on the same side (the great war)

by penguxsope

Summary:

❤️‍🩹

he fell. and took Hoseok with him.

Hoseok’s learned how to brace for impact.
Yoongi’s learning how to see the damage.
a night of whiskey and missteps becomes a fragile ceasefire.

 

 

❤️‍🩹

ficlet from a prompt generator i made (ship, trope, dialogue, soundtrack)

❤️‍🩹

the roll of the dice today:

 

 

❤️‍🩹

the great war | taylor swift

❤️‍🩹

 

maybe they’re not fighting anymore.

 

maybe the war was silence. or distance. or unsaid things that built up like snowbanks until Hoseok couldn’t stand to look at Yoongi without feeling how much they’d both lost. 

 

lost sight of protecting each other as they fought for the upper hand.

 

taking shots that they knew were too low. too raw.

 

the tunnel vision and drinks knocked back, one too many at the bar with friends. 

 

the bar with Namjoon and Seokjin.

 

a place that was meant to feel like neutral territory.

 

on a night Yoongi had promised he’d pace himself. promised he wouldn’t get shitfaced. promised it wouldn’t be like last time.

 

or the time before.

 

but the hours stretched, the drinks came faster, slipping past the barricades of intention.

 

Namjoon’s hand wrapped around the base of his glass, but never lifted it. Seokjin’s smile didn’t quite reach his eyes.

 

one more.

 

just one more.

 

just to top it off.

 

it can just-

 

“Yoongi.”

 

“I’m good, Joon. I’m-” 

 

Namjoon and Seokjin exchanged a look. it said everything, but nothing. maintaining neutral ground.

 

but he knew they'd already chosen a side. and Yoongi had chosen his next drink.

 

and even that far gone, Yoongi could see it in Hoseok’s eyes. 

 

how he watched Yoongi for the shift. the slight sway, the too-loud laugh, the glass tipped back with careless ease. the familiar signal flare, the warning shot.

 

standing on familiar ground, worn thin by old battles.

 

a sarcastic comment about the meaning of promises was met with retaliation. Yoongi charging ahead, reckless and unarmored. 

 

eyes darted from Hoseok to Yoongi. back to Hoseok.

 

Namjoon and Seokjin preparing to close ranks. Yoongi running blurry battle plans in his mind, preparing the next strike.

 

then retaliation was met with… retreat.

 

met with-

 

"Hoseok!"

 

slipping on the ice-coated sidewalk outside the bar after the taller man who'd walked out.

 

no coat. warmed and fueled by frustration and anger.

 

"Hoseok!"

 

a pause.

 

sliding, sloppy, street spinning with the shots of whiskey Yoongi had downed in an attempt to wash back his poorly chosen words.

 

finally.

 

"Hoseok."

 

the taller man turned, eyes shimmering, breath fogging in the night air.

 

there was something tight in his jaw, a small flicker. like he’d already rehearsed every possible version of what Yoongi might say next. 

 

but still, there was no preemptive strike.

 

no “What?!”

 

no “I can't do this.”

 

not even a “Yoongi.”

 

no more.

 

just waiting. waiting.

 

for the next ambush. for the next battle. hell, maybe even for the white flag.

 

and why couldn't Yoongi find it?

 

he knew the words. he knew the order in which they should spill from his mouth, knew which muscles to engage, the placement of his tongue and his teeth.

 

but instead just standing there. 

 

an idiot swaying in his own intoxication. his own toxicity.

 

Hoseok reached forward, and Yoongi didn't even know when he'd placed his hand in Hoseok's. didn't know when they’d started walking home, wordlessly, Hoseok pulling both their hands into his jacket pocket to keep warm.

 

a ceasefire.

 

and now?

 

they're curled on the same couch. barely breathing. not speaking.

 

the words they didn’t speak carried their own weight. 

 

feeling hot. volatile.

 

words were dangerous.

