"Okay, so I really need to meet this kid who Yoongi has now officially risked hide and hair for—"

"'For whom'," Namjoon says.

Hoseok blinks. "Hide and hair? Is that even a real expression, Jinnie?"

"I don't appreciate ungrateful dongsaengs interrupting me at Sunday morning brunch—"

"I'm your boyfriend; it's weird when you call me a dongsaeng—"

"Shut up, Hoseokie, love, I'm trying to waterboard Yoongi-yah into giving us information about the boy he likes," Seokjin stresses, sipping his mimosa and clapping a hand over Hoseok's mouth. "To start, a name would be nice."

Yoongi blinks at them from across the table, nonplussed. Waits for it—waits for it—yup, there it is, Hoseok licks Seokjin's hand, Seokjin gasps and starts shouting off about respect and consideration and germs and I'm not staying up to take care of you when you get sick, Hoseokie and then Hoseok is protesting back Have you been handling things that have been sneezed or coughed on? No but I touched the door handles on the way in and they could be crawling with toxins! Hyung, I'll be fine. Hoseokie I need my beauty rest that's why I can't stay up and care for you! Wow, Jinnie, oh the pain do you see me rolling my eyes for you—

"Well, Yoongi-hyung did nurse Jeongguk through his flu and hyung hasn't gotten sick yet," Namjoon adds helpfully.

Hoseok and Seokjin freeze, staring at each other, and then they slowly turn to face Yoongi like possessed ventriloquist dummies, eyes wide and wicked, smiles creepily similar. "What's that, Namjoonie?" Seokjin asks sweetly, face frozen so only his mouth moves when he speaks.

"When you say 'Jeongguk', could you possibly mean Sir Most Adorable Jeon Jeongguk, the lil' bunny kit you happen to tutor?" Hoseok says, face equally still.

"Jesus," Yoongi gripes. "You two are like something out of a horror movie."

"Oh, we can be much worse," Seokjin says, breaking out of the doll act and settling back to blow on his nails as they wait for their food. He's probably tipsy off the mimosa already, Hoseok too. Even Namjoon is champagne-relaxed and pliant in the booth.

Yoongi, of course, is stuck drinking regular old orange juice. And coffee. Always coffee.

"So? Is that who it is?" Hoseok asks.

Yoongi replays Hoseok's words as if he needs to. As if his brain isn't saying yes, these are the droids you're looking for, here he is Jeon Jeonggukkie baby Bunny kit—

Kit?

"What the hell, adorable bunny kit ?" Yoongi splutters.

"Baby bunnies are called kittens," Hoseok says. "Kits for short."

"That's...weird and unnecessary," Yoongi says, voice muffled behind his coffee mug and he goes to take another gulp. He's not even that tired, but there's a headache just starting to pulse at the back of his head. Stupid caffeine addiction. "How do you even know that? And Jeonggukkie's not a kit. He's a 21-year-old adult-ass man."

"You're 25, hyung. Almost 26," Namjoon points out. Helpfully.

"Also, ass man, " Hoseok snickers. "Yoongi doesn't have an ass, though. He'd be lucky to be classified as having a bubble butt." Seokjin guffaws loudly next to him, bright like windshield wipers on dry glass. It makes Yoongi smile just a little, hearing that laugh so valiantly bursting from Kim Seokjin, because Yoongi remembers Seokjin when they'd first met, back when Seokjin was always haughty and so poised it was obviously an act. Hoseok has changed that, and Yoongi thinks it's for the better: for some reason, Kim Seokjin has never been able to keep his cool around Hoseok, his boyfriend, his best friend, the guy who managed to knock down all those high-standing walls.

Now: Seokjin scoffing, careless and proud, head thrown back so his bleached hair catches yellow sunbeams through the window. Hoseok next to him, staring at him with firework hearts in his eyes, both of them radiant and unfairly beautiful.

"Ass man," Seokjin giggles, finally turning back to Yoongi.

"There's nothing going on," Yoongi says.

Namjoon looks genuinely baffled. Hoseok and Seokjin just look disbelieving. Seokjin, in fact, looks personally offended as he gasps, "You kept watch at Jeongguk-ah's bedside at a time of tragic illness, risking life and limb—"

"There were definitely no limbs risked; Jeonggukkie had the flu— "

"—and you've called him 'Jeonggukkie' twice now! All this and you have the gall to say that there is nothing going on ?" Seokjin finishes, waving his hand and nearly knocking over his mimosa. Hoseok snatches Seokjin's hand out of the air at the last second and brings his knuckles up to kiss them before Seokjin can realize why Hoseok really grabbed him. Nice save. Also, ew. They're in public.

"We're in public," Yoongi says.

Seokjin splutters out something about unruly dongaengs deserving more waterboarding, and Hoseok drags him in for a kiss, possibly just to shut him up. It devolves pretty quickly into sweet, soft, silly not-quite-making-out with weird romantic whispers in between.

"We're in public," Yoongi says again, monotone. Yoongi isn't naive, and he knows Seokjin well and Hoseok even better. He is aware that it's no use.

"Hey, um, Yoongi-hyung," Namjoon murmurs, leaning over as Hoseok starts feeding Seokjin bites of omelet off the plate that has just been set in front of them. The waiter gives Namjoon his weird healthy berry parfait thing and Yoongi his eggs benedict. This place has the only fucking good hollandaise in the entire city, Yoongi swears to god.

"What," Yoongi asks as he cuts up poached egg and English muffin, ready to shove some of this food in his face so he can actually take his medication. Because that's a thing he has to do: eat, or else he can't take his pills or he'll probably puke them back up or at least feel sick to his stomach all goddamn day, and it feels kind of like a stupid two-for-one deal where you don't really want either thing but you buy them anyway because they're two-for one. (The two things being the have-to-eat and have-to-take-pill, obviously. Yoongi can't do one without the other. And he needs both to survive, god, it's like the stupid antidepressants are trying to trick him or something, force his hand. Fuck. )

"I know you and Jeongguk were really friendly when he helped us move," Namjoon starts, diplomatic as ever. "You guys just seemed like you got along right away."

Yoongi shrugs, shoveling more food into his mouth. Dammit, he should've ordered hash browns on the side too.

"So," Namjoon prods. "Hyung, are you—have you really talked to him?"

Yoongi shrugs again. "We talk." He sips his coffee. Ignores his glass of orange juice, that alcohol-free fucker.

Namjoon straightens up beside him. Seokjin and Hoseok are still lost in their own world, thank god. "You know," Namjoon says, "I just...it's not that I don't trust you."

"This is off to a great start."

"I just think that if you're not serious about actually dating him and like—as ridiculous as it sounds in this day and age, just. If you're not serious about falling in love with him and then doing it right, loving him, I mean, just...I know Jeongguk-ah pretty well. If you're not serious about loving him the way he should be loved, like how he wants to be loved...then you shouldn't get involved," Namjoon says, finally scooping up a spoonful of yogurt and eating it.

Yoongi blinks. "Okay."

Namjoon swallows and looks vaguely concerned. "Hyung, I didn't mean to—"

"I'm serious."

Namjoon freezes. Flicks his gaze down to his parfait and then back up to Yoongi. "Are you?"

Yoongi shrugs. "You're the one who wants me to be. I'm just saying. I'm serious."

