at the older man. 

He does once the other’s back is turned. 

___________________________

He’s flexible, is the first coherent thought Yoongi has while watching Hoseok perform.

Each of their friends has a solo in this showcase—including Seok. Technically, he’s not a student, but instructors and choreographers were invited to perform too. A smart marketing move: a way to show off for potential students—and any scouts lurking in the crowd.

They’re about halfway through the program when Hoseok takes the stage. Everyone has been incredible, but there’s something about this performance that gets under Yoongi’s skin. Hoseok is a gorgeous contradiction—fluid and bold, effortless and sharp, switching between soft and explosive with zero warning and even less hesitation.

Maybe it’s the precision. Maybe it’s the expression—the confidence. Maybe it’s just him.

Whatever it is, Yoongi can’t seem to tear his eyes away.

He’s riveted, gaze tracking every stretch, every spin, every pointed toe and sharp turn. And when it ends—when the last note fades and the applause kicks in—Yoongi finds himself blinking like he’s just come up for air.

Then an elbow jabs into his ribs.

He turns to scowl at Taehyung, who’s grinning like the cat who caught him mid-mouse.

“You might want to close your mouth, hyung,” Tae says smugly. “You’ve got a little drool right there.”

He smiles at the grunt Taehyung makes when his foot connects with Tae’s shin. 

___________________________

“Hey guys!”

Hoseok jogs toward them, flushed with exertion and excitement, his hair slicked to his forehead and his shirt still clinging to his body. He looks like the sun dipped itself in glitter and decided to take human form. Yoongi can’t stop staring.

He’s gorgeous.
He’s always thought Hoseok was handsome, but there’s something about him now—bright-eyed, beaming, soaked in post-performance energy—that feels like a punch to the gut.

Jungkook and Jimin sidle up behind Hoseok - big smiles on their faces as they greet their friends. 

Before Yoongi can even process a word, Taehyung bounces forward, thrusting his bouquet out like a knight offering tribute. “You were amazing, Jungkookie!”

Jungkook, just behind Hoseok and mid–water bottle sip, blinks in surprise as Taehyung practically shoves the flowers into his arms. “Oh—wow, thank you, Tae.”

“You were just—so good. So sexy—I mean the dance was sexy—not like you’re—not that you’re not—fuck—” Taehyung slaps a hand over his face and groans. “I’m gonna go throw myself into a dumpster now.”

Jungkook laughs, pink blooming across his cheeks as he tucks the flowers under one arm. “It’s okay. Sexy is fine. Thank you.”

“Someone end me,” Taehyung mutters.

Before he can spiral further, Jin swoops in to save him with his usual cool-headed charm, already offering Jimin his bouquet. “You were stunning as always, Jiminie. And I’m sorry Joon couldn’t come—he had a last-minute meeting with his advisor about his dissertation defense. He really wanted to be here.”

Jimin’s eyes light up as he takes the roses, spinning the bouquet slowly to admire it from all sides. “Aw, he’s forgiven. This is perfect. Thank you for coming—you all didn’t have to do this.”

“Of course we did,” Jin says with a wave. “We’re your most attractive fans. We couldn’t deprive you of our faces and presence.”

“I’m going to have to start putting you all on my guest list as ‘VIP Adoring Groupies.’ It’ll be good for my ego.”

Yoongi snorts at that, then startles a little when he realizes Hoseok is now standing directly in front of him, eyes wide and soft and waiting. Jin nudges him—not hard, but pointedly—and Yoongi clears his throat and shuffles the bouquet of daisies from one hand to the other before offering them out.

“These are for you,” he says, awkward and quiet.

Hoseok blinks down at them for a moment, then looks back up at Yoongi with the warmest expression he’s ever worn—like Yoongi just handed him a treasure map and a compass and said, Here. Something wonderful is here if you just follow this map.

“Daisies,” he murmurs, touched. “These are my favorite.”

Hoseok’s fingers brush over the petals like they’re delicate and rare. “They remind me of home. And summer. And… I don’t know. Hope, I guess.” His voice softens even more. “They’re perfect. Thank you.”

Jin, ever the instigator, lifts his eyebrows and grins. “Yoongi picked them out himself. Very deliberately.” Behind him, he hears Taehyung hide a laugh behind a cough. 

Yoongi glares at them both but Hoseok is still looking at him like that and it makes it hard to be annoyed. He shrugs, trying to play it off.

“They just looked like you,” he says, then immediately wants to die. “I mean—not look like you—just, like, you have the same vibe—God.”

But Hoseok just laughs, bright and surprised, and Yoongi thinks it might be the prettiest sound he’s heard in weeks.

“Well,” Hobi says, clutching the bouquet close to his chest, “that might be the nicest thing anyone’s said to me all year.”

Yoongi doesn’t know what to say to that, so he says nothing. Just smiles, awkward and lopsided, and watches as Hoseok glances down at the daisies again like they mean something. Like he means something.

And Yoongi—standing in the middle of a crowded room full of post-performance buzz and chaos—feels something in his chest unclench.

Just a little.

Chapter Text

He doesn’t know exactly how it started, but every other Thursday, Yoongi finds himself heading to the dance studio to meet Hoseok, Jimin, and Jungkook for their little ritual: greasy food at a nearby diner. Jin and Taehyung are usually working, Namjoon’s swamped with classes, so more often than not, it’s just the four of them. It’s become a routine he quietly looks forward to.

But when Yoongi walks into the studio today, something feels off. The air is too quiet. The usual post-practice joy and chaos is absent.

Hoseok stands at the desk in the corner, his back to the room, posture rigid and unnatural. Jungkook is nowhere to be seen. Jimin’s by the cubbies, shoving his things into his bag with a kind of aggression that’s rare for him.

Yoongi raises an eyebrow and makes his way over. “Hey, you guys ready?”

Jimin zips his bag sharply and slings it over his shoulder, his expression tight. “I don’t think today’s a good day, hyung. Hobi-ssi’s in a bit of a mood.” Yoongi’s eyes widen at the address.

Jimin casts a pointed glance toward their silent roommate before softening slightly. When he reaches Yoongi at the door, he pauses to squeeze his arm gently. “Maybe you’ll have some luck. Night, Yoongi-hyung.”

Yoongi watches the door swing shut before turning back to Hoseok, who’s still fussing with papers on the desk in a pantomime of ‘tidying up’. He clearly knows Yoongi’s there—he’s just pretending otherwise. That alone sets off a quiet alarm in Yoongi’s chest. This isn’t like Hoseok. He’s not someone who retreats or shuts people out. Not usually.

Yoongi walks slowly toward him, careful not to startle whatever fragile mood is hanging in the air, and places a tentative hand on his shoulder. “Hey. What’s going on?”

Hoseok doesn’t flinch, but he also doesn’t stop shuffling through things that clearly don’t need tidying. “Nothing,” he says flatly. “I’m fine.” The words are too clipped. 

Yoongi doesn’t let go. He presses his fingers in just a little tighter, not forceful—just grounding. “Come on, Seok.”

That finally earns him a sigh. Hoseok turns, slowly, leaning back against the desk as he crosses his arms tight over his chest. He won’t meet Yoongi’s eyes.

“I auditioned for a spot at a really prestigious company the other day,” he says after a beat. “Like… one of the most respected in the industry. Dancers from there go on to be someone.”

Yoongi’s stomach drops. The phrasing is painfully familiar. He recalls similar words, spoken in anger to a younger version of the man in front of him.

But more than that, a knot of guilt twists in his chest—because he didn’t know. He had no idea Hoseok was even preparing for an audition, let alone one that clearly meant this much to him. When had he decided to go for it? Had he kept it to himself on purpose? Why hadn’t he told them?

Why hadn’t he told him?

Yoongi doesn’t know if he’s more hurt that he didn’t know… or worried about what it means that Hoseok hadn’t felt like he could tell them. Like he had to carry it alone.

He wants to ask. Wants to say something. But Hoseok’s eyes are fixed somewhere over Yoongi’s shoulder, and the next words are already forming on his lips.

“…And?” Yoongi prompts, even though he thinks he already knows.

Hoseok’s lips twist into a half-smile that Yoongi instantly hates. It’s bitter and tired and small.

“Apparently I’m not what they’re looking for.”

Silence stretches between them.

Yoongi could say he’s sorry. Could say that they’re wrong or that the industry’s a mess. But none of that feels like it’ll land right. Hoseok doesn’t need pity. He needs someone who believes in him even when the world doesn’t.

So Yoongi shrugs and says, “Fuck ‘em.”

Hoseok finally looks up, brows raised. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.” Yoongi leans in. “Fuck. Them.”

Hoseok rolls his eyes, unimpressed. “You can’t just say ‘fuck them’ like that magically makes it all better.”

Yoongi steps forward, hands settling firmly on Hoseok’s shoulders. “Why not? If they can’t see the insane amount of talent and heart and fire you’ve got, then they don’t deserve you anyway. You’re an amazing dancer, a brilliant choreographer, and one of the hardest working people I know.”

He gives the younger man a light shake for emphasis. “And you know me. I’m not exactly a cheerleader. If you sucked, I’d tell you that you suck.”

That earns the smallest huff of laughter. Yoongi lets go and shifts so he’s half-sitting on the desk beside him.

“They should be begging to work with you. It’s their loss, not yours. So yeah—fuck ‘em.”

Hoseok looks at him, finally, eyes searching his face like he’s checking to see if he really means it.

Then, softly and with a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes: “Okay. Fuck ‘em.”

Yoongi bumps his shoulder against Hoseok’s. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Smile at me if you don’t mean it.”

Hoseok snorts and leans over to faux whisper. “I don’t know if you know this about me, but that’s kind of my whole thing.”

Yoongi turns toward him more fully, dropping the teasing. “Look. I know you always want to be the beacon in the room and bring like, light and positivity or whatever everywhere you go. But take it from someone who’s been in therapy for the better part of a decade—it’s okay to be sad sometimes.”

Hoseok’s expression softens, that quicksilver flicker of emotion surfacing again. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. I hear it’s even good for you. Builds character or something. How can you really appreciate the happy moments without the sad ones, you know?”

“You sound like a sympathy card.”

“Fuck off.”

“‘After the rain comes the rainbow,’” Hoseok quips, eyes twinkling.

Yoongi shoves him hard, grinning. “Seriously. Fuck all the way off.”

Hoseok laughs for real then, bright and warm and real this time. The sound loosens something in Yoongi’s chest.

They fall into a comfortable silence. No pressure to fill it. Just the warmth of shared space and the closeness they’ve slowly reclaimed.

“Hey.” Hoseok looks up and meets Yoongi’s eye, “You are somebody, Soek. You’re already amazing. It’s just a matter of time before the right people see it.” The younger boy looks down at his feet for a moment, a blush high on his cheeks, but Yoongi can tell he’s smiling. “Thanks, Yoongs.” 

When he looks up, Yoongi sees his eyes are filled with tears. He’s has never been good with tears. His or anyone else’s. He panics. 

“Shit. Why are you crying?”

Hoseok lets out a watery laugh at his panic. “It’s nothing.” He shifts his full body so it’s resting against Yoongi’s, bodies touching shoulder to wrist, Hobi’s head coming to rest on Yoongi’s shoulder. 

“I’m just really glad we’re friends again. Like… really glad.” Yoongi’s heart lifts at that because, god, he’s glad they are too. Hoseok’s body feels good against his. Warm and solid. He swallows the lump in his throat and nods. “Yeah. Me too.”

His voice is quieter than usual, his heart pounding so loud he’s almost certain it can be heard. But he doesn’t pull away. “Now stop with the tears,” he mutters with little heat, “Or not. Whatever you need.”

Hoseok doesn’t pull away, but shifts his head to get more comfortable. “Thanks, hyung. I’m just gonna stay here for a minute.”

“Whatever you want,” Yoongi says, and he means it.

They stay like that, Hoseok’s head on his shoulder, their thighs pressed together, until Hoseok’s stomach lets out a loud, cartoonish growl. Yoongi bites back a smile. “Wanna get kimbap?”

Hoseok leans back with a sheepish grin. “You read my mind.”

Chapter Text

Sometimes, when Yoongi works late, and Hoseok has a free evening, he’ll bring Yoongi dinner. No warning, no fanfare — just shows up with his favorite takeout and a casual, “Figured you hadn’t eaten.” They eat together on the battered old couch in Yoongi’s studio, or, when Hoseok’s feeling antsy, up on the roof at the picnic tables, letting the night air keep them company.

Tonight, it’s simple; hamburgers and fries, eaten cross-legged on a picnic bench under dim security lights and a sky too clouded to see the stars.

“I’m thinking about getting my own place,” Yoongi says, picking at a soggy fry. Hoseok pauses mid-bite. “Really?”

“Yeah.” Yoongi looks up at the other boy and makes a face. “I walked in on Joon and Jin in a bit of a compromising position… again. And anyway, it just feels like it’s time. We’ve been putting up with each other for, what—seven years now?”

Hoseok hums, chewing thoughtfully. “Have you talked to Joon about it yet?”

“No. I just started considering it. Haven’t even looked at places.”

“Don’t you think you should tell him?”

Yoongi shrugs, taking a sip of his drink. “I will. Sooner or later.”

“When? When you’re signing the lease?”

“I mean…” Yoongi hesitates. “It’s not like Jin can’t afford the extra rent.” Hoseok gives him a look. “That’s not the point, hyung. He’s your best friend. You should tell him what you’re thinking—even if you don’t end up moving out.”

Yoongi groans. “Jin’s gonna get all sappy. Or worse, he’ll disguise the sap with a bunch of terrible jokes as a coping mechanism!”

Hoseok levels him with a mock sincerity, “That’s a price you’re just gonna have to pay.”

Yoongi flicks a fry at him. “What if I bring it up and Joon gets all excited to have the place to himself so he can fuck his boyfriend in peace, and then I cave and want to stay?”

“Joon loves you.”

“Yeah, but he’s not fucking me.”

“Jin loves you.”

“Same response.”

Hoseok laughs, but he watches Yoongi carefully now. The older man’s hands are idle now, fidgeting with the paper cup in front of him. “I’m the worst,” he says finally, quiet and raw in a way that makes Hoseok sit up straighter. “I’m the one who wants to leave, but I don’t want them to want me to leave.”

Hoseok softens. “Yoongi…”

“I know it’s stupid. I just… I don’t know. I want the freedom, but I also want to be missed. Is that selfish?”

“It’s human,” Hoseok says. “You’re allowed to want both.” Yoongi snorts softly. “That’s too reasonable.”

“Yeah, well. I’ve been working on myself.”

Yoongi glances up at him, mouth twitching. “Since when?”

“Since I became your emotional support friend, apparently.”

There’s a silence now that stretches out between them again like something safe. “…What if he gets mad at me for leaving?” Yoongi murmurs.

“He won’t be mad,” Hoseok says gently. “He wants you to be happy, hyung. And he’s proud of you—even if he doesn’t say it all the time. He wants to see you grow into the person you want to be. We all do.” Yoongi’s quiet for a beat. The wind rustles the wrapper under his elbow.

Fine,” he says eventually, voice gruff. “I’ll talk to them tonight.”

“Good.” Hoseok nudges his ankle under the table. “And if Jin cries, take a picture for me. I want to use it as blackmail. There’s no way he’s a pretty crier.”

“You’re the worst.”

“You love me.”

Yoongi huffs a laugh and looks up at last, catching the grin on Hoseok’s face. “Unfortunately,” he says—but it comes out far softer than he means it to.

___________________________

The three of them are gathered in the kitchen: Yoongi with his laptop and headphones, Joon scribbling in his notebook, and Jin experimenting with something at the stove. Yoongi thinks it involves squid ink, but he’s not entirely sure. It smells vaguely of the sea and regret. Still, it’s comfortable. Familiar. Yoongi loves it.

“So, I’m thinking about getting my own place,” he says, not looking up from his screen.

Joon glances up, pen pausing in the margin. He pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose — stupid, cute dork. “Like… to live?”

Yoongi rolls his eyes. “No, to run a lucrative smuggling business out of.”

Still focused on whatever concoction he’s trying to perfect, Jin calls over his shoulder, “Drugs or guns?”

“Exotic cats, actually.”

“Huh. Didn’t think you were a fan of pussy.”

Yoongi groans. “That’s just crude.”

Joon clears his throat pointedly before the conversation can devolve further. His gaze lands on Yoongi, concern softening his features. Yoongi hates it.
“Listen, Yoongs, if we’ve done anything to make you feel uncomfortable—”

Yoongi cuts him off before the guilt can settle. He knows exactly what Joon’s thinking — knows he’s remembering the day Yoongi came home early from the studio and got more of Jin than he bargained for. “It’s not you guys. You didn’t do anything. I mean, at this point, I’m kind of used to seeing Seokjin’s dick.”

Jin finally joins them at the table, wiping his stained hands on a dish towel. Definitely squid ink.
“You should feel honored to have had the opportunity.”

Yoongi gives him a flat look. “I just think it’s time for me to have my own space. I could use some dedicated studio room, and I’m sure you guys wouldn’t mind having the spare room open for when the kids crash instead of them hogging the couch.”

Namjoon still looks unsure. He watches Yoongi carefully, concern not fully gone from his face. But then something shifts — that quiet flicker of recognition Yoongi’s used to. Whatever Joon sees in him must be enough, because the tension eases from his shoulders. He breaks eye contact to run a hand through his newly dyed hair, mussing it in that artful, infuriating way. “If that’s what you want, of course you should do it.?”

“I do.” He hesitates, fingers drumming against the edge of his laptop, eyes fixed on the grain of the table. “I just…” He sighs. “What if we stop seeing each other as much? Once I’m not here all the time, what if life just… fills in the space?”

That quiet fear, the one he hadn’t let himself say out loud until now, finally lands.

“I know it’s stupid. I just don’t want us to drift. You know? Start prioritizing work or partners or other shit and then—” His voice falters, and he shrugs, like that’ll make it feel less pathetic. “I don’t wanna lose you guys.”

Jin stops mid-wipe, dish towel in hand, expression suddenly serious.

Namjoon’s voice is gentle. “You’re not gonna lose us.” Yoongi presses the heels of his hands to his eyes and Jin pipes in, “We were ride or die bitches, remember?”

“Still are,” Joon says, nudging his knee under the table. “You’re not going anywhere, even if you move ten subway stops away.”

Jin hums. “Unless the police find out about your big pussy ring—then we’ll have to cut all ties. For our own safety, of course.”

Yoongi snorts despite himself. “Noted.”

Joon laughs. “So, do you need help looking through listings?” Yoongi exhales, fingers drumming lightly on the keys of his laptop. Namjoon’s always been able to interpret his confusing emotions better than he can himself.

“Nah, I’m good for now. I’m not in too much of a hurry. I’ll just keep an eye out and make a move when it feels right… if that’s okay with you guys, of course.”

“Yeah, of course,” Namjoon says, and there’s no hesitation in it. “Take whatever time you need. I’m gonna miss you, you know.”

“Me too.” Yoongi’s voice softens. “You’re a really good friend, Joon-ah. The best, maybe.” Namjoon smiles, dimples flashing, and Yoongi finds himself smiling back without meaning to. Then, of course, Jin ruins it.

“Well, I for one won’t miss the unwashed coffee mugs I keep finding in the sink and on the coffee table and in the bathroom—”

Yoongi groans and reaches for his headphones, rolling his eyes so hard he nearly gives himself a headache.

“Yup. Moment ruined. Again.”

