Chapter Text
i.
It’s a fluke, the first time.
Her name is Jihye. She wears her glossy hair in pigtails and no matter what the question is, she stretches so high to raise her hand she hovers an inch above the seat. She sits in front of Yoongi in first, fourth, and fifth grade. It isn’t until sixth that he realizes he loves her.
He confesses on a Tuesday, in a letter he and his friend Heungmin rewrite half a dozen times and then stick in her bag when she’s distracted. On Friday morning she crowds him in the supply closet and kisses him, chaste, but firm. After she runs away he lingers in the dark, touching his lips with something approaching reverence. He can feel her chapstick gloss all weekend.
On Monday, Jihye and Heungmin show up to school together. They’re not holding hands, but the rest of the girls start cooing all the same, as if they know something, as if there’s something about the two of them that’s worth knowing. Yoongi tells the teacher he’s sick and spends the afternoon in the nurse’s office counting cotton swabs.
Jihye blushes every time Heungmin gives an answer in class, even when it’s wrong, and Heungmin quits soccer club so he can walk her home. They’ll have four kids and thirteen grandchildren, and they’ll never go to bed angry. Yoongi will transfer to a new school in March. He’ll forget their names by June.
The second, third, and fourth times are coincidences.
(He begs not to play Prince Charming - he’s only in drama for the easy credit, he just wants to be a tree, or a bush, really, anything arboreal is fine. The teacher won’t budge, but at least it only has to be a peck, not that swooning romantic stuff they do in real plays. That’s good, because right after rehearsals kicked off Chohee started dating that upperclassman with the chin thing, who’s got the body of a gladiator and sits in the front row for all of their practices, staring at Yoongi like he wants to punch his face through his stomach.)
(Jisoo is the school’s best volleyball player, their class’s second worst singer, and Yoongi’s third kiss. Next thing he knows her hands are locked tight in Jinhyeok’s and she won’t meet his eyes.)
(Seven Minutes in Heaven translates to twenty seconds at second base and six months of that asshole from the soccer team glowering over Subin’s head. It wasn’t even a good kiss.)
By the fifth time, he’s pretty sure he’s got it figured out:
1. It has to be a kiss.
2. It has to be on the lips.
3. a. Within one week the individual kissed will meet their soulmate.
b. Their soulmate will not be Yoongi.
It all sounds ridiculous. But at this point, so does his life.
Because by now he’s in Seoul, and he has a new haircut and a new name and a few new reasons to lie awake at night mapping out cracks in his bedroom ceiling. So he doesn’t let himself think about it, and then debut comes and there’s no time to breathe, forget about thinking.
And it’s fine. It’s all completely fine.
ii.
“Okay,” the interviewer trills, “our final truth or dare - Suga! Who was the last person you kissed?”
Even before the translator gets the last word out there’s an explosion of laughter, like a handful of firecrackers going off all at once. Taehyung’s head thrown back, Jimin’s tight-mouthed smile, Namjoon glancing towards the agency staff lurking at the back. Yoongi fingers a strategically placed hole in his jeans. This question wasn’t in the script.
“It was… J-Hope? No, no, don’t misunderstand,” he waves his hands in front of his chest, the crew starting to snicker before the translator can catch up, “in Korea we play games on variety shows and there are some that use… Um, can you ask if they have that candy in America?” Which makes Namjoon lean forward and earnestly ask the interviewer to consider the differences between North American and South Korean chocolate, which leads into a whole thing about Valentine’s Day traditions, and then holidays in general, and by the time they get back to Yoongi nobody’s interested in his answer and he’s increased the hole to half the size of his fist.
“Well, it sounds like Suga has been thinking more about BTS than romance… Maybe in the future though, hmm?”
“Ah, well,” Yoongi answers flatly, “I like to connect with people through our music.”
“That’s our Suga,” Namjoon says in English, “always putting the fans first.” Jungkook and Taehyung both laugh out loud. They’ll cut this part out of the broadcast but include it on a behind the scenes video, and fans will speculate for months about whether it means they hate Yoongi, or if they hate ARMY, or if they both just had bad colds.
“Very interesting point, RM, thank you! And what a good transition to our last segment!” The script said only Hoseok and Jimin would be used here, so Yoongi lets himself drift. By the time he surfaces they’re back in the hotel packing for a flight to somewhere to do something, and Jungkook is looking at him with an expression that’s never meant anything good.
“Did you mean it, earlier? Your last kiss was Hobi-hyung?”
“That’s my underwear,” Yoongi says, “you know that’s my underwear.”
Jungkook throws it at Yoongi’s head. “Answer the question.”
“Annoying.”
“What’s annoying?”
“You.” He’s been folding the same shirt for two minutes. It might actually be Seokjin’s. Which would make him a hypocrite if Jungkook knew anything about it, but he doesn’t, and Yoongi’s gonna keep it that way. “Be more polite, I’m old.”
Jungkook grunts as he bodily wrestles his overflowing suitcase closed. Yoongi should probably help, but he’s really focused on this shirt. “I’ll shut up if you tell me.” He flashes Yoongi a look that’s sold a million hand creams, dish soaps, buckets of fried chicken.
Yoongi, thankfully, was inoculated against Jeon Jungkook at age 17. “They’ll serve food on the flight, right?” he wonders out loud. “Or should we order room service?”
“Both, and now I think you’re hiding something.” He flops down on the bed, grabs the remote, tosses it up in the air with a flourish before clicking on the television. “But it’s okay. I’ll figure it out.”
Yoongi carefully puts the stolen shirt on top of the stolen underwear, which, now that he’s looking closely, definitely belongs to Namjoon. “You’re not as cute as you think you are.”
Jungkook’s got his tongue caught between his teeth as he navigates between the weather channel and some American game show. His bangs are bunched up in a tiny ponytail that droops over his forehead, and his nose is flaky red thanks to the dermatology treatment management made him go on. When he looks up at Yoongi the shadows beneath them are bigger than his eyes. “Yeah,” he says, “I am.”