"This isn't just because—I don't know, you're feeling better? The meds are helping and you feel like you want to—like, do things again? Not in a weird way, 'do things', just—"

"The meds are bullshit," Yoongi says. "I mean. I'm taking them, because you have to keep taking them. Maybe in three months they'll do something. Right now, I still don't want to get out of bed most days. Some days. Some days, don't look at me like that. Everything is a fucking pain in the ass, it's not going to change, I have no ambitions and no way of making any decisions when there's literally no motivation that will make me think that things will ever get any less sucky than they are now. If anything, I'm the happiest fucking clam, Namjoon, because you know what? Whatever I do, things will stay the same. There is nothing that can change that. But maybe I somehow happen to want to curl up in my sad little nest of apathy with another human who has pretty brown-blond hair and nice eyes and bunny teeth and a nose that crinkles up when he smiles. Maybe in all this fucking sameness, Jeonggukkie feels like the one thing that's new, and not like he's some manic pixie dream girl rescuing me from bleak rainy shit or whatever. He's the sweetest fucking kid and he's reckless and shy and lonely and warm and I want to make him happy and comfortable. Is that serious enough for you?"

When Yoongi finishes his embarrassing outburst, he realizes that everyone else at the table is staring at him. Not like ventriloquist dummies this time. Like people.

"Yoongi," Seokjin says, sympathy saturating his voice all wise-older-brotherly and warm. Seokjin has this magic power where his concern never comes off as pity or condescension; it's not saccharine sweet or judgy or skeptical. It's just validating and kind. "Hey, we're proud of you, you know? For trying out medication, for living through all the weirdness with dosage and what kind works best and—"

"Jeonggukkie knows," Yoongi blurts, because it's been weighing on him. Maybe he'd been waiting, all night waiting yesterday, thinking Jeongguk would bring it up. "Or he doesn't—he said he didn't know what the label meant. What the medication does. He said he didn't look it up. But he saw it. He knows I'm on something."

Seokjin purses his lips and then cuts a bite of omelet and holds the fork out across the table at Yoongi. "Here. Since I know how you are about physical touch and not having contact unless you ask for it, I offer you this Omelet of Consolation instead."

Yoongi snorts and accepts the offering. "'Consolation'. Thanks, hyung, you make it sound like I won some pointless participation prize."

"You did," Seokjin says seriously. "Well. Not a pointless one. A very point ful one. This is your participation prize for participating in life."

"Yeah," Yoongi snorts, "that's what I wanted. This whole miserable thing was worth it for that bite of omelet."

"Hey," Hoseok says, perking up, "You know what? We should all get together with Jeongguk and his friends or something. We could go out clubbing. That sounds fun, right, hyung?"

Yoongi blinks. "So not only do you expect me to participate in life, but you now expect me to participate in clubbing ?"

"That's what people do at clubs, right?" Namjoon jokes. "Errybody in the club participating. Those are the lyrics."

Yoongi snorts. "I mean. It's kind of true. That's always the vibe I get in clubs. No one is that enthusiastic. They're just doing the shit they're supposed to do because that's what you're supposed to do in clubs. I approve of this lyric interpretation, Joon."

Hoseok and Seokjin look like they have been personally victimized by Regina George. "Hyung. How could you. Clubs are sacred monuments to the world's most important art form, which is, of course, dancing."

Yoongi blinks. "Right. Club dancing. That's the kind of dancing you do, Hoseok. Drunken grinding that involves dubious consent and copious amounts of alcohol is the same as all the hard work you put into your dance crew."

" Hyung, " Hoseok whines.

"Really, Min Yoongi," Seokjin says, and now he's condescending as hell, "how dare you say these logical and accurate things to my boyfriend. Listen to the feeling of what he's saying, not the actual words."

"Thanks, dear," Hoseok says, fist bumping Seokjin.

Yoongi rolls his eyes. "Dear lord."

"We could invite Jeongguk and his roommates," Namjoon suggests. "The semester starts up this week again, but I bet on Friday they would be down."

Yoongi sighs and finishes off his eggs benedict. Leans back in the booth, headache gone now that the coffee has had time to kick in. "Sure. If you really want. We can all go to the club and just—do that. It's going to be boring as hell. Everybody in the club participating. "

Famous last words.

Jeongguk and Taehyung and Jimin and Hoseok and Seokjin are not just in the club participating. They are in the club fucking living for it.

"Wow. We really should not have introduced all of them," Yoongi says as soon as Namjoon shows up. Namjoon has been in the studio all day, and since he just got here, he doesn't even know who Taehyung and Jimin are yet. Yoongi wonders how that introduction will go. He's kind of picturing Namjoon being so bisexual-disaster-ified by the whole Jimin-and-Taehyung-are-hot-as-fuck thing that he spontaneously combusts, while Jimin and Taehyung get distracted biting each other's necks in public or something. Whatever happens, it should be entertaining at least. "You gotta meet Tae and Jiminie."

"Um, what? Who? I'm gonna get a drink," Namjoon says, a bluster of disorganization and mussed hair as he always is. At least he's wearing non-rumpled clothes.

"Hey, get me a coke," Yoongi yells over the pounding music. Namjoon nods and heads off. Yoongi does not have any intention of moving from his spot in the booth.

It had been a fairly regular week. Depression, texting Jeongguk, taking meds on an empty stomach and feeling sick all day, irritability, texting Jeongguk, snapping at Namjoon, having Namjoon snap at him , texting Jeongguk, work, anxiously awaiting the letter Jeongguk claims to have sent him—although Yoongi hasn't actually seen one, and that's weird because they live in the same city and the mail should take, like, one day to get from Jeongguk's post box to Yoongi's slot at the apartment building.

Whatever. Yoongi had finally asked Jeongguk about the clubbing thing via text on Wednesday, and an unknown number (which turned out to be Taehyung) RSVP'd immediately. Also Jeongguk texted back, sure!!!! that sounds so fun, hyung!!! <3 tae and jiminie say okay too and tae just stole your number out of my phone SORRY FOREVER hyung I'm sorry I'm sorry!!! Yoongi hadn't been sure why Jeongguk was SORRY FOREVER, but, well. Taehyung has now taken it upon himself to send Yoongi puppy videos like seven (7) times an hour, so. That's probably why.

(Yoongi, if he responds at all, responds with an emoji selected at random from the Objects category, because those ones are the least useful to normal humans. Taehyung gets a kick out of this and responds in gifs from either America's Next Top Model cycle four, RuPaul's Drag Race season five, or The Great British Bake Off series one through six. Yoongi has never watched any of these shows, so he pointedly leaves Taehyung on read and definitely doesn't ask Jeongguk if they can possibly spend an evening watching all three shows in the interests of education. That would be ridiculous.)

Now, here they are, finally congregating in this holy monument to dancing and participating. Yoongi is planted firmly in this darkened circular booth, drinking soda and still trying to beat Hoseok's high score at this stupid phone game. Seokjin and Hoseok are on the edge of the dance floor laughing more than dancing, both fairly gone just from the round of shots that had started the party off (sans Namjoon and, of course, Yoongi). Jeongguk and Jimin and Taehyung are dancing pretty explicitly even to the boppier, less grind-y beats, all three of them kind of smashed considering how drunk they'd already been when they showed up.

Which. Yoongi isn't thinking about that. He isn't .