 

like metal freshly drawn from the fire. words once melted down in moments of vulnerability or anger, poured into molds of resentment, then set aside and left to harden. 

 

words were things stored for later, pressed down and ignored, but never fully cooled. and both knew that if they released them now, those molten memories could become bullets again.

 

sharp, fast, and wounding.

 

and they were already wounded enough.

 

Yoongi had slipped on the ice during their walk home.

 

once, stabilizing his hand on a brick wall, dragging the flesh of his palm against the rough ridges. a sobering sting that should have clued him in to the care he should take moving forward.

 

but he fell again a few blocks later.

 

this time dragging Hoseok with him. 

 

because, maybe sweetly, maybe stupidly, Hoseok wouldn’t let go of Yoongi’s hand. 

 

falling forward with him. Yoongi catching himself on his elbow and previously scraped palm, Hoseok landing on his side, cheek making impact with the frost-covered concrete.

 

Yoongi winced as he pushed himself up, hand torn, elbow throbbing. 

 

but it wasn’t the pain that made him sick. it was the sound Hoseok made after he hit the ground. a sharp, staggering silence. and then Hoseok, sucking in a breath through his teeth like he’d been expecting this. like he wasn’t surprised by the pain anymore.

 

and still, their fingers were tightly interlaced.

 

here on the couch, Hoseok was bandaged up, fingers tracing the pattern in the couch cushion he held in his lap.  his fingertips moved over the fabric almost automatically, grounding. 

 

something in Yoongi pulled, twisted, knowing that he was only now recognizing that Hoseok had cobbled together his own means of self-soothing when the person he needed had reached the bottom of the bottle.

 

his eyes wandered from Hoseok’s fingers to the bandage covering the scrape on his cheekbone. 

 

but maybe it also covered up the other kinds of hurt from the night.

 

Yoongi reached toward him, thumb running along the bandage on his cheek.

 

and maybe the past spoke to him now. in the way the sting of scrape on Hoseok’s cheek made him wince when he shifted to look at Yoongi better. 

 

maybe the war was never shouting.

maybe it was the quiet. the slow erosion. the way distance felt like frostbite. never visible until it was far too late. just creeping, numbing, settling in the joints.

 

maybe it was every moment they forgot to protect each other.

 

and Yoongi saw it now. saw how Hoseok hesitated, fought himself before he turned around on that ice-slick sidewalk outside the bar, like he was bracing for another hit, another tactical misstep in whatever the hell they’d turned themselves into.

 

Hoseok leaned into the touch, and Yoongi’s eyes mapped the taller man’s face. from his forehead, the mussed-up hair from pulling off his hat. 

 

to his nose, still tinged pink from cold. 

 

and from crying. 

 

back to the bandage, skin below angry and red.

 

it brought Yoongi the image of Hoseok in their bathroom. he had cleaned Yoongi up first when they got home. that was the stupid thing. 

 

Yoongi was the drunk one, the one who’d slipped twice, slipped up so many times before tonight. the one who’d caused all of this. Hoseok had a cut across his cheekbone from the fall outside their building, a thin angry line that should’ve stung like hell.

 

yet he was the one dabbing antiseptic onto Yoongi’s skin with steady fingers.

 

like caring was automatic, even if love felt too hard right now.

 

and when Hoseok’s own cut needed cleaning, Yoongi couldn’t breathe. couldn’t speak. just sat there on the edge of the tub, watching Hoseok hold the gauze to his cheek like he wasn’t even thinking about it.

 

as if pain was something he’d gotten used to carrying.

 

that terrified Yoongi more than anything.

 

Yoongi’s fingers lifted and traced the bandage along Hoseok’s cheek. slow. barely-there. afraid to press too hard but unwilling to keep any more distance.

 

Hoseok’s breath caught not from pain. from something else.

 

something fragile.

 

he didn’t look away. didn’t retreat. didn’t armor up.

 

and when Hoseok finally spoke, it was barely above a whisper:

 

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

 

because… Yoongi knew what the words sounded like in his own voice. 