Yoongi doesn’t disagree. But Jungkook’s gotten a pretty big head lately, so instead of saying anything he chucks a pair of balled up socks at his dick. Jungkook makes a wounded noise. Good.
He doesn’t let it drop.
It turns out they’re flying back to Seoul for a photoshoot. It’s a magazine Yoongi’s never heard of, although he’s assured it’s very of the moment, which is how the people they work with now talk. The concept is Greek mythology, which is just an excuse to drape Taehyung in gauze and rub oil into Jungkook’s chest. It doesn’t seem particularly Hellenic, but Yoongi couldn’t find Athens on a labeled map so he doesn't have room to complain.
Yoongi and Namjoon are given olive branches and ugly bowling shirts. The photographer tells them to stand in the back exuding mystery. Yoongi takes that as an invitation to practice sleeping with his eyes open.
“It’s insulting, right? The shirts,” Namjoon complains at break. “I work out. My body’s just as good as Jimin’s. Better, probably.” His abs are hidden under layers of polyester, but Yoongi nods dutifully. Jimin waves at them from the makeup chair. “Youth is a curse,” Namjoon mutters.
Jungkook sidles over, holding a vase filled with long-stemmed lilies. They’ve wrapped an off-white bedsheet around his hips, which just makes the oil on his chest glint brighter. “Hey,” he says, “when was the last time Yoongi-hyung had a girlfriend?”
“Are those real?” Namjoon sniffs the lilies and gives Jungkook an impressed look, as if he had anything to do with it. “Can we take them home?”
“You don’t know anything about flowers.” Yoongi eyes Namjoon skeptically. “They’d be dead within a week.”
“They’re already dead. That’s what happens when you cut flowers.”
“Are you allergic to answering questions?” Jungkook directs this towards Yoongi, who instead of answering pretends to seriously consider Namjoon’s point. But they’ve known each other long enough that Jungkook can tell when Yoongi is faking an interest in botany. He hands the vase to a passing PD and puts his hands on his hips. The oil is really doing its job, Yoongi notices in a brotherly way.
Namjoon frowns, thinking. “Uh… you were dating that dancer from China when you joined, right? Or wait, no, that was Seokjin-hyung. I guess there was that one girl - no, that was hyung again… Huh, wow, didn’t even have one when we were trainees?”
They’re both examining him in the same way now, Namjoon with simple curiosity, Jungkook - well, who knows with that kid? Like Yoongi’s interesting, or more precisely, like he’s an object of interest. He’s grown used to this level of scrutiny, but never from any of them. It feels, if not unpleasant, then strange in a way he can’t name.
Jungkook’s eyes are crinkled in the same way they do when he smiles, but he isn’t smiling.
“Who had time to date back then?” These shirts are uncomfortable. Yoongi fiddles with his collar, wondering whether the stylist will have a coronary if he suddenly starts unbuttoning things.
Namjoon immediately answers “Jin-hyung”, just as Jungkook adds, “Hobi-hyung, Jimin-hyung, Taehyungie-hyung even though he won’t admit it…”
“Wait, what?”
“It was right before debut, she broke up with him and he still pretends like it never happened, it’s kind of pathetic.”
Yoongi, who likes to live freely, opens the top button. “Anyway, do you want to get dinner after this? I’m going to the studio later and there’s a place nearby I wanna check out.”
Dependable, distractible Namjoon immediately pulls out his phone to check reviews. Yoongi presses his chin into the junction between Namjoon’s neck and his bony shoulder. He always radiates heat; it’s like hugging the sun. Jungkook is standing off to the side, sulky at being ignored, but if Yoongi doesn’t look at him he can pretend he doesn’t exist. Instead, he closes his eyes and listens to Namjoon mumble.
Later, though, when they’ve been called back to the stage to retake group shots in what the photographer judges more agreeable lighting, Jungkook tilts his head back to stare at Yoongi upside-down, honey-sweet eyes in a punchable face.
“I know you were trying to distract us. I know you were avoiding the questions.”
Yoongi’s standing in a sunbeam; the warmth makes him lazy and charitable. “You’re so persistent,” he teases. “If you’re this bored, we need to find you a hobby.”
“You’re my hobby, hyung,” Jungkook says, just as lightly. His smile is charming.
Namjoon looks between the two of them. “This is a weird energy.” They both ignore him.
Jeon Jungkook’s search history, 09/27/20xx, on a phone left conspicuously unlocked next to a dozing Yoongi:
6:07 am: alamr clock other person phone turn off how
8:32 am: min yoongi dating
8:32 am: min yoongi girlfriend
8:33 am: suga bts girlfriend
8:33 am: kissing compilation bts suga
8:57 am: kissing compilation bts jungkook
“Even for you, this is getting kind of weird.”
Jungkook doesn’t look away from the television. Their group segment isn’t until the next commercial break, but Jimin and Hoseok are guest judges for the whole program and they promised Jimin they’d monitor his reactions. “What do you mean?”
Yoongi sits between Jungkook and a sleeping Taehyung, who grumble-burrows further into a pile of coats. “Where did you get my brother’s number?”
“Namjoon-hyung.”
“Namjoon-ah! Why do you have my brother’s phone number?” Yoongi barks, before remembering that Namjoon and Seokjin have been in China for three days. Jungkook is watching the TV too attentively to notice.
“Does Hobi-hyung’s makeup look washed out on camera?”
“Hmm.”
“No, see, he was worried and I told him it’s fine but now I kinda see what he was saying.”
“We used the same makeup artist, do I look bad?”
“No, um, you’re fine. You’re good.” He doesn’t even glance over to check, but his voice goes all high pitched like it does whenever he’s lying about something. Brat.
“Uh huh. What do you even talk about? You and my brother.”
Jungkook’s got his arms stretched out so that he can touch both ends of the couch, always trying to prove that the growth spurt is here to stay. He isn’t touching Yoongi, but he could if he wanted to. But he isn’t.