Chapter Text

Yoongi’s having one of those days where everything feels just a little too loud. Nothing catastrophic happened — just an accumulation of small things. A half-finished project, a weirdly tense meeting, a passive-aggressive email from a client who couldn’t be bothered to read the brief. He’s tired and strung out and aching in that vague, sourceless way that tells him he needs to sleep, eat something green, and probably cry - alone. Maybe in the bath.

He doesn’t do any of those things. Instead, he texts Hoseok. 

You: you home?

The reply comes a minute later:

Seok: Yep. Ramen or beer?

You: both.

You: and maybe a shovel. in case i bury a body tonight.

Seok: Cool cool cool. I’ll start boiling water and get the tarp.

By the time Yoongi arrives, Hoseok has set two steaming bowls of ramen on the coffee table and queued up a playlist of lo-fi songs that Yoongi once called “acceptable background noise.” He doesn’t ask questions when Yoongi collapses onto the couch with a long sigh and a longer groan. Just hands him a pair of chopsticks and nudges the bowl closer.

They eat in silence for a few minutes. Yoongi stares at the blank TV screen while Hoseok scrolls through his phone, careful not to intrude, though Yoongi can tell he’s aching to ask. Eventually, Yoongi mutters, “My job’s a joke and I’m a fraud and everything sucks.”

Without looking up, Hoseok replies, “You want me to fight someone or bail you out afterward?” Yoongi lets out a half-laugh that catches somewhere in his throat. He ponders. “You remember that fight I got into in high school? The one with that asshole who said something shitty about your dancing?”

Hoseok looks up then, surprised. “You mean the one you lost?”

“I didn’t lose.”

“You absolutely lost.”

Yoongi huffs. “I tripped. On the curb.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I was distracted.”

“By his fist hitting your face?”

“I was winning. And then I tripped.”

Hoseok’s lips twitch, “You keep telling yourself that.” Yoongi chuckles and then lets out a tired sigh, tilting his head back against the couch. “I don’t know why things like this still get to me. I’m not a kid anymore, I know how to turn the other cheek nowadays.” Hoseok’s head tilts showing he’s listening. 

“It’s not like I haven’t been doing this forever. Deadlines. Clients who think they’re geniuses. Projects that never get finished. I should be used to it by now.”

Hoseok hums, gentle. “Just because you’re used to something doesn’t mean it stops sucking.” Yoongi scoffs, but there’s no real bite to it. “You gonna start giving me pep talks now?”

“Only if you ask nicely.”

“I don’t need a pep talk.”

Hoseok glances at him, sideways. “You don’t need anything, hyung. You’ve always been like that. Even when we were kids. You just… handled it. Alone.” Yoongi goes quiet, something catching low in his throat. He sets his bowl down with a quiet clink. “I don’t need you to fight my battles for me,” he says finally. “I never did.”

“I know,” Hoseok says. He leans back, shoulder brushing Yoongi’s. “But you don’t always have to be alone, either.”

Yoongi looks at him, jaw tight. “I can take the hits. I just—it’s nice to have someone there after. To say I didn’t fuck it all up. To say I’m not crazy for feeling the way I do. For getting knocked down and standing back up.”

Hoseok smiles, soft and crooked. “I mean… you did do a pretty good job…Curb notwithstanding.”

“You’re damn right I did.”

They sit like that, side by side, warmth soaking into the quiet between them. Nothing fixed, nothing solved. He’ll go back to the studio tonight and probably stay there until well into the morning. But Yoongi’s chest doesn’t feel quite so tight anymore.

Chapter Text

Yoongi’s new place isn’t huge — one-bedroom, second floor, old hardwood floors — but it has a balcony, big windows and natural light, an “office” that he’ll turn into a studio, and most importantly, it’s his.

With the bump from his last promotion, he can make the payments without holding his breath every month. He’s doing well — better than he usually lets himself acknowledge. The apartment isn’t flashy, but it’s solid, full of potential. Not the same as the one he shared with Namjoon and Jin — not as loud or chaotic or full of lingering smells from Jin’s latest culinary experiments — but that’s okay. He doesn’t want it to be the same. He wants something of his own.

Something that feels like this. Besides, it’s not like he’s far. 

He’d found the listing by accident and fallen for it instantly — the light, the layout, the charm of it — but by the time he called in to inquire, it was already marked unavailable. He’d been disappointed, but let it go. These things happen.

A few days later, Jin had handed him a set of keys.

He hadn’t said much, just a shrug and a smug little smile. Yoongi didn’t ask — not really. But he knows Jin’s parents work in real estate, and Jin himself has always had the kind of connections that can make inconvenient details quietly disappear. Nepo-baby magic or something.

It wasn’t until after he’d signed the papers that he realized just how close the new building was to Namjoon and Jin’s place - 4 blocks at most.

Crazy, that.

Now that he has the place, it’s time to start making it his own. He just hadn’t realized how much crap he owns until it’s all in boxes.

Fortunately — or unfortunately — he has friends.

“Lift with your legs, not your back!” Jimin calls from the safety of the sidewalk, sipping an iced americano and wearing sunglasses like he’s directing a feature film. Hoseok walks past him, large moving box in hand, chuckling. 

Jungkook and Namjoon are halfway up the stairs, hauling Yoongi’s cursed, oversized studio desk between them.

“I am lifting with my legs,” Namjoon grunts.

“I’m lifting with my rage,” Jungkook adds, forehead slick with sweat.

Below them, Jin sighs dreamily and wipes his brow — which is suspiciously dry — with exaggerated flair. “God, that’s hot. I’ve seen a porn or two that have started like this.” Louder he says, “Joonie, I’d let you manhandle me like that any day.” 

Namjoon groans as they make their way up the staircase to the second floor. “Please stop objectifying me while I’m holding heavy shit.”

“No promises,” Jin says. “I contain multitudes. I can sexualize and supervise at the same time.”

“You’re doing neither,” Jimin pipes in from the sideline. “You’ve been fake-hydrating with an empty water bottle for the last twenty minutes.”

“Oh my god, hyung,” Taehyung snorts. He has spent the last 15 minutes or so staring at Jungkook’s arms, and Jungkook’s back…and Jungkook’s ass. As subtle as a brick wall. 

Jungkook, either oblivious or playing dumb with expert-level skill, stretches dramatically as they finally set down the desk “Whew,” he says, loud and smug, “good thing I hit arms this morning.”

“You hit everything this morning,” Taehyung mutters, possibly under his breath, possibly not.

Yoongi watches it all from the landing, arms crossed, pretending to be exasperated. He’s not. His chest feels full with it — this strange mix of gratitude and disbelief. They’re really here. They showed up for him. Like always.

They work like that for hours — up and down the stairs, a steady thrum of bickering and bad jokes and open ogling. Joon and Jungkook and their stupid gym routines carry all the heavy stuff with little complaint like the adorable meatheads they are. Tae and Jin are loud. Jimin is bossy and disappears for large swaths of time. Hoseok is everywhere at once.

Once everything is out of the truck, the chaos migrates inside. Everyone’s shouting questions, demanding tape, ordering each other around, misplacing box cutters, yelling for snacks.

Yoongi ducks inside his bedroom to call for pizza and to escape the noise for just a moment, only to stop dead in the doorway of his new bedroom.

“...What the fuck.”

It’s done. Not just unpacked — done. Bed made, pillows placed just so, books arranged by color and size, posters framed and hung, lamps warm and soft in the corners. There’s a small vase of dried flowers on the windowsill, and his extra blankets are folded in a basket near the closet. It looks like it’s always been this way.

Jimin spins slowly in the middle of the room, arms wide. “Tada~”

Yoongi blinks. “How did you—”

“Don’t ask questions you don’t want the answers to, hyung. Just accept that I’m magic.”

Yoongi wants to argue, but it’s hard to pick a fight with someone who’s made your room look like a damn interior design spread. He settles for a quiet, “Thanks.”

Jimin just smirks, brushes invisible lint off his jeans, “Don’t say I never did anything for you. Now I just need to see to the living room. You’re getting veggie lover’s right?” He strolls past Yoongi toward the kitchen. 

Yoongi does get veggie lovers. And pepperoni. And extra cheese with stuffed crust for Jungkook because that boy and dairy have a special relationship. 

They eat it in the living room, crowded around the stack of boxes that is serving as a makeshift coffee table until he can go out and buy some new living room furniture…and dining room furniture. So they sit on whatever they can find or the floor. Everyone’s tired and sweaty and loud, stealing slices and complaining about sore arms and ‘sexual harassment in the workplace, Jin’. The room buzzes with the kind of easy, bone-deep exhaustion that only comes from a day spent working toward something tangible. 

By the time the last slice is gone and most of the boxes have been moved into their proper rooms, Namjoon gives Yoongi a look — a gentle but decisive kind of look — Yoongi heaves a dramatic sigh at him and Joon claps his hands once. “Alright. I think that’s our cue.”

“I could stay longer and keep organizing,” Jin offers, already halfway through another soda, “I’d hate to overshadow Jiminie’s hard work, but lord know’s Yoongi couldn’t style his way out of a paper bag.”

“Out,” Yoongi says, but his voice is fond. “Seriously. I love you guys, but I’m wiped.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Jin stretches, not at all gracefully. “You’re no fun.”

They file out with hugs and goodbyes, Jimin telling Yoongi to look out for a link to a shared Pinterest board for his new project before the door finally shuts behind them.

It’s quiet after that. Yoongi turns to find Hoseok, still sitting on the floor, surrounded by half-open boxes and empty cans of soda. Hoseok’s legs are stretched out in front of him, a guilty smile on his face. “Okay if I stay for just a little longer? I can help clean up after the riffraff.” 

“Of course you can. You’re always welcome here, Seok.” Yoongi sits back down on the floor, leans back against the wall and lets out a breath. “I can’t believe it’s real.”

Hoseok smiles, warm and a little tired. “It is. You did it.” They’re silent for a moment. Sitting quietly in their tired bodies. 

“Hey,” Hoseok says suddenly, pushing himself up from the floor. “I brought you something.” He disappears into the entryway and returns a moment later holding a potted plant — medium-sized, leafy, bright green, and suspiciously alive.

Yoongi eyes it like it might explode. “That thing’s not gonna survive a week.”

“Sure it will.” Hoseok grins and walks over to place it carefully on the windowsill, adjusting it until it sits just right. “I looked it up — it’s one of the hardest plants to kill. Practically thrives on neglect. Just water it. Occasionally. Like, every couple weeks. It’ll be fine.”

Yoongi raises an eyebrow. “And if it’s not?”

“Then I’ll cry,” Hoseok says, dead serious. “Real tears. Ugly ones.”

Yoongi snorts. “You’re so dramatic.”

“Only about the important things,” Hoseok says, still watching the plant like it’s carrying all his hopes and dreams. “Don’t kill it, hyung.”

Yoongi snorts. “Emotional blackmail. Nice." He looks from the plant back to Hoseok's smiling face. "Thanks, Seok." Hoseok smiles brighter. 

After that, they start cleaning up the room and tossing cans in the recycling and plates and boxes in the trash. Hoseok folds the last empty box and stacks it by the door. Yoongi walks down the hall to his new room and throws himself on his bed with a groan. Moments later, Hoseok wanders in and settles beside him, thigh to thigh. “I like it here,” he says quietly. “It suits you.”

Yoongi glances over. “Really?”

Hoseok nods. “It feels like you.” Yoongi swallows around the lump in his throat.

“You know,” Hoseok says, voice softer now, “I always thought you’d end up with something huge. A whole floor of some fancy loft or a penthouse. Glass walls. That kind of thing.”

Yoongi raises a brow. “That a compliment or an insult?”

“Neither. Just…” Hoseok shrugs. “You’ve always been more ambitious than you let on. More driven. I used to wonder how you did it. Like nothing ever touched you. Confident. Like you were always ten steps ahead, looking for that next thing.”

He glances toward the darkened hallway leading to the studio. “I mean, I guess it wouldn’t have worked anyway. Glass walls don’t exactly go with your whole ‘cryptid working in a cave until 3 a.m.’ vibe.”

Yoongi snorts. “I like my cave. It’s peaceful. No people to bother me with stupid questions.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Hoseok nudges him lightly with his shoulder. “Still. This is good. You deserve good.” Yoongi turns his head, studies Hoseok’s profile. There’s something sad in the line of his mouth. Something old.

“I wasn’t,” he says. “Confident. I’m not. I just got good at pretending.”

Hoseok nods, like he knows. “Yeah. I figured that out eventually.”

They fall into silence. No sound but that of cars passing in the distance. Yoongi’s heart beats too loud in his ears.

“I was so mad at you,” Hoseok says finally, quiet. “Back then. Sad at first. When you missed my recitals and shows. But then mad. When you stopped showing up. When you didn’t call. When you moved on, and I didn’t know how. I told myself I didn’t need you. But I did.”

Yoongi’s breath catches. “Hoseok—”

“I’m not mad now. I just…” Hoseok looks down at their hands. Their thumbs are brushing softly against one another. “I know I chose dance. I threw everything into it because it was the only thing that made sense back then. It was something I was really good at and that made me happier than I knew what to do with. But that didn’t mean I wasn’t trying with you.”

Yoongi doesn’t respond, but his head tips slightly to show he’s listening. 

“I tried to pull you in, remember?” Hoseok says, a little laugh escaping — small and rough around the edges. “To make you part of it. I thought if I tried hard enough to pull you with me, you'd follow. But I guess we were moving at different speeds.”

He glances up, eyes soft but steady. “And sometimes I wonder… if I’d stopped long enough to really look at where you were — instead of just where I hoped we’d end up — maybe things would’ve been different.”

Yoongi stares at him. His chest aches.“I didn’t stop showing up because I wanted to,” Yoongi says. “I was falling apart. And I didn’t know how to ask you to stay.”

Silence.

Then Hoseok looks up, eyes shining a little too much in the low light. “You could now,” he says, voice a whisper.

Yoongi leans in. Close enough to feel Hoseok’s breath. Their noses almost brushing.

And then — a car horn blares outside, sharp and too loud in the quiet. Hoseok startles slightly, and pulls back. Just a few inches, but it’s enough. He won’t meet Yoongi’s eyes for a beat too long.

“I—” Hoseok clears his throat. “We should go grocery shopping. Get you some leafy greens. Otherwise you’re gonna eat takeout until your blood turns into soy sauce.”

Yoongi nods, slow. Still looking at him. “Yeah. Okay.” But neither of them moves. Not really. The space between them crackles. Not quite closed. Not quite safe. Just almost.

And when Hoseok finally turns away—back out of the room and toward the kitchen, toward his shoes by the door—it feels like something’s been left behind. Like they were one breath away from something fragile and true and a little terrifying. Yoongi stays still, watching the place where Hoseok had been. There's a strange hollowness under his ribs, like he missed a step on the stairs. Like he almost understood something, or almost said the thing that would've made everything fall into place.

He can’t shake the feeling that there’s still one wall left between them. One last thing Hoseok didn’t say. One last thing Yoongi couldn’t ask.

And he doesn’t know how to tear it down without breaking something.

Chapter Text

True to his word, as always, Hoseok shows up the next afternoon in an oversized hoodie and a beanie perched on his head, waving a reusable bag and kicking Yoongi’s foot by way of hello.

They take the short walk to the grocery store by Yoongi’s apartment in near silence, but it’s not uncomfortable. Not exactly. There’s just something suspended between them—that same almost that was in the air last night.

When they get to the store, Hoseok grabs a cart and immediately hands it off to Yoongi with a toss of his head, like it’s a dance step they’ve rehearsed. Yoongi takes it without thinking, pushing it slow and steady while Hoseok slips into mission mode.

He moves with that quiet intensity Yoongi’s seen on his face when he dances—efficient, graceful, no wasted steps. He scans shelves, pulling all the necessities: greens, eggs, tofu, garlic, a big jug of oat milk. He grabs the specific kind of rice Yoongi likes but never remembers to buy, then pivots to toss in a bottle of Yoongi’s usual hot sauce and the weird brand of ginger chews he keeps stashed in his desk drawer.

Yoongi blinks at the cart, then at Hoseok. “You’ve been spying on me.”

Hoseok doesn’t look up from where he is comparing two honeydew melons. “You eat like a raccoon in a dumpster. I’m saving your life.” He says it so casually that Yoongi’s stomach twists. Not because it hurts. Because it doesn’t.

Then Hoseok tosses in Yoongi’s favorite ramen—the expensive black package kind he always talks himself out of buying—and a bag of honey butter chips. A few aisles later, the exact kind of coffee beans Yoongi’s been rationing show up in the cart, too. Yoongi’s heart stutters.

He follows Hoseok around the store as he lays out Yoongi’s life before him, one pantry staple at a time. When they get to the cereal isle, he notices that Hoseok grabs a box of his own favorite cereal, Captain Crunch (I don’t care if it cuts my mouth to ribbons, Yoongs, it’s delicious) and in the dairy section, the brand of yogurt he always used to eat in the mornings. A tin of the herbal tea Yoongi associates with Hoseok’s “before bed” routine. 

It hits Yoongi all at once: He’s not just shopping for me. He’s shopping for us.

The thought settles somewhere warm in Yoongi’s chest. It buzzes. Expands. Makes his fingers twitch on the cart handle. Hoseok doesn’t say anything, just steers them to the checkout line, head bopping along with the song playing over the grocery store speakers “When I die, I want to be reincarnated as Doja Cat.”

“I don’t think that’s how reincarnation works.” Yoongi watches Hoseok, suddenly and achingly aware of every little thing he’s been missing. Watches the set of his mouth, the soft curve of his cheek. He keeps thinking about the night before. The closeness. The look in Hoseok’s eyes. He wonders if Hoseok is thinking about it too.

At checkout, Hoseok chats lightly with the cashier smiling, wide and charming, while Yoongi bags the groceries, mechanically, fingers twitchy. Even though he's been systematically tearing Yoongi's life apart, grocery by grocery, Hoseok hasn't really spoken to him much. He's not distant, not cold. Just… guarded. Like he’s holding something back. Like he’s waiting to see if Yoongi will say anything first.

Yoongi doesn’t.

They walk back slower than they came. At the front of the building, Hoseok helps him unload the bags into his arms, then steps back with a crooked smile. “Text me if you kill my plant,” he says.

Yoongi nods. “Thanks. For the groceries. And the…” He trails off. Hoseok lifts a hand, like he’s going to pat Yoongi’s hair or touch his face, but thinks better of it. He lets it drop. “See you soon, yeah?”

And then he’s gone. Hoodie pulled up, headphones in, already halfway down the block before Yoongi can decide whether or not to call him back.

Inside, the groceries are still warm from the sun. Yoongi sets them on the counter, one by one, moving slower than necessary. He pulls out the Captain Crunch and stares at it wishing it could speak to him and tell him why it’s here. It doesn’t…obviously. The silence of the apartment is loud around him.

God - he really needs to talk to Namjoon. 

Chapter Text

Yoongi’s new apartment smells like garlic and gochujang well before the others start arriving. Jin’s taken over the kitchen with the smug efficiency of a man who thinks a carbon steel wok or lack thereof is a meaningful personality trait. Namjoon showed up early to “help” but mostly just ended up stirring things when Jin lets him. 

“The last time I gave you my Nakagawa, you almost sliced your whole hand off!” Jin yells brandishing said knife at his boyfriend. Namjoon scoffs, “That’s hyperbolic.”

“You’re hyperbolic." 

Yoongi leans against the fridge, arms crossed, watching his friends inhabit his space. 