(Okay. Maybe he is a little. It's just that it's kind of hard not to think about how dizzying and beautiful it had been to saunter fake-casually up to the club to find Jimin and Taehyung and Jeongguk hanging all over each other outside, all three splitting a cigarette with Jimin and Taehyung shotgunning it even though that's not a thing when there's no weed. Jeongguk had blinked slowly at Yoongi in tipsy recognition, eyes glassy like how they looked during his flu, except this time smiling and happy, his mouth cracking open so unstoppably and suddenly that it had taken Yoongi's breath away.

Other things Yoongi is Not Remembering:

"Hey, Yoongi-hyung," Jeongguk chirps, darting away from Jimin and Taehyung in a drunken whirl, that sort of unselfconscious grace that comes with just the right amount of intoxication before you're entirely unsteady on your feet but when you still kind of think gravity doesn't exist.

"Hey, Jeonggukkie," Yoongi says, reaching out to catch Jeongguk the way a mother goose might steady her fledgling child learning to fly.

A bright, bunny-big smile. Nose crinkled, and eyes wrinkled, hair fluffing up in winter humidity. "You're really cute, hyungie," Jeongguk says.

Yoongi blushes red red red. "You pregamed."

Mischief dancing in Jeongguk's eyes, darling and sparkling and utterly unattainable, at least by Yoongi. As if Yoongi deserves to capture something like that, even in his memory—only it's here in Yoongi's brain now, coded into his software—Jeongguk is captured, but he seems fine with it as he giggles and nods and falls helplessly forward into Yoongi's chest, his smile accidentally wetting Yoongi's neck.

Accidentally.

Later: "Hyung, come on, shots!" Jeongguk chirps, leading Yoongi into the club finally, nodding understandingly when Yoongi reminds him that he's the DD. Yoongi is actually kind of glad to be sober when he witnesses the picture of Jeongguk throwing back a pretty purple-blue shot, licking sugar from his lips afterwards so they're wet and tantalizing. Yoongi wishes he could lean closer and erase all the distance between them, taste that indigo-sparkling vodka-rum magic from Jeongguk's lips.

Then: "Hyung, I'm so drunk, I feel so good, " Jeongguk says as he lifts Yoongi's hand, their fingers tangled, and spins himself underneath Yoongi's arm, stumbling so perfectly forward into Yoongi's arms that Yoongi thinks maybe Jeongguk did it on purpose.

"Yeah?" Yoongi asks, stupidly, not realizing he's evoking some sort of love spell against himself, but that's what happens when Jeongguk nods unsteady into his neck, pulls away with a wild smile.

"I feel really good, hyung, yeah," Jeongguk says, nodding and blinking wide eyes as if Yoongi believes in this innocence for a second. Then, lower: "You make me feel really good, hyungie. 'Cause you always make me feel pretty."

So. Yeah. Yoongi is definitely not sitting nervously in a booth remembering all of that while he sips offensively nonalcoholic soda. Definitely not.)

Namjoon comes back carrying Yoongi's coke and something clear and bubbly. Gin and tonic, maybe vodka. Something boring and generic and probably extremely overpriced.

"Thanks. Good studio session?" Yoongi asks as he accepts the soda.

Namjoon settles back in the booth and sighs, running a hand through his hair so it looks half purposely-debauched and half cockatoo-crest-feathers-debauched. "Ugh. Don't talk to me."

Yoongi chuckles and sips his drink. "I'm sure you'll get something down tomorrow. The next day. Some day in some future we think won't ever come but one day we'll wake up and be in it. That sort of shit."

"So the same as always, yeah," Namjoon sighs, blowing out a breath at the ceiling. "Fuck. I want a cigarette."

"Don't have any, sorry," Yoongi says, sipping his drink. "Although Jimin and Taehyung might, unless they just stole one off someone else earlier." He searches the dance floor for Taehyung's blue hair and Jimin's purple and—well. Of course they're enthusiastically making out. Again. It would be annoying if it weren't for the fact that they're smiling into it, eyes open, Taehyung a few inches taller and holding Jimin so carefully with Jimin looking back at him all love-struck—nope. Still annoying.

Yoongi lets his gaze slide over Hoseok and Seokjin, who are for some reason slow dancing. To "Work It", like, by Missy Elliot. What the fuck. On their other side, Jeongguk is trying to get Taehyung and Jimin to pay attention to him, and they acquiesce pretty easily, forming a little circle of three. They're all good dancers, Taehyung because of his enthusiasm, Jimin because he's obviously a trained professional, and Jeongguk because he's just—good. He's just kind of awfully nice to look at, the way he moves his hips, runs his own hands up his chest, his neck. Fuck, Yoongi can see the sweat glistening at his temples, the way his muscles bulge under the cling of his pale shirt. And those pants, those fucking leather pants which Jeongguk had shown off earlier after the shots, once Hoseok and Seokjin and Taehyung and Jimin had skipped off to the dance floor— Hyung! Come on! You're gonna dance with me, right? Don't I look pretty enough for you?

And Yoongi, regretfully, at least kind of: Bunny, you look very nice. But um, dancing—no way kid, you enjoy yourself, I'll just be...over here...

Yoongi is indeed over here, slouching in a booth with Namjoon, eyeing Jeongguk like the kid is a goddamn popsicle that Yoongi could be lick lick licking on a hot fucking day. Mango flavor, Jeongguk would be mango. Bright juicy fruit, thick like Melona, melting down Yoongi's fingers, or peaches and cream, sweeter than sweet—

Jeongguk catches Yoongi's eye as he spins a slow circle, hips working in dizzying spirals; he holds Yoongi's gaze from across the club, licks his lip, oh damn—

And then suddenly Taehyung and Jimin look over and see Yoongi and Namjoon and they grab Jeongguk, all three of them practically running to the booth, eyes dazed with intoxication, clothes pretty and sparkly and attention-grabbing. All three of them are a sight to behold.

"Hey, Yoongi-hyung!" Taehyung chirps. They've only met twice, first when Taehyung and Jimin got home and Yoongi was there taking care of flu-y, bed-ridden Jeongguk and second when Yoongi came for his meds and ended up staying a while to wash Jeongguk's sheets—but Taehyung strikes Yoongi as the kind of person who greets everyone as a friend regardless of how many times he's met them.

"Is this—" Jimin starts, looking at Namjoon, who's still slumped over in the booth, face hidden below the table—except then Namjoon is sitting up, Namjoon's hair is a mess and his face is flushed but he looks as sculpted and pretty as always; come on, it's Namjoon—

"Hey, Yoongi-hyung!" Jeongguk shouts, collapsing into the other side of the booth and sliding all the way around it—like, he has to go, like 270 degrees around this table but he's clearly committed and he does— to slump into Yoongi's side. "Hey. You look cute. I like this outfit."

Yoongi snorts. "It's a black shirt and black skinny jeans."

"Yeah, I—hey, look," Jeongguk whispers, suddenly reverent—"Be subtle, though. Don't look now!"

"What?" Yoongi says, faking exasperation even as he ducks in to whisper close, playing along.

"Something is happening."

Yoongi chances a glance in the direction Jeongguk is looking and—

Oh.

Oh.

Something is happening. And it's not what Yoongi had been envisioning, like at all.

"Hi, um. I'm Namjoon. Kim Namjoon."

"Namjoon-hyung," Jimin whispers, fingering the collar of his own shirt, eyes kind of glazed but not the way they looked earlier, when it was just alcohol making him look like this. No, Jimin is standing there with an expression for which there is no other word but starstruck, Taehyung next to him, their arms linked. Taehyung is a carbon copy of Jimin only taller, they're both just staring at Namjoon, heads tilted slightly to the left, eyes wide, otherwise frozen.