“Everything,” he says. “Now I know all your secrets.” The ‘told you’ is unspoken, until it isn’t: “Told you.”
“Aaaaagh,” answers Yoongi. Then they have to take a full ten seconds to process whatever the fuck that sound was. Yoongi plays with the zipper on the bottom of his jacket. Jungkook frowns at TV Jimin, who’s laughing with too many teeth.
And then, still not glancing away from the monitor: “I’m lying. He just sent me some pictures of you as a kid. I can forward them to you if you wanna post them on Weverse.”
“Weverse,” Yoongi agrees automatically, sinking deeper into the couch while 150 pounds of anticipatory anxiety vanishes as quickly as it came. “Good.” Why was he worried? His brother doesn’t know. Still, the thought of Jungkook and his brother discussing him fills him with a dread whose source he can’t pin down.
A PD blusters into the waiting room, glances around, and then jabs five fingers towards Yoongi. Yoongi nods at his back.
The television glows blue and white. Jungkook's face glows, blue and white. He turns his head towards Yoongi and then away so fast Yoongi would have missed it if he wasn’t already looking.
Sotto voce, as though he himself doesn’t want to acknowledge the words or their meaning, Jungkook says, “If it’s too much.” He fidgets, drums his fingers against the back of the couch, just a second out of time with the performer on TV. “If you’re actually annoyed. I thought it was. You know. But if it’s not.”
That’s the question.
Jungkook’s taken things too far before. They all have - growing up like this, half brothers, half coworkers, individual roots wrapping so tightly together they can, from a distance, be mistaken for one unbroken stem. They know each other maybe too intimately, just as they know with an almost cruel precision how best to hurt, what will leave bruises and what will leave scars.
They’ve all softened over the years, stupid pranks and worn-out barbs that sting, but rarely break skin. And by now they barely have to vocalize a problem, a real problem, before the culprit is apologizing with laughter and maybe a few mumbled words if they’re feeling especially guilty. That Jungkook was, up until a second ago, still going on his merry way says that he obviously thought Yoongi was fine with everything.
And honestly? He is. It’s annoying, but it’s Jungkook annoying, which is different. Yoongi’s been accused more than once of having a Jungkook-shaped blind spot, and he’s given up trying to deny it. He likes all of the kids, loves them when he’s drunk or sentimental, but for reasons Yoongi has never been able or willing to consider, Jungkook has always been in a category all his own.
Life was probably easier a few years ago, when they both had the shape of each other but not the shading. That Jungkook was a little sweeter, a little more timid. He would never ambush Yoongi in the practice room with a list of new actresses for Yoongi to confirm or deny his undying love for, or text his brother to gossip about high school girlfriends.
That Jungkook would laugh sweet and fake, and he would never ‘forget’ polite language, and he would save his startled, too-loud laugh for people who deserved it, people who weren’t Yoongi.
“No,” Yoongi says, “no, I’m just teasing. Do whatever you want. It’s fun if you’re having fun.”
Jungkook’s obvious relief makes Yoongi want to bury his face in a couch cushion and scream. Instead, he marches onstage and delivers a giraffe impression that, while not included in any career retrospectives, will garner over 10,000 comments on Youtube. More than half of them are positive.
Yoongi’s the one who fucks it up.
He’s at Jungkook’s apartment - ostensively for a group meeting, but Seokjin and the 94ers left for schedules almost immediately, Jimin’s dozing on the couch, and Taehyung didn’t bother showing up. It’s been two hours and as many bottles of between them. By the third, Jungkook’s phone is out.
“How about her? She’s with the salon we used before this one, I’m pretty sure she’s still single…”
Apparently as chastened as Jungkook can get despite Yoongi’s reassurances, his new plan is to just set him up with the first random girl in his phone Yoongi reacts positively towards. If there isn’t any physical evidence of Yoongi’s past hookups to dig up, he’s gonna have to make his own.
Yoongi already decided that tonight, this is funny, so he dutifully smirks back. “Why do you have so many numbers? Ask them out yourself if you’re so bored.”
Jungkook sets the phone on the table and nudges it towards Yoongi with his glass. “Look at the picture at least.”
“Wait- isn’t she the one that burned Jiminie’s bangs?”
“What about my bangs?” Jimin yawns from the living room floor (he fell off the couch). Neither of them respond.
“That’s a dealbreaker?” Jungkook sighs. “Next.”
“My love life can’t be this interesting.” It’s two bottles later; he abandoned his glass and is now chugging straight from the bottle, which leads Jungkook to purse his lips like some weird sexpot Miss Manners, but at least he hasn’t said anything. This wine isn’t good enough for glasses, expensive low-alcohol bottles some brand sent Jungkook for his birthday, but Jungkook’s friends drank through all the good stuff last weekend, and shit or not it’s making Yoongi feel the right kind of warm beneath his skin and at the back of his throat.
Jungkook pointedly takes a sip from his glass. “I don’t like dating. It’s easier to set people up. Well,” he reconsiders, “it’s easier to set people who aren’t you up. Seriously, she’s hot and she has a motorcycle, and she never set any of us on fire.”
Yoongi examines the photo dispassionately.
“Isn’t she more Jin-hyung’s type?”
“Nope, too much leather. And anyway, he just started dating, uh, what’s her name, from Marketing.”
“Nobody told me.”
“You’ve been busy. Come on, I’ve shown you half my contacts, there has to be somebody.”
Yoongi leans back in his chair, letting the bottle dangle from his fingertips. “I told you, they’re all fine but- I’m not interested.”
“But hyung-”
“Jungkook-ah. Really. It’s fine.”
Jungkook looks up so suddenly Yoongi almost tips his chair back. There’s a sort of panic on his face Yoongi’s only seen a few times, a hoarse, broken throat hours before a live performance, getting too drunk too young and hearing the sound of camera shutters. “Hyung, I wasn’t thinking, if you’re, if you’re not, uh, women-”
Oh, Jungkook. The rush of woozy affection is nothing new, but the urge to physically soothe the worry out of Jungkook’s shoulders is. Uncertainty makes him seem soft, bordering on pathetic. “No, it isn’t- I mean, women, but also. Both. But that isn’t the issue.”