“You look constipated,” Jin says. “Emotionally, I mean. Physical constipation would make more sense, given your diet, but from what Hobi tells me, we've fixed that now, haven’t we?”

Yoongi flips him off.

Namjoon raises an eyebrow. “You okay?”

Yoongi hesitates. Then: “Can we—talk for a sec?”

Jin takes one look at them and demands, all pomp, “Why don’t you take these plates and go set the table. I’ll turn up my cooking music and call you back when I need some eye candy to raise my blood sugar.” Jin tampers the slight jab with a quick kiss to his boyfriend’s cheek and a sharp slap to his ass. 

Yoongi rolls his eyes and grabs the stack of plates, leading Namjoon over to the dining nook where he has a table large enough for seven…barely. They carefully lay out the place settings while Yoongi tells Namjoon about his almost moment with Hoseok. “I don’t get it. One minute we’re—” he waves a hand, “—almost something, and the next he’s pulling away again. It’s like we’re stuck in this loop.”

Namjoon nods, quiet. “Did you ask him about it?”

Yoongi scoffs. “What am I supposed to say? ‘Hey, remember when we were laying in my bed together and we almost kissed? What was that about?’”

Namjoon gives him a look. “Yes. Exactly that.” Yoongi groans and plops down into one of the seats. 

“Hyung,” Namjoon says gently, “you’re not going to stoic your way out of this. You like him. He clearly likes you. But you’re both carrying a bunch of hang ups that may or may not include your past relationship that you never unpacked. I know you’re not going to like this, but you’re gonna have to feel things…Together and then talk about those feelings.”

Behind them there is a loud crash.  Then Jungkook’s voice: “It was already broken!”

Yoongi looks up just in time to see a toppled end table and Jungkook and Taehyung, the latter plopping himself on his new couch, holding a snack and drink like he’s settling in for a movie. 

“How long—”

“Long enough,” Jungkook says with a shrug as he rights the fallen table. 

“You suck at being quiet,” Taehyung adds. “Also, the door was unlocked. You might want to do something about that. We could have been murderers.”

Yoongi scowls. “I don’t remember asking you.”

“You didn’t,” Jungkook says, dropping onto the couch next to Tae and stealing a chip from his plate. “But I’m gonna say this anyway: Hoseok hyung is scared. So are you. That doesn’t mean you’re not allowed to be brave.”

Taehyung throws his legs across Jungkook’s lap. “Communication, hyung. Wild concept, I know.” He hands his bottle of Coke to Jungkook who takes a generous swig. 

Yoongi eyes them incredulously, frustrated. “You two have been dancing around each other since the day we met you both. What do you know about actual communication?”

Taehyung raises a hand serenely. “That’s not germane to this conversation. Also, I’m currently tapping that—” he points to Jungkook with his thumb, “—so that’s not even a valid argument.”

Jungkook chokes on his drink. “You cannot say that during a heart-to-heart!”

“Why not? This is a safe space,” Taehyung says.

There’s a beat of stunned silence.

Then:

“Since when!?” Jin’s voice rings out from the kitchen as he rounds the corner to join their conversation, clearly having heard the majority of it. Yoongi puts his head in his hands. “You two have been mooning over each other for years. And now all of the sudden you’re, what, together? Don’t act like this is normal news!”

“Seriously,” Namjoon says, blinking. “Did I miss a meeting?”

“Since like—yesterday,” Taehyung says, cool as anything, stealing his soda back from Jungkook’s lax hand. “Chill out.”

Jungkook groans and covers his face. “Oh my god.”

“That’s what he said,” Taehyung says, giving his thigh a casual pat. “See, hyung, communication.”

Jin’s staring between the two of them like they’ve upended his entire worldview. “I need to sit down.”

Namjoon just sighs into his drink. “This is still somehow less complicated than you and Hoseok.” Yoongi snorts. “Wow. Thanks.”

“You’re welcome. Now we better finish getting everything ready before Tae starts a TED Talk on romantic tension.”

Taehyung grins. “Too late. Slide deck’s ready.”

Namjoon pinches the bridge of his nose and turns back to Yoongi. 

“Just talk to him,” Namjoon says again, softer now. “You don’t need a speech. Just… be honest. Be present. You owe him that.”

_________________________

Everyone is sprawled across Yoongi’s new place like they own it — which, honestly, they kind of do. His housewarming “party” has turned into too many rounds of soju, loud cackling, heated Mario Kart rounds, and someone (probably Jimin, the sore loser that he is) trying to sabotage the Wi-Fi so they can play charades instead.

“I still can’t believe them.” Jin is sitting on the arm of the couch staring at Taehyung and Jungkook who are embroiled in “Rainbow Road to the Death”. Tae is currently piloting Princess Peach while trying to dig his toes into Jungkook’s side to throw him off his game. 

Jimin plucks a chip from the bowl on his lap and says, “Oh that? That’s old news.”

Hoseok glances up from the floor where he’s sprawled out next to Yoongi, cheering on the others while waiting for his turn.“What is?”

“Taehyung and Jungkook. The sex.”

Yoongi nearly spits out his drink. “Jesus.”

“They just started boning yesterday, how could it possibly be old news?” Jin asks. Eyes still glued to their two youngest. 

Yoongi grimaces. “Don’t say bone.”

Taehyung, smug and glowingly pleased after he finally manages to make Jungkook crash out, reclines dramatically into Jungkook’s side. “Soulmate connection,” he says, batting his lashes.

“That and he called me right after — like right after.”

Yoongi stares. “Why?”

“To tell me everything,” Jimin says, like it should be obvious. “In vivid detail.”

“No one needed that,” Jin mutters, reaching for another drink and moving around the couch to drop onto his boyfriend’s lap. 

“You didn’t hang up,” Taehyung points out, grinning and raising his eyebrows comically. 

“I was trapped,” Jimin says. “You trapped me! You kept saying ‘one more thing’ and then there were five more things.”

“Gross,” Hoseok says. “But congrats, I guess.”

Taehyung beams. “Thanks, hyung - glad to know someone is supportive.” Jungkook kisses his cheek. Jimin throws a pillow at them. “Get a room! Just not this room. I don’t want to have to burn it.”

“You’re all just mad we’re hot and in love,” Taehyung says, dragging a hand through Jungkook’s hair like he’s petting a particularly beloved golden retriever.

“I’m mad because you took the last diet soda,” Jimin retorts. “That’s betrayal.”

Hoseok, laughing, shakes his head and nudges Yoongi with his foot. “Our friends are exhausting.” Yoongi can’t find it in himself to disagree. 

“Hey, by the way,” Hoseok says a few moments later, lightly, while refilling his glass at the kitchen island, “I won’t be at Thursday dinner. I’ve got an audition that night.”

Jimin turns from where he’s assembling a frankly beautiful charcuterie board with the remaining scraps of meat and cheese and Yoongi’s refrigerator. “Oh, nice, hyung! You need a ride?”

Hoseok shakes his head. “Nah. It’s just across town. I’ll be good.”

“Okay, just let me know.” Yoongi pauses, watching Hoseok for any indication of how he's feeling about this audition. He seems fine. He leans over and nudges the other man, "You're gonna kill it." Hoseok smiles softly at him, "Thanks, hyung."  

Finishing up his masterpiece, Jimin takes the charcuterie back to the living room yelling, “Okay! Charades time! No objections! If you don’t want to play, you’re the enemy!”

“Why are you like this,” Jin mutters, already standing.

Jungkook grabs a throw pillow and shouts, “Tae and I versus the world!”

“God help the world,” Namjoon deadpans.

The teams form — poorly. Taehyung takes the role of 'moderator' which "Isn't even a thing, Tae!" Jin and Jimin together is a nightmare of ego and passive aggression. Namjoon somehow ends up stuck with Jungkook, who won’t stop miming ‘punching’ for literally every answer. Hoseok joins Yoongi’s team, sitting next to him on the rug, knees bumping together under the coffee table.

And the thing is, they’re bad at charades. Like really bad. Terrible even. But they laugh until Yoongi’s sides hurt.

At one point, Jimin tries to mime Titanic by standing on the couch with his arms outstretched. Jin yells “Jesus!” and Yoongi wheezes, “That’s not the movie, hyung,” and Jin says “It is if you’re doing it wrong,” and no one really knows what that means but it becomes the running joke of the night.

Jimin snuggles into Jin’s side during the next round and pretends not to be pleased when Jin automatically pats his head. Namjoon and Jungkook bicker over the exact plot of a rom-com no one’s seen in ten years. Taehyung’s phone buzzes, and Yoongi sees the way Jungkook immediately leans in, glancing at the screen like it’s second nature.

And next to him, Hoseok is laughing so hard at something Namjoon said he nearly tips over, and Yoongi’s hand goes out without thinking, steadying him with a touch to the waist. It’s brief. A flicker.

But Hoseok looks at him. Just looks.

And Yoongi knows.

I want that, he thinks. Watching them. Watching him.

I want this.

I can have this.

Chapter Text

Yoongi’s had a good day — a rare, steady kind of good.

The day started off with a good session with Dr. Kim — the kind that left him a little lighter, a little clearer. She’d noticed the shift in him too, smiling as she said it seemed like he was in an upswing. That his walls were softening, even if just a little.

The rest of the day passed in a flurry of productivity. He finished the last round of edits on a track he actually likes, managed to clear out his inbox, and even met with a label for a potential exclusivity deal. Big name, too. The kind of meeting that should have left him drained, but instead, he came away feeling unexpectedly…hopeful. Like maybe he could make room for something bigger. Something more.

The sun’s down now, city lights blinking awake, but Yoongi still has one thing left on his to-do list.

He stops at a corner store on the way and grabs a can of Sprite and a package of those shit chocolate-covered donuts that Hoseok craves after a long rehearsal. It’s dumb, maybe, but Yoongi wants to show up with something. Just in case Hoseok needs it.

The woman at the front desk, Kallie, smiles when he walks in. “He’s still in Studio B.”

“Thanks,” Yoongi says, slipping past with a nod. He’s been by enough times now that she doesn’t even ask for ID.

The hallways are quiet this late, most of the younger students gone, replaced by the echo of bass thudding softly through the floors.

He finds Hoseok there, alone. The lights are dimmed, mirrors a little fogged with heat. Hoseok’s in a baggy t-shirt and sweatpants, damp hair curling at his temples, body loose and focused all at once. He’s working through something intricate — footwork fast and sharp, arms cutting through the air with perfect control. It’s the kind of movement that looks deceptively effortless until you see the muscle behind it, the hours.

Yoongi leans against the doorframe, silent. Watching.

It’s not just that Hoseok is good. It’s that he’s transcendent. Like the beat lives in him and everything else just falls away.

When Hoseok finally spots him in the mirror, he stumbles a bit on his last turn, then laughs breathlessly and turns to face him. Yoongi lifts the Sprite and the donuts like an offering. “Thought you might want a break.”

Hoseok grins. “God, I love you.” He says it easily, automatically. 

They sit on the floor against the mirrored wall. Hoseok peels open the can with a sigh and takes a long drink, sweat still gleaming on his skin. Yoongi offers him the donuts, and Hoseok takes them with a soft, grateful sound. “You remembered!”

“Of course. You’re the only one I know that actually enjoys those things.”

“Well not everyone has my good taste.” 

“Yup, that’s it.” Yoongi watches Hoseok as he pops a donut into his mouth whole. He’s distracted as he chews, a little far away. Yoongi watches the curve of his fingers, the way his knee bounces — a flicker of nerves under the surface. “You’ve been here late every night this week,” he comments.

“Gotta get this right,” Hoseok replies between bites. “They’re only seeing ten people for callbacks.”

Yoongi nods. “You nervous?”

Hoseok shrugs. “Trying not to be. Last time I… I got too in my head about it. Thought it meant everything. That if I didn’t get it, I’d wasted years.”

“You didn’t,” Yoongi says, voice quiet but firm.

“I know,” Hoseok says, wiping his hands on a towel. “I’m trying not to get my hopes up this time. I tell myself I’m fine where I am. That I’m lucky to be doing what I love, period.”

Yoongi watches him. Not just his face, but the way his body holds tension even when he’s sitting still. The way he keeps fidgeting with the edge of the towel. The way his mouth twists like he doesn’t quite believe his own words.

And maybe he doesn’t. Maybe Hoseok’s just tired — from the dancing, from pretending he doesn’t want more. Maybe that tiredness is what’s letting him be soft now, vulnerable in the quiet.

We still haven’t talked, Yoongi thinks. Not really.

They’ve skirted around it. Danced between those spaces of almost. That first night at Yoongi’s new apartment. The not-quite confession in Hoseok’s voice. The closeness of their last game night. All the other little interactions that said “friend” but maybe more. The space between them still full of things unsaid.

He should say something. He should start the conversation.

But as he looks at Hoseok, his cheeks pink, his collar damp with sweat, looking wrecked in the way dancers always do — used up but still glowing — he realizes that he doesn't want to talk now. He just wants to kiss him.

Sure, he wants to tell him that he’s beautiful when he’s focused, that he’s brilliant when he dances, that Yoongi has never met anyone who moves through the world the way Hoseok does — with so much heart and joy that it spills out of him even when he’s trying to hold it back and fills Yoongi right up. But more than that, Yoongi just wants to get closer. To crawl inside this man and make a home there.  

“You’re brilliant, Hoseok,” is what he says instead. “You could do anything.”

Hoseok looks at him then. Really looks. Like he’s searching for the part of Yoongi that means it — and maybe a part of himself that can believe it.

“Yeah?” Hoseok murmurs. “You really think so?”

Say something, the Jungkook-esque voice in Yoongi’s head urges — ask him what this is, ask him if he wants more, ask him if he’s scared like you are.

But Yoongi just breathes in slow. “Yeah,” he says. “I do.”

He shifts closer, slow enough that Hoseok has time to pull away. His gaze flickers to Hoseok’s mouth, then back to his eyes.

Hoseok doesn’t move. Just watches him, wary and wanting, like his guard is cracking open in places he didn’t mean to let show. So Yoongi leans in.

Their lips meet, soft and hesitant. A test, a promise, a thread that had frayed too thin finally catching.

Hoseok makes a small, unguarded sound — half-sigh, half-release — and Yoongi deepens the kiss, hand brushing lightly against Hoseok’s knee. It’s not desperate. It’s careful. Like they both know how easy it would be to ruin something they’ve only just begun to hold again. 

When they part, they stay close, noses brushing, breath mingling in the quiet space between them.

You still haven’t talked to him, Namjoon’s voice says in Yoongi’s head. You kissed him. That’s not the same thing. Yoongi swallows. Forces his heart to stop racing. I'll get there he tells the voice in his head. 

“Just so we’re clear,” he says out loud, voice low but certain, “that wasn’t a good luck kiss.”

Hoseok’s eyes search his face. He looks like he’s trying not to fall, like he’s halfway there already. “No,” he says, just as quiet, but he's smiling. “It wasn’t.” 

They sit like that for a long while, backs against the wall, fingers laced loosely between one another, the studio dim and quiet around them until Hoseok squeezes his fingers and tells him "I better get back to it. I'll see you soon, though?" Yoongi nods and gathers his stuff to leave. "Of course, we'll get drinks after you crush this audition. Hyung's buying." 

"Don't let Tae hear you say that." 

Yoongi chuckles and heads to the door. He looks back and catches Hoseok watching him in the mirror. Their eyes meet and hold for a moment - Hoseok smiles at him. Something unnamed hums between them.

Something is finally beginning.

Chapter Text

Yoongi’s been in his studio for hours.

The clock on his wall says 12:42 a.m., but time blurs when he’s in this state — deep in a mix, half-distracted by the sound of his own progress. He should be tired, but he’s buzzing instead, a familiar hum of purpose that settles somewhere in his chest and keeps him upright, keeps him chasing something just out of reach.

Today was a good day.

The contract he’s been chasing for months finally went through this morning — an exclusive production deal with one of the biggest soloists in the industry. Not just a few tracks, but a long-term commitment: full creative oversight on her next album, co-writing credits, royalties, backend points, the whole package.

It’s the kind of job that comes with stability and status. And money. Like, real money. Enough to stop taking last-minute commercial gigs or ghost-producing for idols who won’t say his name out loud.

He starts officially in a few weeks, but there’s already a group chat with her A&R and management, already a Dropbox folder full of vocal stems and rough demos waiting for his touch.

As thankful as he is for his job, he feels like the last few years were…slow. Now, for the first time in a long time, he feels like he’s building something bigger.

He should be celebrating. Or texting someone about it. Or sleeping.

Instead, he’s fiddling with hi-hat layers.

He’s mid-scroll through a plugin preset list—half-focused, hunting for a synth that doesn’t sound like every other synth—when something shifts in his peripheral vision.

A sudden glow cuts through the dim studio, and for a second Yoongi thinks he imagined it. Then he blinks, registering the source.

His phone.

Lighting up on the desk beside an abandoned mug of cold coffee.

A text… at 1:04 a.m.

He frowns slightly. Who the hell is texting him at—

He picks it up, thumb sluggish from disuse, and taps the screen.

Seok: Let me in loser, I’m outside your door

Yoongi stares at it for a second.

Then again. Then huffs a breath—somewhere between a laugh and a sigh—as the warmest, dumbest feeling creeps up his throat like smoke. He sets the phone down, saves his project with a lazy click, and gets up. Because of course Hoseok is outside.

He’s in joggers and a zip-up hoodie, hood pulled up like he’s trying to be subtle. He’s holding a plastic bag from a nearby convenience store.

“Hey,” Hoseok says, smile tugging crooked at his mouth. “Figured you’d still be up.”

Yoongi leans against the doorframe, eyeing him. “Was it the glowing windows or the fact that I’ve literally never had a healthy sleep schedule?”

“That, and it’s you,” Hoseok says, holding up a convenience store bag. “Also, you ghosted the group chat for six hours, so I figured you were deep in hermit mode. Thought I’d come drag you out of it. Or at least make sure you eat something. I brought snacks — my treat this time.”

Yoongi steps back wordlessly to let him in. Hoseok slips off his shoes like it’s second nature and pads toward the couch like he’s done it a hundred times. He sets the bag down on the floor and, pulls out a canned coffee, and offers it with a flourish.

“For stamina,” he says. “And to celebrate.”

Yoongi takes it, glancing at the rest of the haul: rice crackers, sweet bread, a pudding cup with a cartoon panda on the lid, and—he blinks—his favorite peach gummies.

He lifts an eyebrow. “You’re freakishly good at this.”

“At snacks?” Hoseok grins.

“At me,” Yoongi replies, shaking the candy pouch gently.

Hoseok shrugs, like it’s no big deal. “I pay attention.” Yoongi looks down, cracks the can open just to keep his hands busy. “...The audition go okay?”

Hoseok flops down on the couch with a groan. “It went,” he says, but his smile doesn’t vanish. “I think it was good. I didn’t choke, didn’t fall on my face. And no wardrobe malfunctions, so… y’know. Win.”

Hoseok’s hoodie is damp at the collar, his cheeks still pink from whatever pre-audition cardio he forced himself through. He looks loose-limbed, relieved. Maybe even content. Yoongi smiles, soft and private. “You’re brilliant,” he says, not even meaning to.

“You’re biased, so it doesn’t count,” Hoseok props his chin on the back of the couch, facing him. “But yeah. I think I did okay. Might even let myself feel good about it tomorrow.”

Yoongi smiles. “That’s growth.”

They share a look then — something quiet but charged. Yoongi thinks about Namjoon’s voice in his head reminding him that kissing Hoseok doesn’t count as talking to him. That closeness and clarity aren’t the same thing.