"It's—uh, nice to meet you. Both of you, um, you must be Jeongguk-ah's roommates," Namjoon says. He's talking quietly, talking in his oh voice, his oh shit this (these) boy(s) is (are) cute voice. His fuck, I want to take you home and cuddle you with my Ryan plushies voice.

(Because lol, pronounced as a word instead of saying each letter, as you do. Lol. Chaotic Bisexual Namjoon is a huge gangly-armed koala cuddle machine who would probably rather tuck Taehyungie and Jimin-ah into bed with milk and cookies than fuck them. Although with the way Taehyung and Jimin are looking at Namjoon right now, Yoongi expects Namjoon will probably be agreeable to both.)

"Joonie-hyung," Taehyung finally whispers, blinking and snapping out of it. He nudges Jimin. "Namjoonie-hyung, do you want to buy me and Jimin-ah a drink?"

Namjoon blinks a couple times and then—

Smirks. Fucking smirks, god dammit Kim Namjoon, it is not fair how this man can go from anxious-awkward-breaks-everything-octopus to reckless, charismatic bad boy in, like, three seconds. "Just one?" Namjoon asks, lips quirked up so his sharp fucking demon teeth are visible out of the corner of his sharp fucking demon mouth. "You gonna share?"

Taehyung shivers, and that's when Jimin snaps out of it and oh. Fuck. Jimin is just as bad if not worse than Namjoon, the way he tilts his chin up, eyes narrowed in a seductive pout. His lips are plush and peach and glistening as he sidles that one step closer to the booth, as he slides in next to Namjoon and pulls Taehyung down next to him. Taehyung looks kind of like an oversized, blue-haired puppy—but a cute one, the kind who seduces in flirty, innocent Minnie Mouse sweetness, and fuck, together, he and Jimin are a goddamn force.

"Wow," Yoongi whispers, pressing his nose to the side of Jeongguk's head as the two of them are forced to scoot over to make room for the new additions to the booth. "Jesus Christ, those two are terrifying."

"Namjoon-hyung doesn't stand a chance," Jeongguk says, blinking like resignation, mouth set in a what-can-you-do line. "I should have known never to let those two in the same room as him."

"Fuck," Yoongi says, scooting over even farther as Namjoon shoves him that way. Jimin is practically in Namjoon's lap, and he's so small that Taehyung and Namjoon can still chat each other up over Jimin's purple hair. Taehyung's long mop is glowing turquoise under the dim lights of the club.

Yup. Namjoon is fucked. (In the best way, hopefully. A way that includes cuddling with Ryan plushies at the end.)

Also, Yoongi is fucked. Because he hadn't really wanted to come out yesterday or the day before but he'd woken up this morning and eaten and taken his meds and somehow ended up feeling excited for this whole thing. Because Jeongguk is pressed all along his side, fucking leather pants and pale button-down and thick leather collar and smoky eyeshadow and black Converse. And earrings, fuck, the silver hoops, two in each ear—and two big studs in his right helix which Yoongi would very much like to put his mouth on, fuck.

"Hyung, come dance with me," Jeongguk pouts, right as Jimin and Taehyung seduce Namjoon over to the bar for their drink(s).

Yoongi shakes his head. "No way, kid."

" Please. "

"I'm not even drunk."

"You could be."

"I drove here," Yoongi says.

Jeongguk pouts. "Leave your car. You can come back and get it tomorrow."

Yoongi shuts his eyes. Fuck, he wants to, he wants to be on Jeongguk's level, wants both of them drunk together and in love and making out on the dancefloor like Jimin and Taehyung were earlier, wants to slow dance to whatever's playing now (V.I.C.'s "Wobble") like Seokjin and Hoseok.

But. "I can't, kid."

Jeongguk tilts his head, and for a moment he looks sober and contemplative, eyes going wide and understanding. "You don't drink, do you, Yoongi-hyung?"

Yoongi puffs his lips out. "Nah. Not...right now."

Jeongguk nods, mouth tilting up just barely into a smile. "Okay, hyung. That's okay. I won't pressure you. I'm sorry I did."

"It's fine," Yoongi says, stroking hair out of Jeongguk's eyes. "I wish I could, Bunny." The words strike fear up Yoongi's spine, fear that Jeongguk will realize what's really going on because now it's clear that Yoongi's sobriety is not a choice but something imposed upon him—but Jeongguk just nods.

"I could stop drinking too. Until you can again, if you ever want to."

" Jeonggukkie. " Yoongi's heart is literally stopped in his chest at the sudden sacrifice of that. It's too much. An offer of solidarity that Yoongi doesn't deserve.

Jeongguk picks up on the panic. "Just for tonight, then," he amends.

It's still enough to make Yoongi's galaxy heart shoot comets out into his nervous system. He shakes his head. "No, Bunny, you should have fun with your friends. I want you to."

Jeongguk shrugs. "Taetae and Jiminie-hyung are gonna sleep with Namjoon-hyung. And Seokjin-hyung and Hoseok-hyung are just dancing with each other. I want to spend time with you. "

Yoongi looks into Jeongguk's wide, sorta-drunk eyes. So wide, so impossibly wide, fuck. "Jeonggukkie."

"'Bunny'," Jeongguk whispers. "I like when you call me 'Bunny'."

Yoongi's breath is stolen all out of him, all the oxygen in the universe of his love rushing out to nurture Jeongguk's pretty purple flowers growing in his ribs. Like he said when he was sick. Like he said. "Bunny," Yoongi says, "you wanna dance?"

Jeongguk's whole face lights up like a blooming sunflower. "Really, hyung?"

"You're still kinda drunk," Yoongi says, tapping Jeongguk's nose with his index finger. "You'll feel better tomorrow if you dance it out of your system before you go home."

"I mentally prepared myself for being hungover tomorrow, hyung," Jeongguk protests, smiling, but he's pulling Yoongi out of the booth and to the dancefloor. Yoongi follows easily, lets Jeongguk maneuver them through all the couples on the edge until they're close to the sound system, speakers blaring in their ears.

"I love this song," Jeongguk yells into Yoongi's ear, spinning around and tugging at Yoongi's wrists until his back is pressed all up against Yoongi's front. They're not quite grinding; the current song is a little too poppy and bright for anything that dirty, but they sway together and Yoongi can feel the muscles tensing in Jeongguk's thighs, can feel the occasional brush of his maximum-vitality-squats-built ass. Fuck. Fuck.

The song transforms into something pulsing and heavy that Yoongi doesn't recognize. Jeongguk turns, eyes half-lidded and dark, and suddenly Yoongi feels small small small, and wonderful. Jeongguk's hands find Yoongi's hips, push up towards the hem of his shirt—

"Oh," Jeongguk gasps, eyes wide as they flick down to Yoongi's waist. Yoongi's top is black and it's not cropped really, but it's cut a little longer in the front and back, a little shorter on the sides. In these jeans, you can catch a glimpse of the pale skin over Yoongi's sides when he lifts his arms, or when he's dancing—"Hyung, fuck," Jeongguk says, thumbs rucking up Yoongi's shirt just enough to touch the bare skin above the line of Yoongi's jeans. He waits for a second, meets Yoongi's eyes like he's asking silent permission, and Yoongi nods. Then Jeongguk's big palms are splayed all across the livewire flesh of Yoongi's sides, up-up to his ribs—

" Jeongguk, " Yoongi gasps, hands flying to Jeongguk's shoulders when long fingers wrap practically all the fucking way around Yoongi's waist. Yoongi has broad shoulders and an intimidating posture, but he's always going to be kind of slight. His waist probably isn't as tiny as Jeongguk's—Yoongi has seen Jeongguk's fucking ridiculous waist, even if he hasn't had the pleasure of wrapping his own hands around it—but Yoongi's is still small. Easy for Jeongguk to press his fingers in, hitting ticklish spots and sensitive spots and making Yoongi see stars, drunk on the moment and the tangerine-lavender scent of Jeongguk , the same smell of his room.