His panic mostly subsides, but the confusion refuses to budge. “Oh. Uh, okay, hyung! Cool. So. If it isn’t. That. Why?”
Yoongi blinks at Jungkook. Jungkook blinks at Yoongi. It’s nice to be unified in this, at least.
“I’m just not focused on dating right now.” He tries to make his voice kind, but it comes across like pity.
“Oh. Okay. Sorry, hyung, you should have said- I guess you did. Sorry.” Jungkook turns his phone on and off and on again, his eyes trained on the screen. That wildfire boldness burned out upsettingly quick.
And it clicks, suddenly, what should have been obvious from the start. “Hey. When was the last time you hooked up with someone?”
There’s something about Jungkook’s expression, not youth, but vulnerability. Jungkook, so brash, so arrogantly himself, would hate to see it. Yoongi wants to look closer, but Jungkook flinches away as though from a hand raised in violence.
“With the group, and everything, dating is… I already said, hyung. I’m fine.”
But Jungkook doesn’t deserve fine. He deserves everything.
Yoongi will wonder for a long time why he did what he does next. Maybe it’s that he’s just on the opposite edge of tipsy; maybe it’s that indulging Jungkook will always be Yoongi’s fatal flaw. Maybe he just wants something Jungkook to have something that’s sweet, and that’s wholly his own.
Without thinking, Yoongi asks, “Do you trust me?”
Without hesitating, Jungkook says, “Yes.”
When he kisses Jungkook, there are no sparks. There never are.
He imagines when he pulls back that his face is a mirror of Jungkook’s: a little flushed, more than a little confused. “Hyung,” Jungkook mumbles, “hyung.”
Yoongi is still holding Jungkook’s face between his hands. When he was young, his parents took him to a farm in the country where he fed and held small rabbits. Even as Yoongi pet them with clumsy, gentle strokes, they would shiver and shake all over, like the comfort was too much for their bodies to bear. Jungkook’s pulse beats in his throat with the same feral panic. He’s never seen him like this before. Like he could break apart in Yoongi’s hands.
He says the next part quietly, for whose benefit, he’s not sure: “When I kiss people, something happens to them.”
Jungkook’s pupils are so dilated Yoongi can see his own reflection. He looks like a madman. He looks like he just kissed Jeon Jungkook.
“What?”
Yoongi still hasn’t let go of Jungkook; he does so now, and the way Jungkook sways after him makes him want to howl like a wild creature.
“Just wait,” Yoongi promises, even as Jungkook stares at him, uncomprehending, with wide, stricken eyes. “I promise, you’ll see.”
A fourth rule: it will never work on Yoongi.
iii.
Nothing fucking happens.
By some miracle of scheduling he’s able to avoid Jungkook for the next few days. When they finally have an appearance together, Jungkook spends the preshow hiding from Yoongi and the show itself staring at him in a way some will call besotted, but others more accurately classify as bewildered.
Yoongi isn’t worried. By the end of the week Jungkook will forget all about kisses and speeches and any other enigmatic gifts Yoongi has to offer aside from friendship. It’s his foolproof and fool-tested formula: Min Yoongi kisses someone, and that someone finds happiness in another person’s arms. Anyone else would be bitter, but Yoongi decides that he isn’t, and so he isn’t.
“Hyung,” Jungkook had said. “Drop it,” Yoongi replied. For once, Jungkook obeyed.
He doesn’t have any more schedules, so he spends the rest of the week working out, sleeping, and drinking. Technically he’s on a diet plan for the comeback, but Yoongi is pushing 30 and might be the human incarnation of Cupid, so he’s stopped worrying about stuff like the Big Hit nutritionist’s feelings.
The drinking is mostly done in his apartment, alone. He went out with Kihyun one night; his group’s tour just finished and he wanted to stay out all night celebrating. He ended up leaving an hour in because Yoongi wouldn’t stop mumbling about destiny. After that he just sort of mopes around his living room, staring at the ceiling and not responding to texts. Other people would call it sad. But he’s fine. He’s great.
It’s a week and a half before he sees Jungkook. He ended up sleeping in the studio trying to finish a B-side, so he’s the first one to the meeting. Seokjin, who’s taking acting lessons nearby, arrives next. He greets Yoongi and then spends the next fifteen minutes texting furiously, his expression becoming more and more dour with each notification. Yoongi’s guessing Marketing Girl is over.
Hoseok and Jungkook show up together. Hoseok’s in the middle of some story he’s probably told them all a million times, and Jungkook’s clinging to his arm almost doubled over laughing. He’s still laughing when he sits, three chairs down from Yoongi but on the same side of the conference table. That doesn’t matter.
“Morning,” Yoongi yawns at Hoseok, who’s annoying Seokjin by fumbling with his chair’s height settings. “Morning,” he says again, turning to face Jungkook. Knowing what he’ll see.
The signs, once you know what to look for, are obvious. Flushed cheeks, overbright eyes, a shy curve to the corners of the lips even when they aren’t smiling.
Jungkook is pale. Jungkook is frowning. Jungkook turns away.
“Good morning, hyung.”
The rest of them arrive with staff before Yoongi can do or say anything else. Then they argue about comeback stages and end of the year concerts for what seems like eternity, a debate Yoongi is too tired to join in on. Instead he spends the meeting sneaking glances at Jungkook, who’s doodling rude caricatures of Taehyung, and not looking at Yoongi.
His hair has grown out without Yoongi having noticed. It’s falling into his face, and he makes an annoyed moue every time he has to push it back behind his ears. It’s long enough to put into a ponytail, long enough to tug on.
“What do you think, Yoongi-hyung?” Hoseok’s expression is deceptively guileless for a person filled with so much guile.
Yoongi blinks. “I agree.” He has no idea what he’s agreeing to, but from the murmured agreement it was the right answer.