But then Hoseok is patting the cushion next to him. “You gonna come have a seat or just stand there all night being hot and broody?”

Yoongi snorts, but he feels a jolt go through him anyway — half from the teasing, half from the way Hoseok says “hot” like it’s just a fact. He drags himself over and sits, careful not to collapse under the weight of whatever's been building between them for weeks. Months. Years.

They sit close, their knees almost touching. Close enough to feel the heat - Hoseok always runs so hot - but not close enough to satisfy the part of Yoongi that wants to lean in and press his open mouth to Hoseok’s shoulder just to see what happens.

Hoseok opens a bag of salt and vinegar chips with a pop and a crinkle, then leans his head back against the couch, eyes on the ceiling.

“This place is really starting to feel like yours,” he says after a moment. “It is mine,” Yoongi deadpans, taking a sip of the canned coffee Hoseok brought.

“You know what I mean. It just feels like you’ve settled in.” Yoongi glances sideways, watches the way Hoseok’s throat moves when he swallows. The stretch of his neck, long, elegant. Yoongi wants to bite it. 

“You say that like it’s a good thing.”

“It is.”

There’s quiet again. But it’s not awkward. Not really. The kind of silence that hums — charged, expectant. The kind that makes Yoongi hyperaware of everything: the soft hum of the fridge, the flex of his fingers against his knee, the too-warm press of desire curling low in his gut.

He wants to touch. Wants to be touched. Wants to say something, but everything that rises in his throat feels either too heavy or too desperate.

Then Hoseok shifts again — a slow, feline stretch that ends with him half-sprawled across the couch, one foot casually landing in Yoongi’s lap like it belongs there.

Yoongi’s breath catches. He stares at the socked foot for a second, his body already reacting like a live wire. He places a hand on Hoseok’s bare ankle before he can think better of it. Doesn’t squeeze. Just rests it there.

Yoongi feels like he’s drowning in the almost of it. The space between them buzzing like an open circuit, waiting for someone to close it. They lapse into quiet again. The TV isn’t even on. They’re just sitting there in the low light of the studio apartment, the city breathing softly beyond the windows.

Then Hoseok shifts again, folding one leg under himself, body turning toward Yoongi like a flower toward the sun. There’s a small smile playing at the edge of his mouth, a little tired, a little daring.

“So…you ever gonna kiss me again,” Hoseok says, voice low and teasing, “or was that just a one-time promotional offer?”

Yoongi huffs a laugh — startled, turned on, completely caught. He turns his head slowly, eyes narrowing just enough to be dangerous.

“You sure you want me to?” he asks, voice dropping into something darker. “Might not stop at kissing this time.”

Hoseok grins, but it’s softer than his usual bravado. A little tired around the edges. A little honest.

“I’m tired,” he says, “and I’m a little nervous if we’re being completely honest with each other. But I know what I want.”

That’s all it takes.

Yoongi doesn’t pounce, but the shift is immediate — intention pouring off him as he leans in. One hand slides up, cupping Hoseok’s jaw, thumb brushing the corner of his mouth like he’s memorizing it. The kiss starts slow, warm and deep, mouths moving with the kind of ease that comes from years of wanting and weeks of wondering.

But Hoseok makes this sound — something between a sigh and a hum — and Yoongi tilts his head, kisses him again with more heat, more confidence. Hoseok opens for him without hesitation. His fingers twist into Yoongi’s hoodie, tugging like he wants him closer, like he needs it.

Yoongi shifts, turning his body toward Hoseok, hand sliding down to his waist — stopping just above the waistband of his sweats. He doesn’t go further, not yet, but he wants to. God, he wants to. “You can tell me to stop,” Yoongi murmurs between kisses.

“I know,” Hoseok whispers back, mouth brushing Yoongi’s. “I won’t.” They don’t talk about the past. Not tonight. But Hoseok is melting against him, pliant and warm, his hands tugging Yoongi closer, like he's letting himself want this now — not just in theory, not just as a possibility. For real.

When they break for air, foreheads pressed together, both of them flushed and breathless, Yoongi doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t have to.

Hoseok’s body is already speaking for him — his weight leaned fully against Yoongi, legs tangled, lips swollen. He’s here. He’s choosing this. Choosing Yoongi.

And for now, Yoongi lets that be enough.

Chapter Text

It’s a Thursday night and they’re at the arcade — a loud, bright, neon-lit mess of sensory overload. Pop music thumps from the speakers overhead, a bass-heavy remix of some summer hit that makes Taehyung dance every time it loops around. The place smells like cheap pizza, warm rubber from the bowling lanes, and the kind of plastic that’s definitely been melted at least once.

Bowling alleys line one side of the room, lit in that strange blue glow that makes everyone's teeth and shoelaces shine blue. To the right, there's a wall of claw machines full of plushies with suspiciously wide eyes, and past that, a dense cluster of arcade cabinets flashing in every color imaginable. Somewhere in the back, the laser tag arena is roaring with preteens. It’s objectively a nightmare.

Yoongi’s kind of having the best time.

It was Jungkook’s idea — obviously. He’d burst into the group chat with an all-caps invitation to “ARCADE BLOODBATH THURSDAY 🕹🩸” and somehow strong-armed everyone into agreeing. Not that they’d needed much convincing. Everyone had been working too hard lately. Hoseok had been buried in dance rehearsals, Jimin strangely absent but booked solid, Joon working overtime to finish his grading before the end of the semester, Yoongi practically sleeping in his studio. A night out sounded good in theory.

Yoongi hadn’t expected to enjoy it in practice.

Now he’s nursing a bottle of cheap beer, leaning against an air hockey table with half a grin tugging at his mouth. Taehyung and Namjoon are locked in a death match at the pinball machine beside him, arguing over whether tilt warnings count as cheating. 

Across the room, Jin is mid-strike at the bowling lane, fist pumping like he’s won an Olympic medal. “You can’t teach this level of excellence!” he calls, loud enough for half the building to hear.

Jungkook is in his natural habitat, manning three racing games in rotation, trash-talking imaginary opponents with the fervor of someone who has never known defeat. Yoongi caught him whispering sweet nothings to the steering wheel earlier. 

Only Jimin and Hoseok are missing, which is weird, because Hoseok would usually be here early and already hoarding the DDR machine.

Yoongi shifts his weight and tries not to stare at the door every two minutes.

"Yoongi!" Taehyung yells, startling him. “You're up next for pinball, don't think we forgot!”

“I’m pretty sure no one wants to witness that,” Yoongi mutters.

Namjoon snorts. “You say that every time and then crush the leaderboard.”

“Only because you all panic under pressure.”

“That’s called strategy,” Taehyung says, very seriously, shoving a token into the slot. “Mind games. Never let them know your next move.”

Yoongi doesn’t bother arguing. He sets his drink aside and steps up to the machine.

He’s not thinking about the fact that Hoseok’s not here yet. He’s not thinking about how things have been lately — warmer, closer, more charged in that quiet way that makes his chest feel full and strange. He’s not thinking about the kiss or the couch or the way Hoseok had looked at him afterward, like he wanted something and was finally starting to believe he could have it. He’s definitely not thinking about the way Hoseok’s body felt pressed against his, all hot and hard and…He’s not thinking about that. 

He’s just here. With his friends. Lights flashing, music pulsing, Taehyung yelling beside him like a child's soccer coach who is way too invested in the outcome. And Yoongi, against all odds, is happy.

He’s mid-round — already crushing the bonus multiplier — when Jin shouts from the front of the arcade, “Hey! Look who finally decided to grace us with their presence!”

Yoongi glances up just in time to see the doors swing open.

Jimin is waving one arm overhead, practically bouncing on his heels, and Hoseok is beside him, flushed and bright-eyed, wind-tousled from the sprint inside. He’s clutching a folded piece of paper in one hand, his smile too wide for words.

Something in Yoongi stills.

Then Jimin cups his hands around his mouth and shouts, “He got it!”

And for a second, no one moves.

There’s just the echo of Jimin’s shout and the way Hoseok is practically vibrating next to him, grinning so wide it looks like it might break his face.

Then everything explodes.

Taehyung screams and launches himself at Hoseok like a human missile, nearly knocking him over. Jungkook abandons his racing game mid-victory to sprint over, shouting, “Let’s fucking go!” as he throws his arms around both him and Tae. Namjoon is trying to say something like “We knew it, of course they picked you,” but he keeps getting cut off by everyone yelling over each other.

The noise is immediate and all-consuming — cheers, laughter, disbelief, affection. It’s probably going to get them kicked out sooner than later, but for now, they’re too caught up in their joy to care. 

And Yoongi just stands there, a little outside the circle of chaos, blinking, heart stuttering behind his ribs.

Hoseok’s face is flushed, eyes bright and wet, breathless with it all. He hugs Jimin again, gets crushed by Jungkook in a bear hug, high-fives Jin so hard they both wince. He lets it happen — lets them love him like this, lets himself be the center of it all. 

Then his eyes find Yoongi’s.

Still grinning, he steps toward him, just a little outside the swirl of celebration, like he was saving this part — this moment — for Yoongi alone.

“I got the spot,” Hoseok says, voice a little shaky with disbelief, with wonder. “I’m in.” He swallows once, smile trembling at the edges. “They want me.”

Yoongi’s breath catches and he's smiling - wide and gummy. He is so overcome with pride and affection, he doesn't know how he is going to hold it all. 

“That’s amazing,” he says, somehow finding his voice and leaning forward to fold Hoseok into a tight hug. Hoseok squeezed back, hard and firm. “Hoseok, that’s—fuck, I’m so proud of you.”

And he is.

He is.

Jimin loops an arm around Hoseok’s neck from behind, pulling him out of Yoongi’s embrace and practically hanging off the other man. “Tell them what they said!” Hoseok laughs. “They called him a standout,” Jimin continues in his stead, “Said he has presence.”

Jin smacks Hoseok on the back, “Well at least we know they have taste!”

“It's crazy, hyung, they do these showcases all over,” Hoseok says, laughing, cheeks flushed pink. “Europe, South America, Japan — I’ll get to work with new choreographers every few months and we'll be performing in all kinds of different styles. It’s kind of intense, kind of insane.”

And there it is. Europe. South America. Japan.

Yoongi’s smile doesn’t falter — not visibly. But he feels it. The shift. Like missing a step in the dark.

Everyone’s still talking over each other, reaching for details, already planning to stalk Hoseok’s future tour schedule. Jin is theatrically demanding comps. Jungkook is shouting about custom fan banners. Jimin’s asking if Hoseok needs a new passport photo.

And Yoongi is just standing there.

Because the one thing he hadn’t let himself ask — the one he didn’t want to know the answer to — has been answered without a word.

He’s leaving.

Chapter Text

The apartment was already full when Yoongi arrives. There’s music playing low in the background — Taehyung’s doing, probably, some playlist with a jazz piano and moody guitar. The place is warm, loud, lived-in. This was home for him once. 

Yoongi is on the floor, knees tucked under the coffee table, holding a pair of metal chopsticks and trying not to flinch every time Hoseok laughs across the room.

He’s doing okay. He is. He showed up. He brought a side dish. He complimented Jin’s cooking. He didn’t even lie when Jungkook asked how he was.

(“Tired,” he said, because it’s true and not a full sentence.)

Everyone’s here tonight — Namjoon squeezed into the corner of the couch with Taehyung half in his lap, draped like a spoiled cat and clearly not planning to move. Namjoon doesn’t seem to mind. His eyes are glued to his boyfriend as he fusses in the kitchen in his house slippers and apron. He keeps walking over and dropping more food on Namjoon’s plate like he’s worried the man will starve without supervision.

“Eat more,” Jin says, adding some berries with an aggressive tenderness. “You’re getting skinny.”

Across the coffee table, Jungkook’s double-fisting rice and stew like it’s a race. Taehyung narrows his eyes at him from Namjoon’s lap. “You always eat like you’re trying to impress someone.”

Jungkook, mid-chew, blinks. “Impress who?”

Taehyung grins, wicked and unbothered. “Dunno. Whoever’s lucky enough to see what that mouth can do. Oh wait, that’s me!”

Namjoon chokes on his drink. “Jesus Christ.”

“Keep it in your pants!” Jin shouts from the kitchen. 

Jimin’s shoulder is pressed against Hoseok’s. They’ve been in their own little bubble all evening, talking fast and low between bites, grinning like kids with a secret. Every now and then, Jimin laughs at something Hoseok says and tips his head into his shoulder like it’s second nature.

Yoongi looks away.

He busies himself pouring tea, catching the rhythm of the table: Jin scolding Taehyung for elbowing Namjoon, Jungkook trying to start a “who’s the hottest in the room” argument again, Jimin threatening to leave if they don’t stop.

Yoongi smiles when he’s supposed to. He even laughs once.

Then he hears it.

"...Barcelona in October," Hoseok says quietly to Jimin.

It’s not meant for him. It’s not meant to hurt.

But it does.

Yoongi doesn’t move. He just stares at his bowl, heart thudding. Barcelona. October. He didn’t know. Hoseok hadn’t told him that part. Not directly. Not when they were kissing in his apartment last week. Not when they sat on his couch, half-curled together like maybe they could be something.

His tea goes cold in his hands.

Later, when Jin’s handing out cocktails and Jungkook is wrestling Taehyung for the last slice of cake, Hoseok finally comes to sit beside him. Close, casual. Like it’s easy. Like he isn’t pulling Yoongi’s insides out and leaving his chest raw and gaping. 

“You okay?” Hoseok asks, voice pitched low.

Yoongi doesn’t look at him. “Yeah,” he says. “Just tired.”

Hoseok touches his arm briefly — a warm press of fingers, light and familiar — and Yoongi almost leans in.
Almost says Barcelona?
Almost asks When were you going to tell me?
Almost asks Did it ever mean anything to you at all?

But he doesn’t.

He just sips his drink, nods along to Namjoon’s story about his upstairs neighbor’s haunted vacuum, and pretends that his chest doesn’t feel like it’s caving in.

He’s here. He’s trying.

That should count for something.

It has to.

Chapter Text

Jin and Namjoon are out of town for the week — some leadership conference Joon had to attend, with Jin happily tagging along.

“I’m telling them it’s our honeymoon,” he’d said in the group chat, “and if they ask, we eloped in the Maldives. Maybe they’ll upgrade the room to one of those heart-shaped ones with a Jacuzzi.”

“You’re literally rich,” Jimin had replied.

“They don’t know that,” Jin had shot back. “Let me have this!”

With the parents gone, the kids were left to their own devices. Which is how Yoongi ends up playing chaperone to a group of fully grown disasters on a Friday night, standing in line outside a club that smells like sweat, tequila, and hairspray.

“This was a mistake,” he mutters, watching Taehyung dramatically reapply glitter under the streetlight.

“You say that like it’s not already too late,” Hoseok says beside him, mouth curling into a grin.

The others are buzzing with energy. Jungkook’s bouncing on his toes like he pre-gamed, which he did. Jimin’s chatting up the bouncer like they’re old friends (who knows, maybe they ARE, Jimin is an enigma), one hand casually sliding down the man’s arm. Somehow, it works — the rope lifts and they’re in.

The music is deafening. The floor pulses with bass and LED lights. Jungkook disappears within seconds, chased by Taehyung, who yells something unintelligible over his shoulder. Jimin glides toward the bar, the picture of flirtation in motion.

Which leaves Yoongi with Hoseok. Of course.

Hoseok smiles and tips his head toward the dance floor. “You coming?”

“I think I’ll die if I step into that mosh pit.”

“And you call me dramatic.”

“I’m too old for this. I’m basically thirty.”

Hoseok laughs, and Yoongi swears he can feel the sound in his ribs.

Eventually, Yoongi ends up at the corner of their booth, nursing a drink that doesn’t taste like much and watching lights flicker across Hoseok’s face. He’s dancing with Jimin now — loose-limbed and alive, hair sticking to his forehead, shirt clinging to the small of his back. They laugh together, spinning in a dizzy blur of movement. Hoseok is radiant, lit up from the inside.

Yoongi used to think he’d missed his moment — that he’d fucked it up years ago and that was the end of it. But the last few weeks have felt delicate and new.

He thought they were getting somewhere. He thought maybe.

But then Hoseok had said they want me — not I want you — and Yoongi hadn’t stopped hearing it since.

He tries to be good. He does. Orders waters, makes sure no one loses their wallet (give it here, Tae). Makes sure Jungkook eats fries before round two. Checks that Jimin isn’t seducing someone’s boyfriend again.

And Hoseok? Hoseok stays close. He’s not cruel. He never is. He leans into Yoongi to talk over the music, lets his hand brush Yoongi’s wrist when he passes a drink, stays for a second too long when their knees bump beneath the table.

It’s almost enough to forget.

Almost.

But then Jimin throws his arm around Hoseok’s shoulder, sweaty and petulant and exclaims how much they’ll miss Hoseok. “Tae and Kookie just keep grinding on each other - it’s gross. Who is going to dance with me?”

And all of the sudden it’s hitting Yoongi again.

It’s not he’s leaving. It’s he’s gone.

He grips the edge of the booth too hard. Tries to breathe through it. Tries to smile when Hoseok catches his eye — still glowing, still golden in the haze of it all.

Yoongi smiles back. Or tries to.

It doesn’t reach his eyes.

____________________________

Later, when the music is less of a roar and more of a background heartbeat, Yoongi finds himself outside just trying to breathe for a second. He leans against the wall, hands in his pockets, watching his breath cloud in the night air.

“Thought I’d find you out here.”

Yoongi doesn’t jump. He just glances over as Hoseok steps outside, pulling the door shut behind him. It muffles the bass to a dull thump. “You okay?” Hoseok asks, voice low.

Yoongi nods. “Yeah. Just needed air.”

Hoseok joins him, shoulder bumping gently against Yoongi’s as he leans on the same stretch of brick. They stand there for a long moment, side by side. Then Hoseok says, softly, “I was gonna tell you sooner. About the travel part. I just… I didn’t want it to change anything.”

Yoongi swallows. “It doesn’t.” Hoseok turns to look at him, searching his face. “Yoongi…”

“I’m proud of you,” Yoongi cuts in before Hoseok can say whatever’s sitting heavy behind his ribs. “Seriously. This is everything you’ve worked for.”

“I know,” Hoseok says. Quiet. “But that’s not—”

“You’re gonna kill it,” Yoongi adds. “They’re lucky to have you.”

Hoseok flinches at the sincerity in his voice. And at the way Yoongi won’t quite meet his eyes. “Is that it?” he asks, more brittle than he means to sound. “You’re just… happy for me?”

Yoongi presses his lips together. Shrugs. “What else is there to say?”

Hoseok lets out a laugh — not mean, not sharp, but something wounded and small. He looks away, staring at the wet glint of the alley pavement. “I don’t know. Maybe that you’ll miss me? That you wish I wasn’t going? That you—”

Yoongi exhales. “This is what you’ve always wanted.”

Hoseok doesn’t answer right away. Just breathes out, quiet and even. He pushes his hands deeper into his jacket pockets like they might steady him. “Yeah,” he says finally. “It is.”

But there’s no triumph in it. No fire. Just resignation. And maybe regret.

Yoongi doesn’t respond. He can’t. If he opens his mouth now, he might say something stupid. Like don’t go. Like stay for me. And they haven’t talked about anything. Not really. Not the kisses, not the want. Not what it all meant or if it meant the same thing to both of them.

So he stays silent. And Hoseok nods like that’s his answer. “I should head back in,” Hoseok says, not quite looking at him. “They’ll think I ditched.”