"Hyung," Jeongguk says, fighting between a shit-eating grin and this ridiculous, powerful bad boy look—shit, shit, how are all of Yoongi's friends so good at duality? How is Jeongguk such a vivid kaleidoscope of sweetness and seduction, of innocence and dauntless confidence? "Hyung, is this okay? Can I touch you?"

"Fuck," Yoongi gasps, the syllable stunned out of him as Jeongguk presses in close, a thigh going between Yoongi's legs—Jeongguk is the only thing holding Yoongi up, maybe, and Yoongi clings to him and lets him have his wicked way. "Yes. Fuck, this is—fine, Bunny, fuck. "

"Yeah," Jeongguk whispers, " fuck, I love this shirt. Love this—fuck, you're so hot, Yoongi-hyung, wanna touch you."

" Kook, " Yoongi says, right into Jeongguk's ear, lips brushing the silver hoop earrings. Jeongguk's eyes are closed when Yoongi looks; he's moving to the beat with a sort of reckless abandon, gone as he clings even tighter to Yoongi, gets his arms up around Yoongi's back. It's delightful, it's breathtaking, it's overwhelming—

"Hyung, how are you so good ?" Jeongguk gasps, forehead falling to Yoongi's shoulder as he holds them tight together. "You deserve so much. "

Insecurity washes over Yoongi like a biblical flood. That same depressive sadness, overpowering and all-encompassing and scary in its intensity. His breath catches and it's not good. It's not the good kind of trembling-shaking-falling-apart sort of intimacy that Yoongi wants to want (maybe doesn't want; maybe can't quite yet). Yoongi—deserves this? Fuck, Yoongi doesn't even deserve a real-ass adult job, let alone a beautiful Boy like this one, a Bunny with so much talent and potential and a bright future. A Bunny who deserves lovely gardens better than Babylon, a Bunny who has no use for Yoongi's solar system of sameness, no forward motion, just spirals of repetition and disillusionment and bitter regret. "You don't—fuck, you don't want me. You don't want this."

"Huh?" Jeongguk asks, opening his eyes, pulling his hands away. "Did I—are you okay, should I not have—did I touch you wrong, oh, hyung, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to—"

"No, it's—it's fine," Yoongi says, shaking. His legs don't feel real. His head doesn't feel real either. It's not a panic attack, it's just—apathy. That whirlpooling undertow riptide dragging Yoongi's head under, under. "It's fine."

Jeongguk stops moving entirely. His hands are on top of Yoongi's shirt now, holding him up. Oh. Yoongi is still clinging to him, fuck, he should really let go but he sort of can't—

"Let's get some air," Jeongguk says. "We can go home. You can leave me here and go home by yourself if you need to; that's fine too."

Yoongi shakes his head, biting the inside of his lip, trying to get his head back. Fuck, this exact thing had been so much fun , like, literally five minutes ago. What changed? The song? The atmosphere? The lighting? The fucked up serotonin levels in Yoongi's brain?

"Hyung?" Jeongguk says, yelling over the music.

Yoongi lets the tingling sleepwalk apathy steel all the motion in his galaxies, because what else can he do? Fighting it will only lead to panic. Will only lead to more of this, everything the same but worse, like when you can't fall asleep and you're trying so hard that it makes you more awake. "Air," Yoongi nods. "Yeah, just—for a minute."

"Sure, hyung," Jeongguk nods, looking a little more sober now that he's focused on Yoongi's well-being. Fuck. Yoongi is ruining this, is ruining everything—they pass Taehyung and Jimin and Namjoon on the way out and Namjoon is looking a little overwhelmed but still really happy, holding his own against the two ridiculous-hair-color-vixens. Hoseok and Seokjin are nowhere to be found.

There's a small smoking area off the side of the club's entrance, but Yoongi takes one look at the space and his disinterest in the crowd must show, because Jeongguk grabs Yoongi's hand and yanks him to a stop. "Hey. Do you wanna just get our stuff and go?"

Yoongi swallows. "No. It's fine, we can just—stand over at the edge, it's fine. Really, it's fine."

Jeongguk looks skeptical and suddenly powerful, ready to take charge. So different from the soft youth of him, the way his eyes are so childlike, his hair fluffy and lovely, his cheeks still sort of round with baby fat. Now his eyes are sharp, expression guarded. Not guarded from Yoongi—guarded for him. Ready to shield him from everyone else, a blank slate of steel, a phalanx to protect them both. "Come on. Let's go sit in your car, hyung. I can't drive because—drinking, and all, but we can just stay there. It'll be quiet. Or we can go, if you're okay to drive."

"I'm really fine," Yoongi says. Give me strength, he thinks, keep looking at me like that, keep funneling all that life into me, breathe me your oxygen, sweet like flowers—

"You sure? What do you want to do?"

And here's the thing. Yoongi hates this. Hates that he wants so badly to leave, hates that Jeongguk can read it all over him, because he's ruining it for all of them, all their friends, the whole evening. Min Yoongi, as always, ruining shit. He has a talent for destruction, a sort of obsession with it. Burning things down, watching bridges turn to ash behind him so he doesn't have to confess to all the weakness in him, all the insecurity and apathy and fucked up serotonin, god.

Jeongguk eyes Yoongi and then his mouth turns into the gentlest thing, alive with the spring, prelude to March, an April which will come. It will, it will, Jeongguk's smile says. There is more than just this, even if Yoongi's shitty depression brain won't let him learn it, let alone believe it.

"You wanna go lie around and share music tastes and watch old music videos or something?" Yoongi asks. Like he's inviting Jeongguk home, like maybe there's suggestion of more—and there would be, if this were someone else, if Jeongguk weren't Jeongguk and if Yoongi weren't Yoongi. But they're going slow; they're not going at all, really, there's nothing official—just the exchange of cards, and some sweet, jokey texting, and Jeongguk with the flu, and Yoongi with being sad.

Jeongguk's face lights up. "You want to? You won't get mad when I make you listen to shitty pop music?"

"Oh, I'm starting us off with '声をきかせて' by BIGBANG just for the extreme 2011 aesthetic of the blocking and hairstyles in that video," Yoongi says, dead serious as Jeongguk erupts into giggles.

"Well come on then, I wanna watch G-Dragon sit not on the chair but on the floor next to the chair while he raps in English, and also witness the awkward two measures of autotune they use on TOP's part in that song as soon as possible," Jeongguk says, dragging Yoongi back towards the booth and away from the entrance. "You wanna grab our stuff and I'll let Tae and Minnie-hyung—oh. Um. Okay."

Taehyung and Namjoon are making out pretty dramatically at the edge of the dancefloor, Jimin squished in between them sucking hard at Namjoon's neck.