Hoseok’s still watching. Yoongi flicks a pen cap at him, which Hoseok catches between his fingertips and then shoots back across the table. Jimin gives them both disgruntled looks.
Jungkook doesn’t look up for the rest of the meeting except to agree to modified vocal lessons. He should be smiling. Not necessarily at them, but at- someone. The memory of another pair of shoes lined up in his doorway. The smell of perfume lingering on his collar. The proof that the only time Yoongi has used this power for another person’s happiness wasn’t in vain.
He should be smiling. But he isn’t, and he doesn’t. No matter how long Yoongi watches.
“Hey,” a few days later, Jungkook’s face hasn’t lightened and neither has Yoongi’s mood, Taehyung doesn’t look worried but it’s something like a synonym, “did you guys fight?”
“Hyung, if you need someone to talk to, or like, referee-” Jimin’s head darts like a ping pong between Jungkook scowling at his phone and Yoongi scowling at Jimin. He couldn’t be more obvious if he tried.
“Whatever’s happening between you two,” Namjoon sounds exhausted; only a fourth of it could be attributed to Yoongi but he’s still annoyed, “fix it.”
Yoongi wonders why no one is saying these things to Jungkook. Or maybe they are, and he’s just too far away to hear it.
It’s quickly becoming apparent that destiny has decided to fuck him.
Because another week passes. Then two, then three. And on none of these days does Jungkook burst into Yoongi’s apartment singing in clear, high tones about the love of his life, falling down to his knees to thank Yoongi for the magic he’s brought both their hearts. He doesn’t really look at Yoongi anymore. The only real changes have been his hair getting shorter and his mouth getting thinner.
To be fair, none of them are at their peak right now. Yoongi has to actively schedule time to worry about the consequences of his actions. A comeback means fittings, interviews, jacket shoots, music video shoots, recording, more recording, choreography, more choreography, so much choreography his feet are about to rupture.
And here they are, 2 a.m. in the old practice room with the fluorescent lights bright and the music pounding. They’ve been going for four hours, the same incessant rhythm, and Yoongi is about ready to burst out of his skin. Namjoon is doubled over with his hands on his knees. Seokjin is sleeping where he stands. Their choreographer left hours ago. They’ve done this to exhaustion, and they’re not gonna get any better tonight. So:
“Let’s do it again.”
“Nobody likes you,” Jimin tells Hoseok. He and Jungkook are panting beneath the open window, their bodies as close as they can get without actually touching. It’s kind of cute in a sad way.
“Everybody likes me,” Hoseok tells Yoongi, who’s propped up against the back mirror quietly trying to melt his bones into a puddle of goo. “I’m very likable.”
“You’re my enemy,” Yoongi says, closing his eyes. Somebody snorts. He grins in that vague direction.
“I’m tired,” Taehyung whines at the room. Yoongi understands Taehyung more than he ever has or ever will in this moment, but the comeback is in six weeks and nobody’s satisfied. The problem with already having reached the apex is that everything else just looks like a backslide, even when they’re giving it all they have left and some more besides. It’s not enough. It’s never going to be enough. But they have to keep going.
And they all know it, so when Hoseok says grimly, “We’re going again,” Taehyung’s nodding even as he wilts.
Jungkook’s the center for the section they’ve been practicing. Yoongi’s hidden in the back for the bulk of it, which he’s thankful for. It’s a tiring sequence, but it’s not that precise, and it gives him much-needed time to indulge in his favorite hobby: squinting blearily at the back of Jungkook’s head trying to figure out if he’s fallen in love since the last time Yoongi saw him. All he can tell right now is that Jungkook’s somehow bent the laws of reality and found extra time to work out. It's... distracting.
The end of the chorus swells, and Yoongi ducks beneath Jimin and Taehyung’s arms to wrap his own around Jungkook. He’s supposed to lean in and stare into his face during this part - provocation or infatuation, let the audience decide! - but by now their movements are all a little sloppy, so he can get away with staring at Jungkook’s earlobe instead. It’s a nice one. Well formed, compared to other lobes. The kind of lobes a soulmate would love.
“Hyung,” Jungkook mutters.
He’s half a beat late on his verse. Somewhere behind them Taehyung is cackling.
Jungkook’s neck is flushed. Yoongi’s head is on fire. They move away at the same time.
This run-through was better, minus Yoongi, so Hoseok gives them five minutes reprieve. Yoongi huddles against the mirror and tries to think about nothing. His head droops. He’s going to get back up. He just needs a second.
It’s always worked before, he thinks, wishing he could concentrate on anything else. What if I fucked it up. But it’s always worked before.
His breath is loud. His heartbeat is loud. This bass line is hotwiring his nerves. He’s not sleeping. He’s just tired.
The music is off when he jolts awake.
The lights are off, too, but there’s sunshine coming in from outside. It backlights Jungkook’s face, making his outline fuzzy and bright. He’s peering down at Yoongi with an expression that Yoongi doesn’t know how to read, or doesn’t want to know how to read.
“Hyung,” Jungkook says, “it’s time to go home.”
“Everybody else left?”
“Yeah.” He moves back a few feet to allow Yoongi room to stand up. “Hobi-hyung wanted to practice more, but Namjoon-hyung said to let you sleep.” They both smile at that.
There’s nobody else in the building yet, and their footsteps echo loud in the hallway. Jungkook’s humming something under his breath, but Yoongi’s too tired to ask him what it is. Exhaustion is still cobwebbing his brain. He lets muscle memory and Jungkook lead him, only hesitating when they get to the stairs. Hyowon asked him to listen to the new mix yesterday, and sure they don’t need to finalize it for another week but it’s not like he’s doing anything now…
Jungkook goes to push his bangs back from his forehead, and then, when he realizes he doesn’t have them anymore, touches his temples instead like a man in pain. “No. I’m taking you home.”