Yoongi manages a smile that doesn’t reach anywhere near his eyes. “Yeah. Go on.”

Hoseok hesitates for one second more, like he might say something else, do something else. But then he turns, pulls the door open, and disappears into the noise.

Yoongi stays outside.

Chapter Text

Yoongi doesn’t mean to disappear.

He just... stops answering. Stops reaching out. One-word replies in the group chat become reactions only — a heart here, a thumbs-up there. He goes to the studio and he works until it’s time to go home and then he works some more. He goes home. He doesn’t sleep. He doesn’t go to the dance studio, doesn't return Hoseok’s texts, doesn’t eat unless the microwave beeps and he can make himself stand up long enough to stab a few buttons.

The appointment with Dr. Kim comes and goes. He meant to reschedule. He really did.

He just didn’t.

He starts drinking his coffee black again. Not on purpose. He just forgets to add anything.

His apartment becomes a museum of clutter: empty cups, open notebooks, half-finished songs he doesn’t have the heart to close. The blinds stay drawn. He tells himself he’s fine. He’s done this before. It’s not new. It’s not even that bad. It’s actually better than it’s been in the past. 

He’s just tired. That’s all.

But he can’t sleep. Not really. Not for more than an hour or two at a time. And when he does, it’s shallow and dreamless — or worse, it’s full of moments that already happened, rewound and distorted, playing back in ways that make his stomach twist.

Yoongi lies in bed long after the sun comes up, staring at the ceiling and trying to convince himself to get up. To shower. To drink water. To answer one of the fourteen messages on his phone.

Namjoon had sent a check-in last night:
Joonie: Hyung? just making sure you’re okay.

Jin followed up this morning with:
Bride of Frankenstein: Don’t make me break into your apartment again.

Yoongi hadn’t replied to any of them.

He’s fine. He’s functioning. He still goes to work. His coworkers don’t notice anything different, probably. He nods when he’s supposed to. Finishes his deadlines. Actually put out some good shit. It’s only when he’s alone that the weight settles. That everything starts to ache.

By Saturday morning, the apartment smells stale — old coffee, unwashed dishes, the faint mineral burn of heater dust. His phone buzzes again and he doesn’t look. His stomach growls and he ignores it.

He closes his eyes. He doesn’t sleep.

And then someone starts banging on his door.

He checks the time. 10:42 a.m. What the fuck.

He doesn’t move right away. Just sits there on the couch in yesterday’s clothes, hoodie strings uneven, hair sticking to his forehead, blinking like he’s come up from underwater.

Then: “Open the door, Min Yoongi,” Jin’s voice yells through the wood, “or I’m calling the building manager and telling him there’s a gas leak!”

Yoongi groans. Drops his face into his hands. Then Namjoon’s voice follows — calmer, more reasonable. “Hyung, seriously. You don’t have to talk if you don’t want to. Just let us in, okay?”

Yoongi stares at the floor for a long second. Then, without thinking too hard about it, he stands up, pulls his hoodie tighter around him, and shuffles barefoot to the door.

When he opens it, he’s greeted with the sight of three of his closest friends — Jin holding a tupperware of soup like a weapon, Namjoon with two tote bags and a look of firm resolve, and, surprisingly, Jimin who is already stepping forward like he knew Yoongi would fold eventually.

Yoongi doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t have to.

“Good,” Namjoon says gently patting his shoulder as he passes by. “Now we talk.”

_________________________

He expects a scolding. He braces for it. But no one yells.

Instead, Jin takes over the kitchen like he lives there and makes Yoongi sit down on the couch. Namjoon and Jimin sit on either side of him and don’t ask anything at all — Jin comes over and hands him a warm cup of tea, then sits in the chair opposite them and waits.

Yoongi is about to go back to feeling sorry for himself when he remembers: This is Namjoon.

His best friend for nearly a decade now. The person who sat on the floor with him through sleepless nights and god-awful demos and heartbreaks he never told anyone else about. His brother in everything but blood.

This is Jin, who shows how much he cares with every forced meal, every unsolicited care package. Every jab he makes at Yoongi’s height or messiness a veil for how much he loves him.

This is Jimin, who knows what it’s like. Who’s been to the bottom of the same well and clawed his way back up more than once. Who doesn’t push, doesn’t pry — just listens.

It’s humiliating. But it’s also the kindest thing anyone’s done for him in weeks.

You been eating?” Namjoon asks, “Sleeping any better?”

Yoongi shrugs. Noncommittal. Honest. Namjoon just nods, like that’s enough for now. For the first time in days, Yoongi breathes. Not all the way. Not easily. But enough.

Eventually, Yoongi talks.

He doesn’t mean to. He’s been sitting there, half-curled on the couch, tea long since gone cold in his hands, staring into a blank stretch of wall like it might give him some answers. But something in the silence shifts — and the words tumble out before he can stop them.

“I thought I could do it right this time,” Yoongi says, quiet at first. “I thought… if I just showed up. If I stayed. If I didn’t run or ruin it, maybe I could be enough this time. Maybe I’d read it right.”

He pauses, knuckles white around the mug in his hands.

“I thought we were on the same page,” he goes on, voice low and rough. “We weren’t—like—it wasn’t official or anything. But it felt like something. We were talking more. Hanging out, just the two of us. He kept… showing up. In ways I didn’t expect. And I—”

He finally glances up, then back down. “We kissed,” he says. “A few times.”

Jin inhales sharply through his nose but says nothing. Namjoon straightens a little but doesn’t look shocked. Jimin stays exactly where he is, watching Yoongi with soft, steady eyes.

“It wasn’t just that,” Yoongi adds quickly. “It wasn’t just that. It was the way he looked at me. The things he didn’t say but I felt anyway. Like maybe we were coming back around to something real. Something good.”

He shakes his head. “I let myself think maybe he’d choose me. Not because he owed me that, but because… I don’t know. Because I was right there. Because he knows me. And because I thought I knew him the same way.”

He presses his palms to his eyes and pushes like he’s trying to stop himself from unraveling. “But he didn’t tell me he was leaving. Not right away. Not until it was already set. Not until Jimin already knew.” He laughs, short and bitter. “Like I didn’t even need to know. Like it wouldn’t matter either way.”

There’s a long silence. No one moves. “It didn’t matter either way, I guess.”

Yoongi’s voice is quieter now, but no less raw. “So yeah. I thought if I just… tried. If I didn’t mess it up this time. If I stayed. If I was there. I thought maybe it’d be different. I thought maybe I’d be different.”

He blinks hard. His voice almost cracks. “But I’m not. I’m still the same kid who can’t seem to keep up and who runs and hides when things get to be too much. The one who isn’t really worth it in the end. Still the one who gets left.”

Jin swears under his breath.

Namjoon leans forward, elbows on his knees. “I know you’re never going to let yourself believe it, hyung, but you matter. You matter a hell of a lot to so many people. And you’re not the one who got left. You’re the one who stayed. You tried.”

“And it mattered,” Jimin says quietly. “Don’t do that to yourself. Don’t pretend it didn’t mean anything just because it didn’t turn out the way you wanted.”

Yoongi doesn’t say anything, but his jaw twitches like he’s holding something back.

Then Jimin reaches over and gently touches his wrist. “And for the record? He might’ve made his choice. But that doesn’t mean you’re not worth choosing.”

Yoongi breathes in, shallow and shaking. And finally, slowly, he lets himself lean into the space between them. 

“Hey,” Jimin says gently. “You know you’re allowed to want more, right? Even if it doesn’t change anything. Even if it hurts.”

Yoongi looks over at him, startled by how steady he sounds. Jimin’s eyes are soft, his expression open in that way he rarely uses unless it’s something that matters.

“You don’t have to pretend it didn’t mean something,” Jimin goes on. “It did. That doesn’t go away just because he’s leaving. And it doesn’t make you stupid for hoping.”

Yoongi swallows hard, but doesn’t look away.

Jimin leans back a little, legs crossed at the ankle, thumb brushing the rim of his cup. “You know, Hoseok’s not great at saying how he feels. Not really. He gets all… performative when it gets too real. Big gestures, big energy. He can’t always sit still with the quiet stuff.”

There’s a pause. Yoongi listens.

“I don’t say that to excuse anything,” Jimin adds. “Just… I live with him. I know him. And I think sometimes he forgets that people can love him without chasing him across the world. That he doesn’t have to work so damn hard to deserve it.” He pauses again, softer now. “And maybe… sometimes, he’s scared that even if he tries his hardest, to hold on to it, it’ll slip through his fingers anyway.” He gives Yoongi a meaningful look. Yoongi lets out a breath, but it’s shaky. “But that’s something he has to work through.”

Yoongi stares down at his hands, twisting them in the hem of his sleeve.

Jimin nudges his knee. “And you? You’re not broken for wanting him to stay. That doesn’t make you weak. It makes you human.”

“I didn’t want to be a reason he held back,” Yoongi says hoarsely.

“Then you’re not,” Jimin says simply. “You were a reason he felt held. There’s a difference.”

Yoongi closes his eyes.

“I get it,” Jimin says after a moment. “I do. I know what it’s like to love someone who’s always gone. To be left behind in little ways even when it’s not personal. To feel like you were the thing that wasn’t enough to stay for no matter how wrong that assumption can be.”

Yoongi blinks at him, and Jimin smiles — just a little. “It’s not public. And it won’t be. But I’ve been seeing someone. For a while now - a long while and I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about it.”

Namjoon makes a quiet huh? noise. Jin perks up like he’s about to interrogate.

Jimin cuts them off before they can interrupt. “He’s… kind of a big deal. He travels a lot. Most people don’t even know we’re together. And yeah, that’s hard sometimes. It sucks, even. But we make it work. Because it’s worth it.”

Yoongi’s brows pull together.

“I’m not saying that’s what you and Hoseok had,” Jimin clarifies. “I’m saying that I understand. How it feels to give your heart to someone who’s already halfway out the door. How it burns. And how stupid you feel for missing them before they’ve even left.”

Silence stretches between them for a beat, heavy but not sharp.

“I’ve had bad days,” Jimin adds softly. “The kind that swallow you whole. The kind where even brushing your teeth feels like too much. And yeah, I know you don’t need anyone to survive that. You can make it through on your own.”

He looks at Yoongi, unwavering.

“But having people who love you makes it easier,” he says. “Not perfect. Just… easier. And like it or not — Hoseok or not — you have people.”

Yoongi presses his lips together.

“You have us,” Jin says, leaning over to put his hand on Yoongi's knee. "That's right, hyung," Namjoon joins in, “Even when you’re quiet. Even when you think you’re too much or not enough or nothing at all. You still have us.”

Yoongi doesn’t cry. Well, not usually. But his throat closes up so tight he can’t speak and he lays his forehead against Jimin’s shoulder to hide his face as a few tears break free. Jin reaches over and rests a hand on his back. Namjoon exhales slowly, like he’s been holding it in.

And Jimin? Jimin just sits there, steady and kind and close enough to lean on.

Chapter Text

Yoongi cries harder than he meant to. It’s not elegant. There’s sniffling and a wet spot on Jimin’s shirt and a truly undignified hiccup at one point, but no one makes a big deal out of it. Jimin just squeezes his knee and stays close, Namjoon refills his tea without a word, and Jin huffs quietly like he’s about to fuss but thinks better of it.

Eventually, Yoongi slumps back against the couch cushions and sighs. His throat feels raw, but the ache in his chest isn’t quite as crushing.

“I hate feelings,” he mutters.

Jin claps his hands. “Well, too bad. You’ve got them. And they’re disgusting. Now let’s clean something.”

He stands like a man on a mission, stalking toward the kitchen with the air of someone personally offended by Yoongi’s sink. Namjoon follows, rolling up his sleeves, while Jimin starts gathering stray laundry with the efficiency of someone who has done this before. Which, honestly, he probably has.

Yoongi watches all of this, stunned and strangely touched. “You guys don’t have to—”

“Yes, we do,” Jimin interrupts, plucking a hoodie off the floor and giving it a dramatic sniff. “Jesus. When’s the last time you washed this?”

Yoongi shrugs helplessly. “It’s my sad hoodie.”

“Well, it’s committing crimes now.”

Jimin tosses it toward the laundry pile and Yoongi huffs a laugh — small, reluctant, but real.

They tidy in companionable chaos. Jin grumbles loudly about microwave ramen isn’t one of the four food groups and “the emotional devastation of untouched Tupperware,” Namjoon re-alphabetizes Yoongi’s tea shelf (no one asked - he just needed something to do with his hands), and Jimin folds laundry and fluffs pillows because he’s an angel. 

At some point, Yoongi sits back on the now-cleared couch, surrounded by warmth and motion and the low buzz of conversation.

“Hey,” Jimin says gently, dropping beside him again. “I don’t think Hoseok’s ever really known how you feel about him. Not really. Even if he thought he did. Like he thinks he knows, but a lot of the time he gets in his head about what he thinks he knows, you know?”

Yoongi frowns, rubbing at his face. “I thought I was being obvious. I thought he could see how much I care...” Jimin raises a slightly judgy brow, "..how much I love him." 

“Yeah, well, he’s stupid,” Jimin says brightly.

“He’s not stupid,” Namjoon calls from the kitchen.

“He is about love,” Jimin counters. “And Yoongi. Yoongi has always made him stupid.”

Namjoon appears in the doorway, drying his hands. “Regardless. You have to talk to him, Yoongs. Tell him the truth. Even if it’s hard. Even if he still leaves.”

Yoongi stares at his knees. “What if it doesn’t change anything?”

“Then it doesn’t,” Namjoon says simply. “But at least you’ll know you didn’t hide. And that you were honest - with him and yourself.”

Yoongi nods, slow and heavy. It makes sense. It still sucks.

“Joonie is right - you’ll regret it if you don’t.” Jin dumps a basket of finished laundry onto the coffee table for folding and turns to Jimin with his arms crossed. “And you. We’re going to talk about your secret life another day.”

Jimin freezes mid-pant-fold. He looks caught, “I was going to tell you—”

“When? At your wedding? When your famous mystery man thanks us in the footnotes of his Grammy speech? Oscar speech? Tony?”

“Come on, Hyung. It’s not you. I didn’t tell anyone,” Jimin protests, hands raised. “It’s not just my secret. The more people who know, the bigger the risk. I do trust you. All of you. But it’s not just about me.”

Jin glares like he wants to stay mad, but his mouth twitches. “Fine. I suppose that’s fair. God, imagine if Taehyung found out. Everyone would know by breakfast.”

Jimin’s expression shifts — guilt and fondness all tangled together. He rubs a hand guiltily across the back of his neck “Uggg, right. So the thing is…he does know.”

Jin looks betrayed. “What. You said no one!”

“I know, I know, but I didn’t tell him!” Jimin says quickly. “He just… knew. He always just knows. We’re connected, hyung. And once he asked, I couldn’t not tell him! He’s like a dog with a bone with this kind of stuff!”

Yoongi chokes on a laugh. “He really is.”

Jimin ducks his head, smiling a little. “I tried to lie. Once. Months ago. But honestly, the secrecy was killing me. And, like. Tae’s my soulmate. He’s safe.”

Namjoon raises a brow. “How’d that go?”

Jimin snorts. “He looked at me — dead serious — and said, ‘Do we like him?’ Like he was already choosing sides.”

“And?” Jin prompts, settling onto the couch with a suspicious amount of dramatic weight.

“He said, ‘Good. If he hurts you, they’ll never find the body. Dateline will do stories on it for decades. They’ll say it was a cold case — until one day, boom! Dramatic deathbed confession. Televised for the world. I’ll be more famous than your boyfriend.’”

Yoongi wheezes. Namjoon covers his grin with his hand.

Jin sighs deeply. “Honestly? That’s fair. If Taehyung could keep this a secret that must mean it’s important. But I am going to grill you about this later. I need to hear all the sexy, gory details. You know I live for drama.”

Jimin throws a sock at him. “Can’t wait.”

Yoongi watches them all — this strange, loving mess of people who keep showing up no matter how many walls he builds — and feels something loosen in his chest. Not fixed. Not easy. But lighter.

Maybe, just maybe, he’ll be okay.

And maybe… he’ll talk to Hoseok.

Chapter Text

Yoongi texts him.

It’s not long. Just a simple, “Coffee?” With a time and place.

The read receipt pops up almost immediately, but the reply takes ten full minutes. Okay, Hoseok writes back. Nothing else.

It’s more than Yoongi expected. Still less than he hoped for.

They meet at Taehyung’s coffee shop the next afternoon. It’s familiar territory, warm wood tones and old playlists and the faint scent of cinnamon in the air. Neutral ground, but soft-edged. It’s where they’ve spent dozens of lazy mornings and late-night pit stops, tucked into the corner booth by the window like the rest of the world didn’t exist.

Taehyung, mercifully, isn’t working.

Yoongi gets there early. Orders his usual and pays for Hoseok’s too - he knows his usual. He’s halfway through rearranging the sugar packets into color-coded stacks when Hoseok walks in — beanie on, hoodie half-zipped, hands deep in his pockets like he might bolt, but when he catches sight of Yoongi, starts making his way over. 

Yoongi stands “Hey.”

“Hey,” Hoseok echoes. His voice is careful. Guarded. But he sits across from him, lets their knees bump under the table like old habits don’t just vanish.

It’s awkward at first.

The barista brings over Hoseok’s drink not long after he sits. He looks up at her surprised then back over a Yoongi who shrugs. They make stilted small talk about weather, the barista’s new hair color, that Jin is planning on “trying something new” for family dinner next week and if that would break bad or not.

Eventually, though, Yoongi stops fiddling with the sugar packets. He looks up. Meets Hoseok’s eyes.

“I was a dick,” he says.

Hoseok blinks surprised by the abrupt change. “I—”

“No, listen.” Yoongi shakes his head. “I was a dick. I was a dick because I was hurting. And I made all these assumptions and plans in my head and I didn’t know how to say any of it out loud without falling apart.”

The air shifts — slightly, but it does. Hoseok doesn’t interrupt again.

“I thought…” Yoongi’s voice wavers, but he pushes through. “I thought that I was being so obvious about it. I thought I was reading it right this time — that maybe you wanted more too. I thought you would just know how I felt without me having to say it out loud. You always seem to know what I’m thinking, so I just… And when I realized you were leaving, that I wasn’t part of the plan… it brought back all this old shit I thought I’d buried. That I’m not enough to keep you happy. That I’m not wanted. That no matter how hard I try to stay, it won’t really matter.”

Hoseok’s mouth parts like he wants to say something, but he doesn’t.

Yoongi keeps going. “I wanted to be better this time. I wanted to stay. To show up for you and support you, not run away like I did when we were kids. But it hurt. And instead of talking to you, I pulled back, and I shut down, and I made you feel like the whole thing - us - that it didn’t mean anything.”

A breath.

“But it did,” Yoongi says. “It does.  And I didn’t ask you to stay because I didn’t want you to resent me. Because I knew if you said yes, if you gave up your dream, and I was the reason…” His voice catches. “You’d grow to realize that maybe you made the wrong choice and that would’ve destroyed me.”

He lets the silence settle. Lets it fill the cracks between them. 

“You didn’t know how I felt,” he says quietly. “Not really. Jimin said that. That you thought you did, but… you didn’t. And I’m sorry for that. I’m sorry for making you guess and for making you assume instead of just saying something - anything at all.”

Hoseok’s eyes are glassy. But his face is unreadable, jaw tight.

Yoongi leans in just slightly, elbows on the table. He watches Hoseok breathe.