 

because our time on the battlefield’s over. 

 

he knew the cadence. the pauses. 

 

because every shot has long since been fired, but the smoke hasn’t cleared.

 

Yoongi swallowed. his thumb stayed where it was, resting against cotton and bruised skin.

 

because i don’t want to lose you and i don’t know how to stop hurting you.

 

tears welled. he knew they would.

 

and still. unable to bring his teeth, his tongue, his lips, to say these words that were so simple, that cost him nothing.

 

because these words were too heavy, too sharp, too much like shrapnel. because they could cost them something.

 

Yoongi blinked hard, lashes clumping slightly from the wetness he refused to let fall. his thumb stayed in place on Hoseok’s cheek, like if he moved it - even a millimeter - it would all break again. shatter into the same pieces they kept trying to put back together.

 

Hoseok’s eyes flicked between his, searching. waiting.

 

not demanding, not forcing.

 

just there.

 

steady in a way Yoongi didn’t think he deserved tonight.

 

“Yoongi,” he whispered again, softer this time. careful. like he was afraid even his breath could bruise him.

and maybe that was the worst part- 

 

how gentle Hoseok still was with him, even after everything.

 

Yoongi exhaled, shaky, breath catching on the way out.

 

his mouth opened. closed.

 

opened again.

 

he wasn’t good at this. he never had been. words were supposed to be his thing - lyrics, metaphors, verses sharper than blades.

 

but face-to-face truth? real emotion without rhythm to hide behind?

 

impossible.

 

but Hoseok’s question lingered between them, not a weapon.

just a quiet plea for an answer.

 

so Yoongi gave him one.

 

barely voiced.

 

“…Because I never should have stopped looking at you like this.”

 

Hoseok froze. completely.

 

as if the ground shifted under them again.

 

Yoongi let the rest fall out, voice cracking, each syllable sounding like exhaustion and surrender and apology all at once.

 

“Because I don’t know when we stopped being on the same side.”

 

a breath.

 

a swallow.

 

another breath.

 

“Because I know that I- I have a problem… and I’ve hurt you. Over and over. And I don’t know what I… what I h-hate more- that you hesitated to turn around outside the bar or- or that you finally did.”

 

that landed. he saw it.

 

saw Hoseok’s eyes soften, dim, then glow with something warm and wounded at the same time.

 

Yoongi shook his head, the words scraping out of him unfiltered:

 

“I don’t want to fight anymore. I’m so fucking tired.”

 

his thumb trembled on Hoseok’s cheek.

 

“I’m tired of hurting you. I’m tired of hurting us.”

 

a tear slipped before he could stop it.

 

Hoseok’s hand rose - slow, hesitant, like he was approaching a wild animal - and covered Yoongi’s on his cheek, holding it there.

 

still no retreat.

 

still no armor.

 

just Hoseok, breathing through the ache.

 

“Yoongi…” he murmured, and there was that softness again. that old warmth Yoongi thought he’d destroyed.

 

Yoongi leaned forward without thinking, forehead almost touching Hoseok’s, breath mingling in the half-inch of space between them.

 

he tried to speak. failed. tried again.

 

nothing came. just breath, shared in the hush between them.

 

Hoseok didn’t look away.

just exhaled - shaky, relieved, pained as he whispered:
 

“It’s okay. I know.”

 

it was something like a white flag waving at the horizon. the first dawn after a long night - light barely touching the edges, tentative, unsure.

 

a truce.

 

a tentative armistice.

 

a white flag.

 

maybe the first real one they’d raised in months.

 

not forgiveness. not yet.

 

but the smoke was finally beginning to clear.

 

❤️‍🩹

 

 

Notes:

i loved writing this.

short and not-so-sweet

took some time off writing (and by "some time" i mean eons) and rolled the dice this morning.

i'd love to hear your thoughts.

 

and come say hi 💜

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 3 of roll play - stories that started in my camera roll