Normally Yoongi would protest (it’s already 5, they have a meeting at 10, he won’t sleep anyway), but he doesn’t have the energy, so he just shrugs. Slouches into Jungkook’s fuck off Maserati, rests his head against the door and doesn’t complain when the shitty EDM rattles his teeth. He doesn’t fall asleep, but gets somewhere near it, and when Jungkook wakes him up it’s with a hand on his shoulder and an impossibly soft “hyung?” that makes Yoongi think, in the half second before he opens his eyes, that it’s 2013 and the world is gentler.
But they’re old now, and Jungkook is unsmiling.
He waits until Yoongi is halfway out of the car to speak. “Uh. I wanted to say.” And then he just stops and stares at Yoongi expectantly, like they’re telekinetic or something. Yoongi can’t believe he misses this shithead.
The only people around are down the block walking in the other direction, but he still pulls up his face mask. He leaves the car door open as he sits back down on the edge of the seat. “Yeah?”
There’s a long, long pause before Jungkook responds. He’s holding the steering wheel so tight he might break it. At least he turned the music off.
“You’ve been weird. You’re always weird,” lips quirking, that old teasing tone, “and I’ve been weird too. Less than you, but, you know. Um, you don’t wanna talk about it, and we don’t have to.”
He starts to protest, but Jungkook continues on without pause.
“No, hyung. I want to say this.” A deep breath, lips moving a little like he’s trying to recall words, Yoongi doesn’t know if he can stand the thought of Jungkook preparing this, “I want to say that I don’t like things like this. Us like this. It’s bad for the group, and for the comeback. I guess. I think you know how I feel, but I don’t- I know it was a mistake, and I don’t want things to be uncomfortable anymore. So can we just, you know, move past it?”
It sounds stupid, but it really isn’t until that moment that it hits Yoongi, our youngest really has grown up. Usually Jungkook comes to him in pieces - loud swearing from the living room, a hand on his back when he’s having trouble breathing, flashes of bright pink hair on the far end of the stage; but now Yoongi looks at Jeon Jungkook, the whole of him, and it’s almost like looking at a stranger. But it’s not. It’s just Jungkook.
He’s been brave. It would be humiliating if Yoongi couldn’t keep up. “Of course we can.”
Jungkook’s grip relaxes, and his face does, too. “I appreciate it.” Like he’s the one who should be thankful. His expression isn’t happy, but neither is Yoongi’s; they’re both too tired to feel anything except for dull fatigue. But he doesn’t turn away from Yoongi, and that’s better than a smile, at least for now.
It’s an overstatement to say that, as Jungkook drives away, Yoongi’s heart is seized by a terrible injustice. But he is annoyed.
Annoyed at fate for giving him this power and then refusing to cooperate the one time he wants to do something with it. Annoyed at Jungkook’s soulmate for not quietly and gracefully submitting to their destiny. Annoyed at himself, for reasons he’s already gone over so many times they’ve worn a groove in his brain.
Jungkook deserves better than this. And he’ll get it.
Put simply, it’s a numbers game. There are 7.5 billion people in the world, 51 million living in South Korea. Adjusting for age, marital status, and a general it factor, there are still millions of people waiting to be Jungkook’s soulmate. It’s just a matter of finding them.
He’s Min Yoongi. He’s maybe-Cupid. He’s going to find Jungkook a soulmate or die trying. (But probably not that last part.)
iv.
STAR REPORTER
Dec. 12, TOKYO, JP
You’re all very well known for having a lot of charms. What charms are attractive to you personally?
JIMIN: I like someone that can be themselves. Someone that has a lot of appeal!
J-HOPE: Hmm, a person who’s considerate? Thoughtful about how others are feeling, you know? That kind of vibe.
JUNGKOOK: Ahhhhhh… Pass?
J-HOPE: Come onnn.
SUGA: Avoiding the question... (laughter)
JUNGKOOK: Well, it changes every day! So it’s difficult… But if I have to answer…
JIN: You have to answer!
JUNGKOOK: Right now, I think I’m attracted to people who are very passionate about the things that matter to them. And the people that matter to them. And who are very dedicated to reaching their goals.
RM: Wow. Um, can I say that too? (more laughter)
At first, Yoongi takes a more hands-off approach.
Promotions last four weeks. That means when they win (which they do), Yoongi can shove the mic into Jungkook’s hands and hype him up during his acceptance speech, push him forward to the front of the crowd so that the camera gets his best angle. Rookie and veteran singers alike melt when Yoongi scolds Jungkook for not acknowledging them backstage (“You aren’t nagging Jimin-hyung!” “Jimin isn’t the one who matters!” “Hey, what?”) He spends encores scanning the crowds, searching past the spotlights for the person gazing up at Jungkook’s silhouette with a different type of adoration - a love that only twin souls know.
All he gets for his efforts are a bunch of flustered new groups sending him signed CDs and pages of comments about how Suga has been so attentive this comeback uwuuuuu. But no soulmates.
It becomes apparent that when it comes to something as complicated as Jungkook’s heart, Yoongi will have to handle it himself.
He briefly considers asking Taehyung and Jimin if there’s anyone Jungkook’s been talking about, but his psyche couldn’t handle that much gleefully malicious energy. Instead, targets are chosen through careful surveillance and reconnaissance, aka kind of drifting after Jungkook and trying to decide if he’s going red because he just met his soulmate or because he actually doesn’t know how to act like a functioning adult around other people. It’s difficult - lately Jungkook has been blushing at everything - but Yoongi is fluent in Jeon Jungkook. He knows what he’s looking for.
The first target: agency staff.
Pros: proximity; familiarity with Jungkook the person rather than Jungkook the idol; very few potential scandals (and easy deniability if anything comes out).
Cons: if Jungkook fucks it up, people with inordinate amounts of control over his hair and wardrobe could be very angry.
Secret pro: that would be funny to watch.