“I love you. I probably always have.” he says. It lands between them like something sacred. Heavy and trembling. Hoseok’s eyes widen and glisten and his mouth turns down. And for a long, suspended moment — he doesn’t say anything.

He swallows. Looks down at his cup. Then back up. “Yoongi…”

“I don’t need you to say it back,” Yoongi says quickly, gently. “I’m not asking for anything. I just— I needed you to know.”

Another pause. Hoseok opens his mouth. Closes it again. His throat works.

“I don’t know what to say,” he admits, raw. Yoongi nods. “That’s okay.” He reaches out and grabs Hoseok’s limp hand across the table, “I am gonna miss you, Seok. So fucking much.” 

And it is. It has to be.

They sit there, hearts on the table between coffee cups, not quite finished — not yet — but not falling apart either.

Chapter Text

He’s gone.

Not yet, not quite. But his plane leaves in the morning. His suitcase is packed. The goodbye is tonight.

They do it at Namjoon and Jin’s place — the biggest one, the one with enough seating and enough comfort and enough memories folded into the corners of the couch to make it feel less like an ending - at least for Yoongi. 

Jin cooks like a man possessed, commanding his kitchen like a general and swatting away helping hands with a firm “You’ll just slow me down.” There’s bubbling jjigae on the stove, six kinds of banchan, enough dumplings to feed a party twice their size. He hums under his breath the whole time, only pausing to scold Taehyung for almost burning his sleeve while carelessly reaching over the stovetop. 

Hoseok told him he didn’t have to cook, that he always cooks, but Jin insisted. Namjoon told them to leave him be - that it had something to do with Jin “controlling his controllables” which made sense to Yoongi.  

Jungkook has made a playlist with ridiculous attention to detail. It’s three hours long and he swears it’s a hype-up mix — for confidence, for good vibes, for new adventures. But it’s almost entirely emotional ballads, half of them in minor keys. When confronted, he just shrugs and says, “They hit,” like that explains anything. At some point, Yoongi catches him quietly wiping his eyes in the hallway while a stripped-down acoustic version of “Time of your Life” plays. He leaves the kid be. 

Taehyung strings twinkle lights across the ceiling and insists everyone sign a Polaroid guestbook he’s decorated with glittery stickers, dried flowers, and little pressed clovers he swears are lucky. He corrals them into group photos with homemade props, shouts “Memories are important!” every time someone groans, and wields his camera like it’s sacred. “This is archival,” he says solemnly, snapping a candid of Jin laughing over a bubbling pot. “You’ll thank me in ten years.”

Jimin commandeers the drinks table and makes custom mocktails for everyone, “no drinking tonight, we can’t afford anyone oversleeping and missing their plane now, can we” naming them with obnoxiously on-the-nose titles like “Rumba on the Rocks” and “The Hoseok Effect.” He forces everyone to toast, one by one, until they’re all teetering between laughter and misty-eyed silence.

Namjoon does his best to keep the chaos from tipping into full disaster. He mediates a minor squabble over the aux cord with the patience of a saint, nearly knocks over a stack of plates trying to help Jin, and narrowly avoids setting a dish towel on fire. Still, he moves through it all with quiet authority — steady hands, warm smiles, hugs that feel like anchors. He keeps them centered, even when everything feels like it’s shifting.

Hoseok takes it all in like he’s memorizing it. Maybe he is. As they are wrapping up for the night, Hoseok needing to get some rest before the early wake up call, the goodbyes start.

Jimin hugs him first, clinging like a koala and hiding his wet eyes in Hoseok’s shoulder. “I’ll keep your plants alive,” he says thickly. “And I’m redecorating the living room.” Hoseok chuckles and pats his roommate on the back. 

Taehyung is next. He tucks a tiny charm into Hoseok’s hand - it’s a keychain with a little rainbow charm hanging off the end - and tells him to text when he lands, when he eats, when he breathes. “You’re the sun, Hobi-hyung. Go shine.”

Jungkook, unsurprisingly, tackles him in a bear hug and won’t let go for a long time. When he does, his eyes are wet, “Come back different, hyung. But don’t forget who you were here.”

Namjoon hugs him and whispers something in his ear that makes Hoseok’s mouth quirk like he’s going to cry. “You’ve always been brave,” Namjoon says aloud. “Go live like it.”

Jin is last. He fusses and nags and fixes Hoseok’s collar, like he’s trying to do everything except say goodbye. Finally, he grabs his face in both hands and kisses his forehead. “I am so proud of you,” he says. “But if I find out you’re not taking care of yourself while you’re away, I will fly there myself and drag you home.”

Yoongi watches it all from the sidelines. He doesn’t know how to be in this moment, doesn’t know what shape he’s supposed to take. His heart is too big and too raw in his chest.

Eventually, Hoseok finds him. Of course he does. He always does. He walks over, hands in pockets, “Let me walk you home?”

Yoongi nods.

The city is warm and quiet at this hour. They don’t say much. They’ve said a lot already — maybe too much. Their footsteps echo on the sidewalk, and every one feels like something closing. A book. A season.

When they reach Yoongi’s building, he fumbles with his keys. Hoseok stops him with a hand on his arm. 

“I’m not going to pretend it didn’t happen or that you didn’t say what you said,” he says.

Yoongi stills.

“I meant what I said,” Hoseok continues. “I don’t know how to answer it yet — not the way you deserve. But I felt it. I feel it. And I’m not…I don’t want to walk away from that.”

Yoongi looks at him. His chest is tight. “Then what—”

Hoseok grabs a fistful of Yoongi’s hoodie, pushes him back against the door, and kisses him — It’s not gentle. It’s not soft. It’s hands-in-fabric, breath-stolen, knees-loose kind of urgent. Like he’s trying to brand the memory into both of them before it’s too late.

Yoongi doesn’t even pretend to fight it. His brain blanks out. His lungs stop working. His hands find Hoseok’s waist on instinct, clutching tight. And somewhere in the dizzy rush of it — in the way Hoseok kisses like a goddamn promise, like a fire he’s not afraid to stoke — Yoongi realizes he’s doomed. Fully, irreversibly doomed.

When Hoseok finally pulls back, they’re both breathing hard. Their foreheads press together. Yoongi’s entire spine is molten.

“I’m leaving,” Hoseok says, voice quieter now. “But I’m not leaving.”

He shifts, one hand sliding to Yoongi’s jaw, thumb warm against his skin.

“I’m going to write. I’m going to call. I want to see your face when I can’t sleep. I want you to show me the stupid cat memes you save in your phone. I want you to be the first person I text when something incredible happens. Or when nothing happens at all.”

Yoongi’s heart thunders, but he’s steady when he says it. “Okay.”

Hoseok smiles — a little softer this time — and leans in again, just enough for a sweeter kiss. Slower. Lingering. Like something he’s afraid to let go of.

“I’ll come back,” Hoseok whispers, lips barely brushing Yoongi’s. “You better still be here.”

Yoongi exhales, equal parts wrecked and full. “I will be.”

Chapter Text

Hoseok does text.

And call. And FaceTime. Sometimes twice in one day, sometimes at ungodly hours when he forgets about time zones or just wants to hear Yoongi’s voice before a show. Luckily, Yoongi’s sleep schedule is so far removed from the realm of normalcy that it hardly matters. He picks up with a raspy "hey," every time, no matter what he’s doing, no matter the hour.

Hoseok is also still one of the loudest voices in the group chat. There are blurry photos of performance venues, chaotic videos of backstage dance-offs, unhinged street food reviews that usually end with "I’m still alive!" and a greasy thumbs-up selfie. The kids ask endless questions about the places he’s seen and the people he’s met. Taehyung almost cries when Hoseok sends a picture of himself standing in front of the Mona Lisa with a dramatic and unimpressed shrug.

But the best stuff is for Yoongi alone.

The quiet updates. The low, soft voice notes recorded in hotel rooms, when the adrenaline from a performance hasn’t quite faded. The half-asleep texts filled with typos and emojis. The way he always starts with, "Hey, I saw something today that made me think of you” or “I just wanted to say hey, so…hey.”

It’s those small things that ground Yoongi. That make him feel chosen. Known. Like even when they’re separated by time zones and thousands of miles, Hoseok is still his.

They don’t always connect. Sometimes Yoongi is too slammed with deadlines. Sometimes Hoseok is too wired from the stage to sit still. There are missed calls and overlapping schedules and nights when they just can’t line up. But even when they miss each other, it doesn’t feel like missing. Not like it used to.

Now, there’s rhythm. Comfort. A beat Yoongi can trace back to his chest, steady and warm.

He talks about Hoseok more in therapy. Dr. Kim listens with that quiet, maddening patience she’s perfected over the years. She doesn’t even blink when Yoongi admits, “Okay, yes, I buried the lead a little.” Just smiles, scribbles something in her notes, and asks how it feels to be known like that. Loved like that.

Yoongi frowns for several minutes. Then says, softly, “Good. Weird, but good.”

The countdown is everywhere. Everyone is keeping track. Eight months, Taehyung says, and adds a marble to a glass bowl every day like it’s a sacred ritual.

“That’s going to overflow in like two weeks,” Namjoon observes.

“It’s art,” Taehyung replies. “A visible representation of my love and grief.”

Jungkook builds an app with a customizable home screen widget that counts down the days until Hoseok’s return. Jin has a wall calendar with an aggressively color-coded sticker system for "wholesome updates," "unhinged Hoseok content," and a collage of “Min Yoongi smiling at his phone like a middle schooler in love."

Yoongi pretends to be annoyed. He is not annoyed.

He and Jimin spend more time together, now. Which is a new, but not unpleasant development, both filling the Hoseok-shaped holes in their day with shared silence and snacks. And advice, apparently.

“You have to over communicate,” Jimin says one afternoon from where he’s spread out over Yoongi’s love seat like the lush that he is. “Like, way more than you think. People need reminders they still matter when they’re far away.”

Yoongi groans. “We literally talk every day.”

“Okay, but do you send him spontaneous voice notes? Curated playlists based on your current level of longing? Shirtless selfies?”

“Jesus Christ.”

“Because I do,” Jimin continues, as if Yoongi hasn’t started aggressively yanking a blanket over his head. “Well, did. When we were in different time zones. Thank god that is over for the time being, but the point stands. I developed a foolproof system for sustaining high-level yearning and intimacy."

“You have templates,” Yoongi accuses.

“Of course I have templates. Categorized by emotional tone and degree of horniness. You want the 'wistful yearning' pack or the ‘God, I miss your hands and what they do to me' three-parter?”

Yoongi chokes. “I’m going to jump out a window.”

“We’re on the second floor. Jump out this window and you’re looking at a sprained ankle at best,” Jimin says, tossing a pillow at him.

“I’m sure I can find a way to get roof access.”

Jimin ignores him. “Oh, also sexting, obviously. Highly effective. Underrated. Especially for people like you.”

Yoongi squints. “People like me?”

“Emotionally constipated but deeply horny. Not for, like, everyone. But for Hoseok? Oh, you’re doomed.”

Yoongi opens his mouth to argue. Then pauses. “Okay, weirdly accurate.”

“Exactly. You’ve been in love for five minutes and you already want to write sonnets about him and let him ruin your life.”

Yoongi hurls the pillow back at him. “Don’t make me feel things and also make it worse.”

But it is worse. Or better. Or both.

Because now that Yoongi knows he loves Hoseok, now that he’s let himself say it and mean it, it’s like something broke open inside of him. A door he didn’t know he was holding shut.

Hoseok sends a sleepy voice note and Yoongi has to bite his own fist to keep from making a sound. He sees a photo of Hoseok mid-performance, soaked in sweat, eyes blazing with that wild joy he gets on stage, and Yoongi has to physically leave the room. There are moments he catches himself staring at Hoseok’s hands in videos and thinks, with a kind of breathless clarity: I am in so much trouble.

It’s not about sex. Not exactly. It’s about knowing. About wanting. About trust and time and letting the feelings live out loud instead of burying them under old fears.

“I’m just saying,” Jimin continues, like he hasn’t just set Yoongi on fire, “use it. Make him feel it all the way across the world.”

“You are a tornado of chaos in tiny pants,” Yoongi mutters.

“And, if you’re not sexting your long-distance lover like a Victorian poet who just glimpsed bare ankle, what are you even doing?”

Yoongi glares. But later that night, when he’s curled up in bed with his phone warm in his hand and Hoseok’s latest message still glowing on the screen, he records a voice note.

It’s nothing scandalous. Not yet.

But his voice is low, still sleep-soft and sincere. It ends with: “I miss you. I can’t wait for you to come back to me.”

Then he stares at the ceiling, heart thudding, and thinks about what he’ll say in the next one.

Chapter Text

“So, Jimin told me I should sext you,” Yoongi says the next night when they are chatting over the phone while Yoongi cooks dinner and Hoseok is already washed up and in bed. There’s a short pause on the other end of the line.

“Interesting suggestion,” Hoseok replies, sounding amused. “Do you want to sext me?”

Yoongi stops chopping and drags a hand down his face. “I don’t not want to sext you.”

Hoseok laughs, warm and low, like he’s leaning back on some hotel pillow, all cozy and soft. It curls into Yoongi’s spine and short-circuits his brain.

“Okay,” Hoseok says. “Then why does it sound like you’re about to pass out from embarrassment?”

“Because I am.”

Yoongi continues chopping more aggressively than before. He’s had a slow burn crush on this man for approximately a decade and somehow this is the part that makes him want to die. Now that he’s broken the seal, he has no problem with telling Hoseok how he feels on an emotional level. He can even talk through childhood trauma in therapy. But ask him to be horny on purpose?

Perish.

“It just feels weird,” Yoongi admits, dropping the chopped onions and garlic into a pan on the stove. “I mean, I’ve never even seen your dick. That feels like step one, doesn’t it?”

There’s a choking noise on the other end of the line, followed by a wheeze that turns into delighted laughter. Hoseok’s entire body is probably shaking.

“I—baby, what?”

“I’m serious!” Yoongi groans, tossing in a handful of ground turkey and reducing the heat like the pan personally offended him. “How am I supposed to sext you when I don’t have the full context? It’s impersonal. It’s theoretical horniness. Academic.”

“You’ve been spending too much time with Namjoon,” Hoseok laughs, faintly breathless through the speaker. “You write entire songs about longing and tension and—God, you definitely have a verse about tits and ass in your discography somewhere.”

“That’s different,” Yoongi argues, stabbing at the meat like it owes him money. “That’s abstract horny. Vibe horny. Not applied horny.”

“Applied horny,” Hoseok repeats, gleeful. “You’re unbelievable.”

“I just think,” Yoongi continues with the stubborn momentum of a man trying to win a debate he started against his will, “if I’m going to imagine jerking you off in a bathroom stall or whatever, I should at least know what I’m working with. Otherwise it’s—”

“A failure of realism?” Hoseok supplies. “Why are we in a bathroom stall?”

“Exactly. I’m trying to be emotionally vulnerable and sexually accurate.” He adds some chopped vegetables to the pan, “And I don’t know, maybe the rush of the semi-public location turns you on?”

There’s a rustle on the other end, like Hoseok’s rolling over onto a bed or couch. When he speaks again, his voice is full of wicked amusement, tinged with something softer underneath.

“So just to clarify—” he says slowly, “you want to sext me. But you’re too respectful to do it without proper research.”

Yoongi groans again, this time deeper, hands gripping the pan handle like he’s about to launch it into the sun. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

“I don’t,” Yoongi mutters. “I really don’t.”

A beat. Then:

“So you’ve imagined jerking me off in a bathroom stall?”

“I’m hanging up.”

“No! Don’t you dare!”

Yoongi doesn’t hang up. His face is burning. His chest is warm. Hoseok is still laughing.

Eventually, as Yoongi is plating up his dinner, “You’d be proud of me, Seok, there’s 4 different types of vegetables in this stir fry” the line settles into something quieter, fond and fuzzy around the edges.

“For what it’s worth,” Hoseok says, voice softening, “I’d like that. To share that with you. When we’re ready.”

Yoongi blinks down at his phone.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Hoseok says, voice lower now, rougher around the edges. “I want you to know all of me. Not just the shiny parts. The backstage mess. The tired, sweaty, delirious versions. And, yeah… the other parts too.”

Yoongi snorts, immediately suspicious. “Was that supposed to be subtle?”

“No,” Hoseok says, laughing. “But I said it in my sexy voice, so I figured I’d get away with it.”

“Barely.”

“Look,” Hoseok continues, “you’re right. Sexting’s cute. It’s fun. But if I’m being honest?” A pause. A breath. “I don’t want the appetizer if I know the main course is coming. Especially for our first time. Why settle for skim milk when I could have whole?”

Yoongi pauses mid-chew. “That’s a terrible analogy. I’m lactose intolerant.”

“Exactly. I want you even if it’ll ruin my life.”

Yoongi chokes on a laugh, shaking his head as he stirs his food. “Jesus Christ.” 

“I’d love to see you naked,” Hoseok adds, casual like he’s talking about the weather. “Never doubt that part - I’ve been dreaming about it - but I’d rather undress you myself.” Yoongi chokes. Hoseok laughs. 

They fall into that comfortable silence they’ve always been good at — the kind that stretches but never snaps. A thread, warm and taut between them, across time zones and phone static.

Yoongi eats his meal and listens to Hoseok’s breath get deeper and sleepier. He thinks about calloused hands, dim lights, the feel of someone pressing in close after a long day. He thinks about soon.

And when Hoseok murmurs, low and lazy, “I keep thinking about what your skin’s gonna taste like,” Yoongi drops his fork and scrubs both hands over his face.

He’s so screwed.

In the best possible way.

Chapter Text

Two more weeks.

That’s the quiet rhythm pulsing under everything tonight — not said, but humming beneath the clatter of dice, the bickering over card rules, and Jin’s suspiciously perfect streak of wins.

Namjoon’s living room is packed, as it usually is on Sunday nights, and smells like the pizza Jungkook and Taehyung brought to spare Jin from cooking for once. The coffee table is a battlefield of half-finished snacks, empty White Claw cans, and aggressive post-it notes tracking who owes who push-ups from the last game night.

Jungkook is sitting cross-legged on the floor with the kind of laser focus that suggests someone’s life is on the line over a round of UNO. His knee is pressed firmly against Taehyung’s, and every time he slaps down a card, he nudges him like a co-conspirator. “That’s what strategy looks like,” he mutters, as if they’re in a war zone and not Namjoon’s living room in fuzzy socks.

“Yah, you ungrateful brat!” Jin shouts, flinging a red 8 like a weapon.

“You’re unbearable when you’re winning,” Taehyung says, deadpan, without looking up. He’s stretched out with his head in Jimin’s lap, letting him braid glittery string into his hair, but his foot is hooked behind Jungkook’s ankle like a tether.

“You love it,” Jungkook replies, elbowing him again. Taehyung sighs. Dramatically. Then smiles, just barely.

“I do,” he admits, like it pains him. “But I wish I didn’t.”

Jimin rolls his eyes and flicks Jungkook’s forehead. Jungkook lets out a strangled sound and threatens to flip the table.

“Don’t start flirting during game night,” Jin mutters, clearly plotting Jungkook’s imminent downfall.

Taehyung hums contentedly. “It’s honestly nice to be in love and infuriated at the same time. Keeps things spicy.”

“Speak for yourself,” Yoongi mutters into his beer. “My relationship is delightful.”

“It’s only delightful because your boyfriend’s not here to challenge you in real time,” Taehyung calls, flicking a chip at him.