Yoongi and Jeongguk stop short. "Well." Yoongi blinks.

"Okay, maybe Hoseokie-hyung and Seokjinnie-hyung?" Jeongguk suggests. Sure enough, Hoseok and Seokjin are at the booth, both looking a little mussed but not quite outright NSFW.

"We're leaving," Yoongi says when he grabs his coat and Jeongguk's, handing the latter to its owner. Jeongguk nods and sticks close to Yoongi's side, which is a little embarrassing but not really, and is also greatly necessary to Yoongi's sanity when some drunk girls stumble past them and accidentally get their hands all over him.

Jeongguk doesn't say anything as Yoongi tenses and presses away from the girls. He just puts an arm behind Yoongi's back and holds him upright. "Thanks for a fun night, hyungs."

Seokjin and Hoseok could so easily make A Remark. They could. And Yoongi suspects that under normal circumstances—like, six-months-to-one-year ago, before Yoongi had been diagnosed and started his stupid meds and all that—they would have. But Seokjin's eyes are soft, and Hoseok's mouth is softer, and they just nod, in sync with it the way they are with everything. "Thanks for coming. You'll be safe getting home?" Seokjin asks.

"We'll be fine," Yoongi assures him, pressing a little tighter against Jeongguk. Both protective and for his own safety; it's nice, Yoongi thinks, how they can be that for each other. How they're not exclusively locked in whatever roles they would be in if this were some tropey love story, how they can be weak and strong and uncertain and forceful together.

"You want a piggyback?" Jeongguk asks as they turn away from the table, wallets and phones and jackets all securely with them.

Yoongi thinks of his somnambulent legs, the tingling dissociation of his body. "It's okay."

"Come on, hyung!" Jeongguk giggles, throwing a grin over his shoulder as he turns and leans down to offer his back for Yoongi. "Get on!"

Fuck it. Yoongi jumps just enough to get his legs around Jeongguk's hips, and Jeongguk doesn't even stagger with the weight of him, he just hikes Yoongi up higher and gets his hands under Yoongi's thighs. "God, you weigh, like, nothing. Like, literally nothing."

"Just because you can bench press four times the weight of an average grizzly bear," Yoongi grumbles, mouth pressed against Jeongguk's ear. Jeongguk's hair smells like citrus and sweat and a little bit like smoke, which makes Yoongi frown, because stupid clubs and stupid bar smell and they both need a shower. And a change of clothes from Yoongi's own Soft Things drawer.

Jeongguk laughs and starts forward, careful as he marches them out of the club. They make it through the doors, down the street under lights that color everything in a strange mix of neon and sepia. "Car's that way," Yoongi says, pointing with his foot.

"Okay," Jeongguk says. Yoongi can hear the smile in his voice.

It's a quiet ride home. Jeongguk seems to sense that Yoongi needs time to decompress, to focus on driving and the lilting acoustic album he queued up on his phone before they pulled away from the curb. After a while, Yoongi pulls his right hand off the steering wheel and offers it to Jeongguk without looking over.

Jeongguk links their pinkies together and tugs Yoongi's hand into his lap. And then he just keeps it like that, pinky intertwined with Yoongi's in some unspoken, eternal promise. Eternal as the car ride, at least. It's more than Yoongi could have ever hoped for, more than he would expect.

Jeongguk unlinks their fingers when Yoongi parks, and he comes around the car with his head down, steady on his feet like he hadn't been an hour before as he pulls open Yoongi's door. Jeongguk looks so hauntingly beautiful in this light, haloed by the yellow of it. The streets are still glistening clean with the residue of earlier snow that didn't quite manage to stick against the warm pulse of the city. It'll turn to ice by morning, the humidity frozen with 3:00 a.m. subzero temperatures.

For now: Jeongguk offering a hand out and Yoongi taking it, allowing Jeongguk to pull him up out of the car. Standing there, Yoongi is struck by the quiet power of him: dark denim jacket and dark skin-tight leather pants and dark leather collar around his neck. Shirt the only paleness against his streetlight-gold skin. Dark eyes peering up from beneath bangs fading lighter day by day; Jeongguk will have to dye it back to chestnut if he wants that hue to hold.

For now: Jeongguk stepping up onto the sidewalk, Converse beaten pretty, the new all worn off. He's walking with Yoongi's hand clasped so perfectly in his own, and there's something intoxicating about that, something in Yoongi's heart that feels like taking a leap of faith and not falling, but flying.

For now: "Can I borrow some clothes, Yoongi-hyung?" Jeongguk asks, slipping their hands apart so that their pinkies are linked again, delicate.

Yoongi accepts the promise and makes his own. Lets their hands dangle between them in the cold as they walk into the building. Jeongguk hasn't been here since the move, but there's something lovely and crystalline in the gossamer of it, in the way the night nips at their fingers and can't touch the sanctity of the contact. The way Yoongi is warm and wants to be warmer, the way he is cold and wouldn't care if he were colder. Whatever he can give to Jeongguk, a pinky or a hand or a smile or a laugh—any of it is a slim price to pay.

"You might have to borrow some of Namjoon's stuff," Yoongi murmurs as they wait for the elevator. "I'm not sure my sweatpants will fit you."

But Yoongi does happen to find a pair of too-big sweats in the back of his closet, not Namjoon's or the remnant of some non-existent taller-than-Yoongi ex. Just a pair that Yoongi had forgotten about buying, and maybe this moment was meant to be from the second Yoongi encountered the track pants at the mall and they were so Soft and way too long for Yoongi but still found their way into his purchases from the day. Yoongi's shoulders are broad enough that his shirts fit Jeongguk's muscled frame, and soon both of them are dressed in clothes for lying around listening to music and chatting and maybe even falling asleep. They wash their faces next to each other and then Yoongi gets Jeongguk some water to prevent a hangover—not that Jeongguk had really been drunk enough for anything beyond a headache, but still. Jeongguk spent a long time dancing. He can use the hydration, Yoongi thinks.

Then they're curling up together on Yoongi's bed. They're pulling out Yoongi's laptop, queuing up old YouTube videos and poking fun at each other's choices and touching easily, comfortably, like they've known each other forever.

"This song is silly," Jeongguk pouts when Yoongi queues the League of Legends theme for the third time.

Yoongi chuckles. "I know. I'm doing it to annoy you."

Jeongguk's pout intensifies. " Hyung. "

Yoongi's returning smirk is so fond he can hardly call it a smirk even to himself. It seems dishonest, to make something so genuine into anything like a joke. "Sorry, bun. You can change it, promise."

Jeongguk happily snags the laptop over to his side of the bed and starts queuing videos, leaning his head against Yoongi's shoulder.

Yoongi curls himself up tighter, protective around Jeongguk's giggling form. "What," Yoongi asks, reaching out to trace his thumb down Jeongguk's bare forearm.

Jeongguk doesn't protest the touch, just presses into it a little and grins at the computer. "Nothing. Stop peeking, hyung!"

Yoongi chuckles and ducks his face into Jeongguk's hair. "Okay, I'm not, I promise."

It's quiet for a second as Yoongi subtly lifts his head, squinting at whatever Jeongguk is searching—

" Hyung! You promised, oh my god!"

Yoongi's laugh tastes like citrus shampoo and the light-lingering smoke smell of Jeongguk's hair, but he doesn't mind the bitter of it. He ducks in closer, wraps an arm around Jeongguk's waist, surrenders to calm.