He starts with the perky woman who staffs the front desk on weekends. She has three dogs and Yoongi once heard her say she does whitewater rafting, which Jungkook would probably like if given the chance. Yoongi manages to lure her into the cafeteria with the promise of free croissants; she’s just thankful to get an audience for her corgi pictures, she just had puppies! Oh, you know who’d love to hear about that? My bandmate, you’ve probably heard of him, he’s right over here, he really loves dogs so why don’t you just sit down next to him-
Jungkook spills his coffee all over the front of her dress and ruins his own coat trying to apologize.
Next up is their Japanese teacher, who, as it turns out, is actually Jungkook’s aunt’s best friend’s son’s girlfriend, and wow, isn’t that a coincidence, let’s talk about that for the next two fucking hours while Yoongi contemplates death.
His last swing is a big one, and it kind of works. While that really buff security guard isn’t Jungkook’s soulmate in love, it turns out they have nearly identical body fat goals. The security guard has a whey hookup, and Jungkook has 24/7 access to the agency gym. They both make a point of thanking Yoongi for the introduction. That one stings.
Project Big Hit is a failure.
The second attempt doesn’t go great, either.
Jeon Jungkook (BTS): hyung??? why did u lock me & v in a closet
suga: I didn’t
Jeon Jungkook (BTS): we saw u???/?
suga: I’ve been at my apartment all day
Jeon Jungkook (BTS): we have wifi in here
Jeon Jungkook (BTS): u and jin-hyung just went live on vapp
Jeon Jungkook (BTS): we can hear u guys talking in the other room
Your message could not be delivered
Jeon Jungkook (BTS): wtf
His only explanation for the third target is he doesn’t actually have free time to plan this shit out.
An end of the year concert is the place to be if you like overhyped teens and bad sound design. Some people thrive on it. Yoongi usually has a headache by the first award.
They’re closing out MBC this year, so he has two hours of grimace-smiling in the audience before they have to change. Their assigned cameraman's enthusiasm is proportional to the depth of his scowl: by the time they’re finally ushered backstage Yoongi’s unamused face has been broadcast so much he’s almost certain there’ll be an article about it tomorrow.
“They’re teaching rookies how to manage their images now,” Jungkook’s saying as they’re led through a crowded back hallway, “classes on good facial expressions when you’re on camera and stuff. Maybe you could take one. It could be a lesson for the trainees, too, ‘if you don’t pay attention you’ll end up like sad, mean Suga’- Oh! Mingyu! Myungho!”
It turns out the swarm of men blocking the hall isn’t a small conquering army, but instead Seventeen. Jungkook breaks off his sentence halfway through to rush off and greet his friends. “Wasn’t he with them last weekend?” Yoongi mutters, not bitterly.
Hosoek shrugs. “Youth is friendship.”
“That doesn’t mean anything.”
“Not to the elderly.”
Jungkook turns up in their dressing room 10 minutes later, Kim Mingyu in tow. “Hyung!” he sparkles at Namjoon, “Mingyu is working on some songs and was wondering if you would listen to them!”
Mingyu looks bewildered, but in a hot way. “I wasn’t- I mean, hi.” He flushes. Namjoon smiles encouragingly. “Um, I just mentioned that I’m writing more on our title tracks, but I have, I don’t know if you know but we produce a lot of our music, so I can just ask my members to look at, I wasn’t asking him to, oh no.”
It’s an unfairly attractive meltdown. Yoongi suddenly realizes that he hates Seventeen.
While Namjoon gently bullies Mingyu into giving him his contact information, Jungkook sidles over to Yoongi, looking unconscionably pleased with himself. “He’s been begging me to do that for months, except then when he’s sober he pretends like he never said anything.”
“There’s a binge drinking epidemic in this country,” Yoongi hears himself say.
Mingyu waves at Jungkook and points to his phone, now the proud owner of Namjoon’s number. Jungkook gives him two enthusiastic thumbs up. Yoongi glances between the two of them. He’s not sure what this feeling dawning on him is, but he doesn’t like it. (Jealousy. A simple word, he’s just too much of a coward to say its name.)
“Hey, are you two-”
Jungkook shrugs off his coat, grabbing the see-through vest the stylists laid out for him. “Me and Mingyu? What do you mean?”
He turns away as Jungkook pulls his shirt over his head, as though they haven’t showered together half a dozen times. “I don’t know, you seem close.”
Running back the transcript, maybe it was the way he said ‘close’, definitely italicized, possibly underlined; maybe they were on thinner ice than Yoongi thought. Jungkook’s voice turns cold: “We’re friends, hyung. Friends are close.”
“I know, I know,” Yoongi says in the shushing tones he’s seen people used to soothe spooked horses. “I was just teasing. I’ll stop.”
Jungkook is still twisting the vest between his hands. “I thought we’d. Hyung, I thought you understood.”
The room is still buzzing - Hoseok yelling about bronzer, Seokjin and Jimin bickering over something they don’t care about, Mingyu explaining his musical journey to an almost condescendingly enthusiastic Namjoon - but it’s like in a drama when all the noise cuts away and the world fades to black and white, only the important parts left in color: Jungkook’s head bowed. Yoongi’s heart thrumming.
This moment feels important, but he doesn’t know why. He should know why.
“I’m sorry.” Such monumentally useless words. Jungkook doesn’t turn around. Yoongi doesn’t blame him.
They don’t talk for the rest of the night. Nobody notices.
Yoongi has failed. That much is clear.
Maybe it’s that this power was never meant to be used with intention; maybe it’s that Yoongi didn’t try hard enough. Maybe it’s that while he wants Jungkook to have everything he deserves, and more besides - most of all he wants to be selfish. When it comes to Jungkook, he’s always wanted to be selfish. There’s another word for that.
His life can be thought of as a series of cliff dives, leaping towards the horizon without any expectation of what’s waiting for him after the fall. He thinks he might be addicted to the rush of exhilarated terror after his feet leave the ground (after he writes his first song, buys his ticket to Seoul, signs his name on the dotted line, kisses Jeon Jungkook). He regrets things he’s done in his life, more than he can list. But he’s never regretted taking the plunge.
Yoongi decides to be brave again.