Yoongi shrugs. He doesn’t disagree.

Jin sighs from where he’s draped across Namjoon’s lap. “If I have to explain the ‘draw four’ rule to Jungkook one more time, I’m going to start handing out slaps.”

“You could just admit I’m better than you,” Jungkook says smugly. “I’ve evolved beyond your outdated strategy.”

“You’re playing a glorified color-matching game,” Namjoon mutters tiredly. 

There’s something a little off in his expression — not sharp, not sad, just… worn down. Yoongi watches him a beat longer, then nudges a fresh drink toward him with his foot. Namjoon takes it without looking and murmurs a quiet, “Thanks.”

Jimin’s phone dings with a text. He reaches over and to read the message - holding the phone close to his chest like he’s hiding it. Like they all didn’t see him lunge for it seconds ago. 

Yoongi raises a brow with a smirk. “You’ve been smiling at your phone a lot lately.”

“Maybe I just have good memes.”

“You hate memes,” Jungkook says, frowning.

“Maybe I’ve evolved,” Jimin says smoothly.

“Like Jungkook did with UNO?” Jin deadpans.

Yoongi watches Jimin bite back a smirk — the kind that says he definitely has something to hide — but lets the moment slide. Yoongi never realized how good Jimin was at pivoting before he knew what to look for.  Jungkook stays oblivious, too focused on vengeance and color cards to notice the tension.

A round later, Namjoon exhales slowly, sets his hand face-down, and leans back into the couch like gravity’s winning. Yoongi knows that look — the man’s had one or two too many.

“Okay,” Namjoon says into the ceiling. “Is anyone else just… tired? Not physically. Existentially. Like your bones are holding it together, but your soul wants to lie down and sleep for a thousand years.”

It goes quiet for a beat.

“Like every day, man.” Yoongi says dryly.

“Same,” Jin groans. “Except I treat my existential dread with a bath bomb and main character syndrome. I’m the only one who’s ever suffered, obviously. You should try it.”

Namjoon doesn’t laugh, but he huffs out something close and leans into Jin’s side. Jin lets him, wrapping an arm around his shoulders and pressing a kiss to his temple like it’s instinct while cooing at his drunk and maudlin boyfriend.

“I’m fine,” Namjoon says, softer now. “Just working too much. The extra classes they have me teaching this semester are really killing me. Just feels like a lot. Last night I dreamt I forgot how to read.”

“That’s horrifying,” Jimin says, too sincerely.

Namjoon turns his hands over in front of him, frowning like they’ve done him a personal injustice. “You ever look at your own fingers too long and suddenly forget what hands are?”

Yoongi raises a brow. “Okay, that’s enough of that.”

“No more poet hours during family game night,” Jin agrees, grabbing the can from Namjoon’s hand and pulling Namjoon in like he can anchor him with body heat and sarcasm alone.

There’s a lull after that — someone’s phone buzzes (Jimin, again), Taehyung groans theatrically about losing a turn, and Jungkook crows in triumph as he slaps down his final card with the force of divine judgment.

Then, just as Yoongi takes a sip of his drink, he feels a tug on his pant leg. Namjoon looks up at him from where his head now lays in Jin’s lap, his boyfriend’s hand in his hair soothing away his drunken ennui. “You excited?”

Yoongi blinks. “For what?”

“For Hoseok coming back,” Namjoon says, pointing in the general direction of the color-coded countdown calendar Jin has stuck to the fridge. 

Yoongi’s chest pulls tight — not in a painful way. Just full. Dense with something warm. He nods. “Yup - Two weeks.”

Namjoon shifts in Jin’s lap turning more toward his best friend. “You nervous?”

Yoongi thinks for a moment, then shakes his head. “No. Not really. I just... miss him.”

The silence that follows is the good kind — heavy in a comforting way, like a familiar blanket. No teasing. No noise. Just that shared understanding that lives between people who’ve seen each other through enough to know what silence can mean.

Then, inevitably, because he can’t have nice things: “Bet he’s gonna jump you the second he lands,” Jin says cheerfully.

“God, not in the airport,” Taehyung groans. “Think of our virgin eyes, hyung!”

“Be honest,” Jimin grins. “You’d fold like a chair.”

Yoongi rolls his eyes and chucks a pillow at him, but he’s smiling — real and wide and aching in a good way.

He feels good. Not anxious. Not hollow. There’s something new now: anticipation, not fear.
A countdown that doesn’t ache. His person is coming home.

And this time, he gets to be there waiting.

Chapter Text

The airport is hell.

Not because of the crowds or the noise or the suspicious number of crying toddlers — although all of that is happening in stereo — but because Yoongi has never, in his entire life, felt the need to climb someone like a tree this badly in his entire life.

He shifts on his feet for what has to be the fiftieth time, pretending it’s to get a better look at the arrivals board and not because his body is buzzing like a live wire. Jimin catches the movement out of the corner of his eye and grins, unhelpful.

“Nervous?” he asks, like Yoongi isn’t practically levitating. Jungkook snorts. “He’s vibrating.”

“I’m not vibrating,” Yoongi says. He is vibrating.

“You’re literally bouncing on your heels, hyung,” Jungkook says, clutching the cardboard sign he and Tae made at 2AM the night before that just says “WELCOME BACK, SLUT” in glitter paint.

Jimin, because he’s the worst, adds, “You gonna cry or just spontaneously combust?”

Yoongi opens his mouth to tell them both to shut up, but then the doors slide open and there he is.

Hoseok.

Fresh off a sixteen-hour flight and somehow still looking like a daydream: soft sweatpants, oversized hoodie, headphones around his neck, eyes scanning the crowd with the kind of tired excitement that lands like a punch to Yoongi’s chest. His hair’s longer. There’s a freckle on his collarbone that Yoongi swears wasn’t there before. You can see his eyes smiling from above his face mask before he even spots them.

And Yoongi is gone.

Just—obliterated.

Hoseok’s surrounded by the rest of the dancers, all bleary-eyed and travel-weary, dragging duffels and slapping each other on the back. But as soon as he sees them — sees Yoongi — he stops. 

Even half hidden they can see the way his whole face lights up, like someone turned the sun back on. Yoongi might actually die. Hoseok breaks into a jog, ignoring his friends’ shouts of “text us when you get home!” and “don’t forget the group photo!” as he veers away from the group and straight into Yoongi’s orbit.

Yoongi doesn’t move. He can’t move. He’s frozen to the spot, watching this man — his man — barrel toward him like a one-man hurricane.

And then he’s there.

He’s there and he’s hugging him so hard Yoongi’s feet leave the floor for a second. His arms are around Yoongi’s waist and his face is tucked into his neck and he smells like plane soap and something Yoongi can only describe as home.

“You’re here,” Yoongi breathes. His hands fist in the back of Hoseok’s hoodie like he’s afraid to let go. “You’re actually here.”

“I missed you so much it’s disgusting,” Hoseok murmurs into his skin. “I think I’m medically unwell.”

Yoongi lets out a shaky laugh. “You’re lucky we’re in public.”

“I’m aware. Believe me.”

There’s a beat of silence where they just hold each other, breathing each other in like it’s been years. Then:

“Okay,” Jimin says, too loud. “So, am I just standing here holding this sign like a dumbass for absolutely no acknowledgement, or—?”

Yoongi flips him off over Hoseok’s shoulder without looking. Jungkook takes a picture.

___________________________

They make it halfway across the parking structure before Yoongi’s dignity fully gives out.

It starts innocent — just Hoseok’s pinky brushing his once, then again, like it’s casual. Like it’s nothing. But then it hooks. Then Hoseok’s fingers lace slowly between his, one by one, like he’s meant to be touching Yoongi. Like his hand never belonged anywhere else.

And Yoongi? Yoongi has to fight every violent instinct in his body not to whimper about it.

His whole arm prickles like static, nerves lighting up from elbow to wrist. His pulse is a hammer. Hoseok is still talking to Jimin — some story about stolen pastries and airport carpets — but Yoongi isn’t following.

Because the heat of Hoseok’s palm is branding into his skin. Because Hoseok’s thumb keeps sweeping, slow and soft, over the back of his hand in a way that could be innocent but absolutely isn’t.

Yoongi wants to throw him against the nearest wall and beg.

Instead, he nods like a person. Breathes like a person. Pretends to be a person.

And Hoseok? Hoseok squeezes his hand once — just once — and keeps walking like he isn’t casually driving the man he loves absolutely insane.

“…and then we missed our connecting flight, so we spent eight hours sleeping on the floor of Vancouver International,” he says with a laugh, tugging his suitcase behind him. “One of the dancers got kicked out of the lounge for eating someone else’s croissant.”

“Ooh an airport croissant - had they no shame?” Jimin gasps.

Hoseok says. “I at least had dignity…and trail mix.”

Hoseok looks relaxed — flushed from the long flight, hair falling into his eyes, hoodie sleeves bunched at the elbows. He’s smiling. Effortless. Happy. And then, like he knows, he turns and squeezes Yoongi’s hand once. His thumb grazes over the top. Just barely.

Yoongi has to bite the inside of his cheek to stay upright.

“So wait,” Jimin says, shooting them a sideways glance that is way too knowing, “are you guys doing the long dramatic reunion kiss later or…?”

Yoongi trips over his own feet.

“Which is a yes,” Jungkook says, grinning. “Can I be there?”

“No,” Yoongi and Hoseok say in perfect unison. “We don’t owe you anything you bunch of voyeurs.”

Jungkook pouts. “I told Tae, I’d capture all the emotional reunion moments. Especially the the nsfw ones.”

They reach the car and Jungkook pops the trunk to load up Hoseok’s bags. “Shotgun!” Jimin yells with a shit eating grin on his face. “Fat chance. Get up here, Seok.”

Hoseok chuckles and slides into the passenger seat, the doors closing them into a sudden hush of private space. The car ride is quiet, mostly — just the hum of traffic, the gentle conversation of some of his favorite people, and Jimin’s playlist on low, the kind of chill, jazzy lo-fi that should help Yoongi relax.

It doesn’t.

Because Hoseok’s hand is on his knee.

His thumb drags in lazy arcs along the inside of Yoongi’s thigh, barely there, like he’s tracing a memory. Like he knows Yoongi’s legs would fall open for him without question if the car wasn’t moving.

Yoongi feels heat bloom low in his belly — slow and molten, completely at odds with the steady rhythm of traffic. He swallows hard. Tries so hard not to shift under Hoseok’s hand, even though every inch of him is screaming for contact, for friction, for relief.

Jimin and Jungkook are in the backseat, thank god, both distracted — Hoseok is halfway through a story about a dance battle in Lisbon that Jimin is howling over, Jungkook keeps interrupting to ask if the DJ was hot — but Yoongi can barely track a word.

Because Hoseok’s thumb presses in again, just a little firmer now. Just a little higher.

And Yoongi’s brain short-circuits. Static in every thought. He has to physically resist the urge to lean into it, to drag Hoseok’s hand up, to make a noise that would absolutely out him in front of the entire car.

Instead, he exhales, low and shaky, and catches Hoseok watching him from the corner of his eye — smug, fond, entirely too pleased with himself.

Yoongi is going to combust. He is going to combust and Hoseok is going to smile through it like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “You good?” Hoseok murmurs. His voice is low. Warm. Intentional.

Yoongi swallows hard. His fingers grip the steering wheel like a lifeline. “Not even remotely.”

Hoseok smiles. Smirks, really. “Missed you too.”

Chapter Text

The car rolls to a stop outside Jimin and Hoseok’s place - they’d already dropped Jungkook off at Tae’s on the way - and before Yoongi’s even put it in park, Jimin’s leaning forward between the seats like a nosy auntie. 

“So,” he says, casual as a threat, “you coming home with me tonight or…?”

Hoseok laughs under his breath, and Yoongi glances over at him just in time to catch the little shrug.

“My room probably forgot I exist,” Hoseok says. “It won’t notice one more night.”

Jimin hums, like that confirms everything he suspected. He pops the trunk open and grabs Hoseok’s luggage from the back, but not before leaning down one last time to murmur behind his hand, “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do… And there’s not much I wouldn’t do.”

Yoongi glares at him. Hoseok coughs into a grin. Jimin pats the car like a proud parent seeing his kid off to prom and adds, “Text me if you need any ideas. Or a round of applause. Make sure to hydrate!”

“Out,” Yoongi mutters. “Get out of my car.”

Jimin salutes and disappears up the steps with a little extra sway in his walk, fully aware of the chaos he’s left behind.

Yoongi puts the car back into gear and starts making his way home, precious cargo secured.

The moment Jimin is gone, the silence in the car shifts. It’s not awkward—never awkward—but it’s charged now, heavy in the air between them like a held breath. The kind of quiet that pricks at Yoongi’s skin, makes his palms itch on the steering wheel.

They hit a red light and Yoongi’s hand slips to the gearshift, brushing Hoseok’s knee in the process. Yoongi can feel the beat of his own pulse in his throat. Hoseok turns, slow and deliberate, and catches him staring.

“What?” he asks, voice low.

Yoongi’s mouth is dry. “Nothing,” he says. It sounds like a lie.

Everything is so much. The scent of Hoseok’s cologne, faint but familiar. The heat of his body in the cramped car. The shape of his mouth. The fact that he could pull over right now, unbuckle his seatbelt, and—

The light turns green.

Yoongi swears under his breath and drives.It’s a five-minute ride, but it feels like an eternity. His foot is heavy on the gas. Because if they don’t get home soon, he’s going to do something deeply ill-advised and probably illegal in a moving vehicle.

When they finally make it to Yoongi’s place, it’s weird.

The door clicks shut behind them, and the quiet in Yoongi’s apartment feels different now. More private. Hoseok lingers in the hallway, fingers curled loosely around the strap of his backpack, half-smiling like he’s waiting for instructions. Or maybe permission. Like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to want what he wants yet.

His eyes flick around the familiar space. He’s been here before—slept on this couch, drank Yoongi’s coffee, laughed in this kitchen—but something about tonight makes it all feel sharper. Slower.

“You want to talk?” he asks, soft. Hesitant. “Because I’d—I’d understand if you want to, before anything else. I mean, we should, eventually. Probably. We’ve been apart, and—”
He trails off with a small laugh, nervous, like he’s trying to preempt some invisible consequence. His voice dips. “I left, and I know that’s not nothing.”

Yoongi crosses the space between them before Hoseok can finish the sentence. Hands slide up his arms—not rough, but certain, like he’s grounding himself in the reality of him. Warm skin, familiar muscle, the curve of his shoulders like a song Yoongi never stopped humming under his breath.

He looks at him—really looks—and feels everything at once: how much he missed him, how long he’s wanted this, how fucking badly he needs him right now.

“Hoseok,” he says, quiet but sure, “talking is not what I want you to be doing with your mouth right now.”

Hoseok blinks, a little stunned. Yoongi can feel the breath stutter out of him.

There’s a pause. A beat where everything hangs open and waiting.

Then Hoseok swallows, throat working visibly. His bag hits the floor.

“Okay,” he says, already breathless. “Heard.”

Hoseok attacks him. There’s no other word for it. His body hit’s Yoongi’s like a freight train and he kisses him like he’s starving.

Like Yoongi’s the first sip of water after a month in the desert—hands in his hair, breath in his lungs, mouth open and wet and fucking hungry. There’s no easing into it, no polite testing of the waters. He crowds Yoongi back against the wall and licks into his mouth like he already knows exactly what he needs and isn’t interested in waiting for it a second longer. 

Yoongi moans—deep and long—into it, fists bunching in Hoseok’s shirt like he might lose gravity if he doesn’t hold on. Their teeth knock once, awkward in the middle of it, and Hoseok pulls back just far enough to laugh against Yoongi’s mouth.

“Sorry,” he says, grinning, “I forgot how sharp your canines are.”

“You’re the one trying to eat me alive,” Yoongi mutters, dazed.

“Yeah,” Hoseok pants. “Not sorry.”

Then he kisses him again, deeper, messier, hips pressing in like he can’t help himself. One hand snakes down to Yoongi’s ass, bold as anything, and squeezes—possessive—while the other curls behind his neck, keeping him close.

When Yoongi gasps, Hoseok mutters, “That’s right,” and lifts.

Actually picks him up like he weighs nothing.

Yoongi yelps, legs wrapping around his waist on instinct. “What the fuck—”

“Bedroom,” Hoseok says simply, already walking them down the hall.

“You couldn’t wait ten seconds?”

“Nope.” He’s grinning. “Been waiting months.”

He shoves the bedroom door open and lowers Yoongi onto the bed like he’s setting something sacred down which gives Yoongi whiplash. Then pauses, just for a second, to look at him—flushed, wrecked, lips kiss-swollen already.

“I missed you so bad it made me stupid,” Hoseok says. “I dreamed about this. About you.”

Yoongi drags him down by the collar. “Then shut up and do something about it.”

Hoseok does.

He mouths down Yoongi’s neck, collarbone, chest—tugging his shirt up and off along the way—and Yoongi’s already shaking by the time Hoseok gets below the waistline. 

“You remember what I said?” Hoseok asks, fingers working at Yoongi’s waistband.

“Huh?” Yoongi’s eyes are glassy.

“About how I couldn’t wait to taste you?” Hoseok licks his lips. “Meant it.”

Then he sinks down Yoongi’s body and Yoongi forgets how to breathe.

Hoseok kisses along his stomach, open-mouthed and possessive, before working his pants and  boxers down and wrapping a hand around him—steady, confident, like he is memorizing every single detail of him. And when he finally takes him into his mouth—slow at first, warm and wet and so fucking good—Yoongi’s entire spine arches off the mattress.

“Fuck,” he gasps, one hand flying to Hoseok’s hair, clutching tight like it’s the only thing anchoring him to the earth.

It’s been months. Too long. Too much want pent up behind his ribs, waiting to break free—and Hoseok’s mouth is hot and slick and eager, like he’s trying to make up for every single second they spent apart. His lips stretch around him, tongue teasing under the head, then flattening against the underside as he starts to take him deeper. The sound of it—filthy, wet, desperate—makes Yoongi twitch in his mouth.

His thighs are already trembling.

“Jesus,” Yoongi chokes out. “I’m gonna—I’m not gonna last, fuck—”

But Hoseok doesn’t let up. If anything, he moans around him, sucks harder, like he wants to push him over the edge, like he needs Yoongi to fall apart for him.

Yoongi does.

He comes fast, sudden and sharp, groaning loud enough to echo, hips stuttering as Hoseok swallows around him, greedy and goddamn glorious. His vision whites out for a second. His whole body hums like a live wire.

And when he opens his eyes, Hoseok is wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, flushed and smug and beautiful, like he’s just won a gold medal in ruination.

“Still got it,” Hoseok murmurs, voice rough, like he’s the one wrecked.

Yoongi stares at him, chest heaving. “Marry me.”

Hoseok smirks. “Let me come first.”

“Shut up,” Yoongi groans, dragging him up for another kiss and tasting himself on the other’s tongue. “Your mouth should be illegal.”

Hoseok laughs into it, then groans as Yoongi rolls them over, pushing into him. 

“You thought we’re done?” Yoongi whispers.

“Was kinda hoping not.”

“Good.”

Yoongi descends on the other, drawing Hoseok’s tongue back into his mouth as he starts fussing with the other man’s clothing.  

“Off,” he mumbles against his mouth. “Now.”

“Desperate much?” Hoseok teases, as he shrugs off his shirt and lifts his hips to help Yoongi strip his sweatpants down, underwear going with them in one smooth pull.