Jeongguk falls asleep first, without saying goodnight. He's talking one second, and then he's gone: sentences into yawning mumbles, nonsensical whispers—soft breath, the calm to sustain and nurture life—

To sustain and nurture Yoongi's, too.

Yoongi shuts the laptop and turns to flick off the light. As he does, a bright yellow envelope sitting on his nightstand catches his eye, somehow unnoticed until now. It's addressed to him and there's a sticky note on it with Namjoon's handwriting— this came for you, Mr. Serious ;). Rude. Jeongguk could have seen that.

Anyways. Yoongi extricates his arm carefully from Jeongguk's loose embrace and tears the envelope open.

Dear All the Stars in the Galaxy Hyung,

Thank you for sending me so many thank yous. I appreciated all of them even though they're completely unnecessary. I'm always so happy to see you, you know? I haven't been that sick by myself ever, and I think if you hadn't been there, I would've just passed out in bed for days and I don't even know what would have happened and like—I probably wouldn't have died, I mean, that seems kind of dramatic, but still. It was just. Good. To have you there. So you don't have to thank me for anything to do with that. Thank you for taking care of me, and for being someone I can trust to be gentle and lovely with me even when I'm falling apart and can't talk in coherent sentences and need help doing everything including showering and brushing my teeth and probably pooping but I don't remember that so let's pretend it didn't happen if it did OH MY GOD THIS REALLY GOT AWAY FROM ME I'M SO SORRY. <3

Thank you for taking me roller skating and out for milkshakes. And thanks for ordering chicken tenders and fries, and for letting me dip them in your milkshake because mine was gone and also banana on chicken would probably be at least a little bit weird. Thanks for asking questions and getting to know me, and texting me cute things and even MEMES because I know you think they're childish but I'm only 21 so I'm allowed to still like them because I'm still a baby Bunny <3 Thank you for showing me you, too. I know it's easier to keep yourself safe and not share things, but I feel like you don't do that with me. Or at least, you try to tell me stuff. You don't treat me like I'm naive because I'm young. So. Yeah. Idk where this is going. I shall move on.

I haven't read The Picture of Dorian Gray, but I will! And you can borrow House of Leaves.

Also, re: potential hanahaki disease. I am pretty sure that I do not have that, because of course I know what it is, and I know that it's what you get when you're in unrequited love, and um. I don't think I could really get a disease that's like that. And you couldn't either. But there are flowers growing in my chest, and there's a galaxy in yours. It's just that those are good things, not like hanahaki, where it's dangerous. It's dangerous because unrequited love hurts so bad, hyung.

But you don't hurt when you're making the flowers grow in my lungs, hyung. And I hope I don't hurt when I whirl your galaxies all up into a flurry, because I'm not dangerous, hyung.

Running out of room now, but I'm right here with you <3

Love,

Bunny Jeonggukkie <3

P.S. Will you come to a museum with me this weekend? We can get scones and coffee and pretend we know things about art or science or something. Oh, that reminds me—why did you choose to study music? I remember you mentioned that the other day over text, and I forgot to ask about it. So I wanna know. What are your dreams? If you could do anything, what would it be?

Yoongi stares at those last two lines and tries not to let the accidental desolation of them tear him apart. He puts the card down, stares at the slumbering Boy breathing peacefully in his arms.

Hanahaki. Or not. Pretty writing, lovely hearts. Jeongguk drew a flower stretching up to a star in the corner of the paper; not the sun, because Yoongi isn't the sun.

The same difference, though, Yoongi thinks, brushing hair off Jeongguk's brow. Technicalities, as Yoongi feels the stardust of himself sailing away, off through empty space. Or not. Because Jeongguk is eating up Yoongi's nutrients right here, breathing oxygen and sugar back, and Yoongi takes them up, starving of resources, finally offered something sweet on which to live.

"Goodnight, Bunny Jeonggukkie," Yoongi whispers, an impulse startling him into giving Jeongguk's forehead the softest, lightest kiss. "Sleep well, you and all your flowers."

Yoongi stays awake a long time with the light off, staring at the ceiling in the moonlight. He wants to look at Jeongguk, but he doesn't; it's enough to know he's there. Present, and weighty, and solid.

Yoongi closes his eyes and dreams.

Monday morning finds Jeongguk suffering through his earliest class of the week, a lecture on calculus that he doesn't even need for his major. It's just some silly graduation requirement he couldn't get out of, and he's been putting it off for three whole years, and now he's here and he has only a vague idea of what's going on and most of his brain space is taken up with something entirely different.

Jeongguk lifts the edge of his textbook to sneak just one more look at the letter, which he had found tucked into his wallet when he'd gotten home Saturday morning. Nothing fancy, no card, just a folded up piece of paper. More room to write, more space for all of Yoongi's star-brilliant thoughts.

Dear My Darling Lovely Sleeping Jeongguk-ah,

You fell asleep last night in the middle of your favorite slow song. You saved it for last, you said, mumbling as you drifted off. Your head was on my arm and my arm was falling asleep right along with your pretty head. And our knees kept bumping under the covers—do you remember? We're going to bruise each other up, dear one.

You said last night, sometime between all the giggling and the starry sobering-up-quick eyes, that you think you're bad with words. It was after I told you I used to rap. You said I must be pretty good with words, then, but maybe I'm not. Maybe I'm bad with words too—not bad at making them into something pretty (and hopefully not just pretty but meaningful), but bad at cutting them down to size so they fit in my mouth instead of sticking inside my head. I can think my way around anything, I can hear the heavenly syllables and I know they'll sound how I feel. I trust them—words, I mean. I trust them to do what I ask.

But because of that—because I know the utter devastation words have wrought, the desperation they've evoked, the terror and the beauty and the enormity of them—I wield that word-power with a cautiousness that leaves me mute. Can you imagine? All the feelings to say or write into reality and I never do, because I'm afraid my words will slice everyone I love to the bone.

Please, Jeonggukkie, don't let me hurt you. Build yourself armor against me, protect your beautiful flowers from the dangerous scythe-edge lurking inside me before I erupt, before I supernova, before all the antimatter in my head swells up and devours you. I'm sitting at my desk with you in my bed and I'm just thinking—how could I do this? How can I take what was never mine to begin with, how can I waltz in and cut these flowers out of the ground for my own use, a pretty bouquet, and yet every bouquet is just an hourglass running out of sand. Dying, we capture the things we love and we kill them for it. You're asleep in my bed right now and I'm inking words into paper, making something out of nothing, making meaning where there once was none—who am I, to have the power for that?

To have the power to keep you here, to wake up with your cheek squished into my pillow, your drool on my mattress (and fuck, it's the best drool I've ever seen), your hair a mess of angles and edges that are normally smoothed down soft, a freckle on your nose, and one below your bottom lip. God, Jeongguk-ah, why do you look like that between my sheets? All your clothes on, snoring occasionally, but in this soft, snuffly way that makes me feel like crying.

I shouldn't even be writing this. I can't give it to you; it wouldn't mean anything to you if I did. Who wants to read about themselves lying in someone else's bed early in the morning? Who wants to hear how cute their hands look when they're curled into fists under their chin, when their legs are tucked up just barely, when the light is coming in the window just right and it's cloudy outside and everything is all dust motes and angst and shivers.