He finds Jungkook in the practice room running through a song they haven’t performed in three years. Yoongi can’t remember the lyrics, but Jungkook’s movements are as sharp and practiced as if yesterday was the first day of promotions. Our Jungkook, he remembers Namjoon saying, always acting like he has something to prove.
The door always makes a noisy bang when it closes, but Jungkook doesn’t stop until the song is over. He’s moving like a man possessed. Yoongi doesn’t make any attempt to hide, just stands in the back and watches Jungkook watch himself dance.
When he finally looks up and sees Yoongi, he doesn’t flinch, but his shoulders go tight along with his mouth. He doesn't want Yoongi near him. The realization hurts.
Yoongi should just apologize. He should get down on his hands and knees and beg Jungkook’s forgiveness, agree that it was a prank gone too far and that he of all people should know better. Suffer through the months of silences until he’s allowed to crawl back into Jungkook’s good graces, and remain thankful for whatever friendship he’s afforded after this. He could live with the knowledge that he failed Jungkook, that he hurt Jungkook, that he hurt himself. He thinks, at least, that he could live like that.
“Can I talk to you?”
Jungkook keeps his back to the door, but in the mirror Yoongi can see in the mirror that his pulse is pounding in his throat harder than it had been a minute ago. “Leave me alone. Please.”
Jungkook’s arms are hanging limply by his sides. He’s wearing one of Jimin’s shirts and track pants he’s had since 2013. His hair is plastered to his forehead; his cheeks without makeup are dull. Right now he isn’t beautiful, or even handsome; he’s just some guy Yoongi could pass by on the street and not even think twice about. Just a kid, a friend, a person, not anything more, not anything less. This is the Jungkook he likes the best of all. He probably doesn’t have the right to think that.
“Let’s just - talk. Please.”
It's the wrong thing to say.
Jungkook snarls, “I don’t get you, hyung!” Weeks, maybe months of pent up aggression snap out like a rattlesnake quivering beneath the porch. Yoongi had thought, stupidly, that they’d put everything behind them, but this hurt is too bitter to be new. “I thought you agreed with me when I asked if we could move past everything, I thought you understood! But then you started shoving people at me - don’t pretend, you’re really bad at lying - and, I don’t know if it’s because you’re guilty you don’t feel the same way or if you’re just trying to get back at me for something but can you just. Can you just stop. It’s not funny anymore.”
Yoongi never claimed to be smart. But he’d thought he was better than this.
A voice he distantly recognises as his own asks, “I don’t feel the same way?”
Jungkook - stops. Just stops. His mouth half-open, his hand opening and closing around a fist. “Hyung,” he says, like a man at sea. Like a man who’s drowning. Yoongi can taste the salt water.
There’s a wildness in Jungkook’s eyes. And Yoongi has decided to be brave.
“When I kiss someone,” he says, “they fall in love.”
(That Jungkook doesn’t punch him out right there is something Yoongi will always be thankful for.)
Yoongi ventures a step forward into the practice room, and when the ground doesn’t open to swallow him up he takes another one, and then another. Jungkook, to his credit, doesn’t step back, but there’s a panic in his eyes that increases as Yoongi draws close; stops in front of him; reaches his hand to push the hair off of his forehead.
“Please,” Jungkook whispers, and falls silent, as if he can’t possibly imagine the end of that sentence.
“When I kiss someone,” Yoongi repeats, soft, urgent, like Jungkook will disappear if the words he’s been holding in his entire life aren’t spoken right now, “they meet their soulmate. I’m not lying. I know it sounds like I'm lying but I'm not. They meet their soulmate, every single time.”
“That’s the worst line I’ve ever heard,” Jungkook says, but he isn’t smiling. Instead he’s shaking, little tremors at his shoulders and legs. Yoongi cups his hand around his jaw and the back of the neck to help keep him steady, but it just gets worse.
“But it didn’t work for you. I'm sorry. I wanted to give you something good. I tried as hard, I really did, but it didn’t work for you.”
Jungkook doesn’t say anything. There’s an ambulance wailing somewhere outside. Inside, the ancient air conditioner is wheezing along, and there’s a stampede of trainee feet rushing down the hallway, fresh-faced kids with everything to look forward to and nothing to regret. Yoongi has a lot of regrets.
Without really meaning to, he strokes his thumb against Jungkook’s cheek. Jungkook doesn’t gasp, but his throat moves around a sound he doesn't let out.
“Even if that’s true, which I don’t think it is,” Jungkook says, finally. He starts out by choosing each word carefully, and then they come out all jumbled up together in a nervous avalanche: “did you. Hyung, did you ever think that maybe it didn’t work because I already met them?”
Yoongi’s seen this expression on Jungkook’s face. Only when he looks at him, never anybody else. Bright, and exasperated, and something else. He refused to think deeper about it out of some misguided - fear? Self-preservation? But this close up, there’s no room to turn his head, no room to deny what it is he’s seeing.
Yoongi wonders what Jungkook can see when he looks at Yoongi. If he’s just as obvious. He hopes he is. But Jungkook has always caught on quick.
“You always said I’m your stupidest hyung,” Yoongi says, and Jungkook’s laugh isn’t exactly joyful, but it is relieved. Yoongi wants to keep talking, to say as many stupid, inconsequential words as he can so that Jungkook will keep laughing like this, for him.
“You should try again.” Not seductive, just - stating facts. His hand is on Yoongi’s waist. His knee is between Yoongi’s leg. Their foreheads touching, their lips, not quite. The inevitable conclusion to a question Yoongi’s been pondering way, way too long.
“Try what again?” This may be the worst possible time to try teasing, but Yoongi has never been able to resist this Jungkook, impossibly annoyed, impossibly fond, impossibly - well.
“Hyung,” Jungkook says, leaning in, “you should try it again.”
Indulging Jungkook will always be Yoongi’s fatal flaw. But right now, it's not one he can bring himself to regret.
When he kisses Jungkook there aren’t any sparks. There never had to be. It’s just Jungkook in his arms and Jungkook against his lips, where he was meant to be.