Yoongi’s hand wraps around him before Hoseok can get another word out. “Shut up,” he says, but he’s grinning, drunk on it—on the feel of Hoseok’s cock in his hand, on the way Hoseok jerks at the first touch, on how hot and hard he is already.

“Fuck—Yoongs,” Hoseok gasps, hips bucking forward helplessly. His hand lands on Yoongi’s waist, fingers digging in like he’s trying to stay tethered.

“I missed you,” Yoongi breathes, stroking him slow at first, then faster, learning all over again what makes him tremble. “God, I knew you’d fall apart for me.”

Hoseok’s eyes flutter shut, breath stuttering. “Fuck. You’re gonna kill me.”

Yoongi mouths at his throat, bites at the edge of his jaw, presses closer until they’re tangled up, friction and heat building between them, their skin slick with sweat. His fist moves steady, dragging a low moan out of Hoseok’s chest. Hoseok’s whole body is trembling now, abs tensing, thighs shaking under Yoongi’s weight.

“Let me see you,” Yoongi whispers, voice rough with want. “Wanna watch you come.”

Hoseok opens his eyes—and that is what does it. That look: dazed and undone and full of something softer, too, something Yoongi’s not ready to name just yet.

He comes with a sharp gasp, body shuddering, spilling hot across Yoongi’s hand and both their stomachs. Yoongi strokes him through it, gentle now, watching the way his face crumples and then relaxes, all the tension bleeding out of him at once.

For a few moments, neither of them moves. Just breathing. Just there.

Then, hoarse and wrecked, Hoseok says again, “You’re trying to kill me.”

Yoongi presses a kiss to his jaw, smug. Then reaches over to grab Hoseok's discarded shirt to wipe them down with. “At least you’ll die happy.”

“Already dead. This is the afterlife. You’re clearly an angel.” Hoseok looks at him dazedly.

Yoongi laughs, too gone on him to pretend otherwise. “Tighten up, man. Round two’s in, like, ten minutes.”

Hoseok blinks up at him, still breathing heavily. “And people think I’m the athletic one. Where’d you get all this stamina?”

“Turns out,” Yoongi murmurs, licking the salt from Hoseok’s neck, “I’m highly motivated.”

He pauses, then wrinkles his nose—affectionate, teasing. “That said, you smell like twelve hours of airports and shared bus rides. Go shower before I change my mind.”

Hoseok groans, flopping back dramatically. “Rude.”

“Necessary,” Yoongi says, already climbing off the bed with a slap to Hoseok’s thigh. “I’m not letting my reunion fantasy be ruined by your stench.”

Hoseok laughs, lazy and bright. “Fine. But if I slip in the shower, it’s on you.”

Chapter Text

Round two, unfortunately, never happened.

They’d made it halfway to the shower—laughing, still tangled, Hoseok’s skin tacky with sweat and face full of smug satisfaction—before the exhaustion hit him like a brick wall. One moment he was upright, brushing his teeth and teasing Yoongi for being a closet romantic, and the next he was swaying on his feet, blinking slowly like the air had gotten too heavy to move through.

“You good?” Yoongi had asked, catching him by the elbow.

“Yeah,” Hoseok said, voice low and loose with fatigue. “Just… guess the day is catching up with me is all. It’s fine. I’m fine.”

Of course he wasn’t. The man had been traveling for the better part of 36 hours, hauling suitcases and hugging his way through half a dozen dancers and their emotional baggage. Then, upon arrival, he’d proceeded to suck Yoongi’s entire soul out through his dick like it was his actual calling. So no—of course he was not fine.

Yoongi frowned—just a little—and pressed a cool palm to the small of Hoseok’s back like he was checking a furnace. “Alright, tough guy,” he said, voice softer now. “Quick shower, then bed. Round two can wait.”

Hoseok didn’t argue. Just leaned into him a little heavier, like the gravity in Yoongi’s apartment had somehow doubled. In the shower, he stood still while Yoongi lathered him up with gentle hands, forehead resting against Yoongi’s shoulder, humming softly as warm water ran over his spine. He was pliant, sleepy, quietly smiling like it was the nicest thing anyone had ever done for him.

By the time they dried off, he looked like a deflated balloon. Yoongi handed him a glass of water (He definitely was not hearing Jimin’s parting words in the back of his head. He wasn’t thinking about Jimin at all), then gently steered him toward the bed. “Drink this,” he said, pushing the comforter back.

Hoseok blinked at him, a little dazed by the gentleness. But he drank, slow and obedient, then let Yoongi tuck him in with quiet efficiency—fluffing the pillow, nudging his shoulders until he lay down properly.

Yoongi didn’t think of himself as a nurturing person. But maybe he could be. For Hoseok.

Hoseok is curled under Yoongi’s covers now, swallowed up in one of Yoongi’s old t-shirts, hair still damp and curling a little at the ends. He smells like Yoongi’s body wash and something else underneath—something warm and familiar. He looks smaller like this, somehow. Or maybe just softer.

Yoongi’s sitting beside him, legs stretched out and phone in hand, pretending to scroll while watching him fade in and out of sleep. 

Hoseok’s eyes flicker open again—barely. They land on the small potted plant sitting on the windowsill, silhouetted in the glow of the bedside lamp.

“…Still alive,” he murmurs, voice syrup-thick and barely there.

Yoongi glances over at it, then back at him. Hoseok’s eyelids are already heavy again, but he adds, softer this time, like he’s giving something away: “I knew I could trust you with it.”

That lands somewhere deep in Yoongi’s chest.

He shrugs—casual, easy. Like his heart isn’t beating too loud. “I googled how not to kill it. You were right, that plant is basically a masochist,” he says, voice low. “But I’ve been doing my best.”

Hoseok smiles at that, slow and sleepy. “Looks happy.”

Yoongi watches the gentle curve of his mouth, the way the t-shirt slips off one shoulder. “Must be the company,” he murmurs, but Hoseok’s already drifting again, lashes falling shut like a curtain.

He turns into the pillow a little, face angled toward Yoongi. His breathing evens out—but not quite. His gaze finds Yoongi in profile, just barely awake, like it takes effort to look away. And Yoongi can feel it, that stare, like the heat from a fire aimed straight at his skin.

He pretends not to notice. Keeps his eyes on his phone, even though he hasn’t read a word in minutes.

Hoseok shifts. Yoongi feels the warm press of a forehead resting against his hip—barely there, featherlight. Trusting. Familiar. “Happy,” mutters Hoseok as he finally succumbs to sleep. 

He doesn’t say I missed you. He doesn’t say I’m sorry, or I love you, or any of the things Yoongi half-expects to spill from his mouth in the dark.

But he doesn’t need to. He’s here. He’s breathing in the same rhythm, curled up beside Yoongi like he never left.

____________________________

Yoongi wakes up to warmth—real, honest warmth— too much warmth and the heavy weight of another body tangled into his. There’s a bare thigh hooked over his hip. A forehead tucked under his chin. A hand resting open on his chest, fingers curled like they forgot how to let go.

He’s not in a rush, he has no where to be. He took the day off before Hoseok even landed. Like his body had already decided that this moment—this slow, sunlit morning with Hoseok breathing against his skin—was sacred and necessary. 

He tightens his arm a little. Hoseok stirs.

There’s a soft sound, like a hum, and then: “Mm. You’re soft.”

Yoongi laughs under his breath. “That’s the blanket. Not me.”

“No,” Hoseok says, eyes still closed. “It’s you.”

Silence stretches out between them for a long, peaceful beat as Hoseok slowly comes back to consciousness.

Once he’s able to grab it, he shifts again, lifting his head just enough to stare—eyes still hazy but clear in that way they always are when it matters. He studies Yoongi’s face like he’s memorizing it. And then, quietly, simply: “I love you.”

Yoongi’s breath catches.

It’s not a surprise, not really. Not after last night. Not after everything. But hearing it—hearing it—is something else. It lands somewhere deep inside him and lights him up. 

He lets out a soft exhale, thumb brushing along Hoseok’s side. “Took you long enough.”

Hoseok smiles, sheepish. “I just wanted to make sure.”

“You’re sure now?”

“Yeah.” Hoseok nods. “I trust you. I trust us. I don’t care who we were before or what we fucked up. We’re not gonna lose each other again— we’re past that.”

Yoongi swallows hard, emotion catching in his throat. “Yeah. We are.”

There’s no hesitation when he kisses him this time. No nerves, no fragile edge to navigate around. Just warmth and wanting and years of aching burned off in the morning light. Hoseok sinks into him like he belongs there. Like he never left.

“Still tired?” Yoongi asks against his mouth, voice teasing.

“Not anymore.”

They kiss again—longer this time, messier. Hoseok rolls on top of him, grinning into it. Yoongi lets his hands wander—thighs, hips, back under the hem of the t-shirt Hoseok slept in. They’re not in a hurry, but they’re definitely not pretending to be innocent.

Yoongi’s fingers slip lower. Hoseok gasps into his neck.

“Thought you were the one who needed rest,” Yoongi says, lips brushing his ear.

“Turns out,” Hoseok pants, “I’m highly motivated too.”

They laugh, half-crazed with want, rolling together under the sheets, when—

BANG BANG BANG

“MIN YOONGI! OPEN THIS DOOR IMMEDIATELY! I KNOW HE’S IN THERE!” Jin’s unmistakable voice echoes through the apartment door. “HE POSTED AN INSTAGRAM STORY OF YOUR WINDOW. STOP HAVING SEX AND LET US IN!”

Yoongi freezes. Hoseok groans into his chest. “Oh my god.”

“WE BROUGHT CROISSANTS!” Jungkook adds. “AND JIMIN MADE COFFEE!”

“I didn’t make the coffee,” Jimin yells. “I brought juice from concentrate and supportive male friendship. Also, if you’re not dressed, please put on pants.”

Yoongi buries his face in Hoseok’s shoulder. “You came home for this?”

Hoseok snorts. “Honestly? Yeah.”

They stay wrapped around each other for one last second—breathing in, breathing out, grinning like idiots.

Then Yoongi sighs and reaches for his sweatpants. “Round two can wait.”

Hoseok kisses his shoulder and mumbles, “I’ll hold you to that.”

Chapter Text

The apartment smells like garlic and something spicy, and Jin won’t let anyone into the kitchen. He says he is using tonight’s dinner to test out a new tasting menu for the restaurant, treating them to a multi-course spectacular, but, “It’s not ready yet! Back up. You vultures.”

Yoongi is seated in the living room, observing. 

He has a glass of wine in hand and his feet tucked under him. The apartment is loud and full and there’s laughter coming from every corner. It feels like family and home. 

There are still days he wakes up feeling like his skin is too heavy. But now Hoseok is there to kiss his cheek and squeeze his hand and tell him he’s beautiful, or Jimin will send a selfie with a filter that makes his eyes huge and tragic, or Jin will leave a Tupperware container of soup outside his door like he’s delivering kindness with a side of kimchi.

Yoongi is not alone.

He looks across the room at Hoseok, who catches his eye and grins so big it makes Yoongi's heart flip. He’ll never get over having that smile directed at him, never tire of basking in the warmth and glow that is Jung Hoseok. Seok meets his eyes and mouths, ”You okay?” 

Yoongi nods.

He cleared he schedule for today. Could have gone into the studio, sure, but he wanted to clean and prep and be here, for this. For their family dinner. Which is definitely not an engagement party.

Except. It absolutely is.

Jin is trying very hard to act like it’s just a normal night. Except the food is extra fancy, and Namjoon was bullied into wearing something nice, and there’s a bottle of champagne in the fridge. The kind Jin yells at people for touching unless it’s New Year’s. Clearly something is happening.

Hoseok wanders over to him and hovers next to his chair. “Sit down,” Yoongi says, patting the cushion beside him.

Hoseok does. Immediately. He fits like he always has, like they’ve been leaning into each other forever. “So,” Yoongi says, low enough for just him to hear. “How’s the new gig?”

“They love me,” Hoseok says without pretense. “I love them. I get to have creative control and work with pop groups who think I’m amazing and actually listen and are kind of a little scared of me. It’s everything I wanted.”

“Good,” Yoongi says. He bumps their shoulders together. “I’m proud of you.”

“I love you,” Hoseok says easily. He says it all the time now, like breathing. Like fact. Like it’s his favorite thing to say - maybe it is. 

Yoongi flushes. Still not used to it. Not in a bad way, just—there was a time when it felt too far away to imagine. “Sap,” he says. Hoseok just beams even brighter. 

Dinner that night happens in layers. Jin finally lets them near the food. Jimin has set the table with mismatched dishes and somehow made it look purposeful. Jungkook pours everyone’s drinks and gives a very heartfelt toast about being lucky to have people who love you even when you’re weird and annoying. Taehyung immediately makes it weird by winking at him.

Jin brings out course after course. Each better than the last if the delighted moans from his captivated audience are to be believed.

He waits until dessert. Because of course he does.

When he brings out the final course of the night—he clears his throat in the too-obvious way that says pay attention, something stupid and life-changing is about to happen.

Yoongi clocks it instantly. Jimin does too, eyes narrowing as he reaches for his phone like he knows he’ll want a video. Jin sets the tray down in the middle of the table, takes one deep breath, then turns to Namjoon and drops to one knee.

Chaos breaks instantly.

“What the fuck—” Taehyung hisses, nearly falling off the arm of the couch.

Jungkook yelps. Jimin slaps Hoseok’s thigh.

Namjoon just blinks, mouth slightly open.

“Okay,” Jin says, holding up a hand. “Everyone shut up. This is happening. And I’ve had this ring in my sock drawer for six months, so if you interrupt me I will murder every last one of you and make it look like an accident.”

The room goes silent, everyone frozen, eyes wide. Jin exhales, steadies himself.

“Kim Namjoon,” he starts, voice softer now, sincere in a way that makes Yoongi’s throat ache. “We’ve been together for what? A hundred years? You’re the smartest man I’ve ever met, and you’ve somehow decided I’m the one you want to build a life with.”

“We’ve raised three chaos goblins together,” Jin continues, gesturing vaguely at the rest of the room. “And they’re all still alive. Mostly functioning. Jungkook even does his own laundry now.”

“I do,” Jungkook chimes in, voice cracking. Namjoon lets out a breathy laugh, eyes shining.

“And I love you,” Jin says, eyes locked on Namjoon. “I love you more than I ever thought I could love anyone, in every version of you I’ve ever known. The shy twenty-year-old who couldn’t make eye contact, the cocky bastard who stole my headphones, the man who still corrects my grammar at every turn even though I clearly don’t care. I love all of you. And I want to keep choosing you, every day, for the rest of my life.”

He pulls the little velvet box from his back pocket and opens it. “Will you marry me?”

The ring inside glints like moonlight—clean, simple, perfect. Just like Namjoon.

For a moment, it’s dead quiet. Then Namjoon says, “Yes,” like he’s been holding it in for a year. His face crumples with it. “Of course I will. Of course.”

Jin is up immediately and in his arms a moment later.

Around them there is chaos. Taehyung and Jungkook are crying. Jimin is filming, but his hands are shaking too much to get a good angle. Yoongi watches with a hand on Hoseok’s knee, heart full to bursting. He doesn’t even try to pretend he’s not misty-eyed. That’s his best friend being kissed within an inch of his life by a man who loves him the way he deserves to be loved. Yoongi couldn’t be happier for them. 

Eventually, once the hubbub dies down and Jin scolds Namjoon playfully for his tears, ('Now, Joonie, how are you supposed to see this beautiful face through all that?') conversation spins off again like a slow waltz.

Which is exactly when Taehyung clears his throat with dramatic flair and clinks his spoon against his glass like he’s making a toast at a royal wedding.

“We also have an announcement,” he says, grinning wide. “Ahem. We—Jungkook and I—are officially consciously cohabiting.”

Jungkook beams, clearly holding it in for hours. “We’re moving in together!” There’s a chorus of awwws and fake gasps and someone (Jimin) yells, “Finally!”

Taehyung nods solemnly. “Also—very important—we’ve consolidated our streaming services. It’s basically the modern marriage,” he adds, with a hand to his heart like he’s moved by the symbolism.

Later in the evening, after dessert has turned into drinks and Jin has finally stopped pretending he doesn’t want help cleaning ‘It’s your engagement party, hyung, just accept the help!’, Jimin’s phone buzzes on the table. He glances at it, goes red instantly, and tries to flip it over. Jungkook, unfortunately, is faster.

“Who is sending you shirtless pics?” Jungkook demands, scandalized and delighted as he grabs Jimin’s phone from the table. “Wait—wait—I’d recognize those abs anywhere!”

He gasps so loud it echoes.

“That’s Lee Taemin! That’s literally THE Taemin!”

Jimin makes a grab for his phone, mortified. “Jungkook, give it back!”

“You’re dating a K-pop legend and you didn’t tell me?” Jungkook shrieks. “You told Taehyung?” 

Taehyung, who is very pointedly sipping from his wine glass, shrugs. “I mean, he told me, yeah, but he didn't have to tell me. I recognized the car.”

“The Porsche?!” Jungkook wails. “I thought that was a stylist! Or a sugar daddy! You said it was work-related!”

“It is work-related,” Jimin mutters, ears burning. “He picks me up from work.”

“Because he’s your boyfriend!” Jungkook shouts. “This is betrayal. Betrayal!”

“You have no proof,” Jimin says weakly, though he’s already halfway hiding behind the couch pillow.

Yoongi lifts his wine glass. “We’ve seen the abs, Jimin.”

“And the hickeys,” Jin adds, not even looking up from rinsing dishes. Hoseok just hums like he’s known this entire time. He probably has.

“I hope he comes to the next dinner,” Taehyung says. “I like him. He’s weird. Weirder then you’d expect.”

Jimin groans into the pillow. “You’re all monsters.”

But he’s grinning, and when Taehyung reaches out to ruffle his hair, he doesn’t dodge it.

Even later, when the dishes are done and the wine is low, Yoongi finds himself curled into the corner of a too-small couch tucked under Hoseok's arm. Someone’s put on music—something low and jazzy and old—and the lights have dimmed naturally, as if the house itself knows the party is winding down.

Namjoon and Jin are slow-dancing in the kitchen. It’s ridiculous. Adorable. Completely unfair.

Namjoon’s head is ducked slightly, eyes still shining, casting furtive little glances at the new addition to his finger like it’s going to disappear if he doesn’t check every thirty seconds. Jin, for his part, looks absolutely besotted. He’s singing softly to whatever’s playing, chin resting on Namjoon’s shoulder, swaying like there’s no one else in the world. 

Yoongi takes a long sip of his wine to keep from crying about it.

Hoseok shifts beside him, warm and a little drowsy, but entirely present. His hand is loose on Yoongi’s knee. His thumb strokes a small, idle circle over the fabric of his jeans.

“Tonight was a good night,” Hoseok murmurs, voice low and rough with wine and sleep.

Yoongi nods slowly. The wine has him loose and brave. Or maybe it’s just Hoseok.

“I want you to live with me,” he says. “Not in a toothbrush-in-the-cup way. Not in a drawer-in-the-dresser way. Like—with me.”

Hoseok doesn’t answer right away. He turns his head and looks at Yoongi, and something settles behind his eyes—deep and certain, like the gravity of stars. “I basically already do,” he says. “But yeah. Let’s make it official.”

He leans in and kisses Yoongi, soft and sure and just long enough to set his heart at ease. 

A home. A hand to hold. A plant on the windowsill still thriving.

Yoongi lets himself be held close, a kiss pressed to his temple and feels it—this ridiculous, beautiful, aching kind of peace.

They made it.