I could teach you piano, Jeongguk. I look at you right here, sleeping in my bed, and I think—I could play the piano, with you on the bench next to me, and you'd be laughing...you would pick it up quickly, like you pick up everything. You would tease me, poke my cheek, not let me get away with it when I gloss over important shit with my usual nonchalance. "Hyung," you would giggle, leaning into me, tracing my fingers with your own. "Hyung," quieter now, serious. Perceptive.

What's the use. You're not the one with hanahaki disease; I am. And I know you said neither one of us could have it, but I should. It would be better if I did.

I'm running out of paper. And time. I can see you surfacing a little, the way you keep shifting around, reaching out like you're looking for something you think should be next to you but isn't. Are you looking for me? You shouldn't be, because I'm afraid you'll wake up and find that actually, I'm nothing. It's true, anyway.

Well. Anyways, about your questions—sure. Against my better judgment, the gaping chasm black hole in my chest trying to swallow up everything that gets close (you, Bunny), yes, I'll go to a museum with you, and eat scones and drink fancy cappuccinos and pretend I know anything about anything.

As for my dreams, well. You're waking up. Maybe instead, you can tell me about yours.

Love,

Your silly, sad, over-angsty Yoongi-hyung

<3

To be honest, Jeongguk hadn't been exactly sure what to make of the letter. Mostly he's surprised—surprised that Yoongi thought all those things, surprised he wrote them down. Surprised he actually folded the paper up, tucked it in Jeongguk's wallet, gave it to him. Didn't hide it away, write something less intimate. Especially with that bit at the end, about the hanahaki. About unrequited love, and veiled insecurities, the sort of stuff Jeongguk has always thought to be reserved for romance novels: doubt not about your love for another, but doubt over whether you deserve their love in return.

And oh. Oh, Jeongguk can't get over that. Love. The kind of love you hear about in all the songs, not the stuff with sparks and sex and dancing dirty—love like that ridiculous American country music Taehyung likes, strong as whiskey and sweeter than muscadine wine. Like sultry synthpop, nothing lasts forever, but this is gonna take me down.

Love? Who is Jeongguk, to know about love? Jeongguk is innocent, young—but not undamaged, not entirely inexperienced. He's had boyfriends, and a girlfriend before he realized he liked them better as friends. He's no stranger to heartbreak and pain. Before this, Jeongguk has always eventually been let go. He's been rejected. He's been left on read. He's had it the other way, too: people who have adored him and he's been sadly unable to muster the same feeling in return. It's hard to say you love someone, and it's hard to say you don't.

Jeongguk flicks his gaze back up to the board at the front of the lecture hall. Class is halfway over; there's hardly any hope of recovery at this point, not when he hasn't been taking notes for nearly 40 minutes.

Jeongguk pulls out his phone. He has two new iMessages.

tae-hyung: hey can u please water minnie's succulents??

tae-hyung: we haven't been home in like 2days n the succulents r gon die

Me: hyung why haven't u been home in 2 days tho

tae-hyung: i DoNut KNo wHat yoUre tAlkIN abOuT!!!

Me: ...you just asked me to water hyung's cacti bc u haven't been home either of u

Me: what's going on hyung

tae-hyung: succulents

tae-hyung: nOThinG

tae-hyung: u can'T PROve aNytHIng!!!!!!!!!!

Me: r u still over @namjoon hyung's

Me: gross

tae-hyung: !!!

tae-hyung: we are NOT we're at MINNies!1!!!11!!

Me: sure.

tae-hyung: WE aRE!!!!!

Me: i was saying sure like i'd water ur cacti

tae-hyung: succulents

tae-hyung: jiminah's succulents

tae-hyung: ur rly struggling here to grasp dis huh

Me: ...

Me: do u want me to water them r nah

tae-hyung: y

tae-hyung: pls

Me: fine have fun with @nj-hyung's dick

Me: i mean

READ 8:46 a.m.

tae-hyung: i turned on read receipt just for u u kno

Me: thx, i got it

READ 8:47 a.m.

Jeongguk sighs. He hasn't talked to Yoongi since Saturday morning, because like—the letter, and Jeongguk's feelings, and Jeongguk's flowers—they're all purple bold bright and turning to fruit beneath the nourishing radiance of Yoongi and Yoongi—

Knows that seasons change. Knows that galaxies burst to life and die out in another brilliant flash. Yoongi is older; maybe he's right. Maybe he knows.

Maybe Jeongguk doesn't know, and maybe he's better for it, because he doesn't care. Jeongguk can afford to be reckless. He can afford to be reckless for them both.

Me: yoongi hyung do u still want to go to the museum w me

Jeongguk has to wait a few minutes, fidgeting anxiously with his pencil and jotting down some notes that don't make any sense because he's coming to the party two-thirds of the way through.

Then:

yoongi-hyung <3: yeah, Bunny. sure.

yoongi-hyung <3: saturday?

Me: we could go afternoon friday. i only have class til 11:30 and it'll be less crowded

yoongi-hyung <3: okay. friday afternoon. i'll pick you up?

Me: come lil after 12

Me: so I have time to change

yoongi-hyung <3: okay, jeonggukkie

Me: :( hyung

yoongi-hyung <3: bunny-yah

Me: <3 u

yoongi-hyung <3: yeah, I know. <3 you too

Me: hyung

Me: <3 <3 <3

yoongi-hyung <3: <3

Yoongi is fucking exhausted.

Like, falling over, tripping into walls, headache stomachache toothache tired, every single bit of

him shutting off.

Also, there's a panicky ache in his chest that feels like inadequacy, that feels like sorrow. That

reminds him of that feeling he always gets when he's freezing cold and he climbs into a hot

shower and homesickness floods from his chest out to his fingertips, even when he's at home, in Seoul or in Daegu. It feels like he's not homesick for a place, but for a time when living felt like hot showers during cold winters. When there was laughter along with pain instead of just nothing, nothing, empty-achy-nothing.

So.

Yoongi is tired. Fucking exhausted.

Has to get Jeongguk.

He makes it down to his car only because he has to. His galaxies are dying today, all the energy they produce spent up on the restlessness of sleep that wouldn't come last night, not so much a fugue state or a panic attack as just anxious terror. Can't close your eyes, can't surrender to vulnerability even in your own room. Namjoon had gone out and hadn't come back, and Yoongi has no doubt where he is. Which is interesting; Yoongi hadn't really thought that would be anything more than just a one night stand.

Maybe it's just a one week stand.

Maybe it's not.

Whatever. Either way, Yoongi drags himself out of bed, somehow—and it takes way too much energy but he drags on some clothes and drags a comb through his hair and everything is dragging, dragging.

And this is why it wasn't a good idea, Yoongi thinks. He can hardly drive like this but he's going to because he doesn't want to take the train with all the people and the noise and the waiting. They'll probably be fine. Yoongi probably won't kill them both in a fiery crash through some old shop windows or anything.

Jeongguk's apartment building is both farther away and closer than it's ever been. Ever in the two whole times Yoongi has been there, and the first time he hadn't even had his car. So. Really, not much to compare this to. But Yoongi gets there on autopilot somehow, doesn't crash his car or pass out at the wheel or just, like, float off into outer space to become one with the gaping, angry black hole in his heart with an event horizon the size of a hundred million suns, and with more gravity.

Me: here

Bunny-yah <3: coming, yoongi hyung <3

Jeongguk appears out the doors like a dream, kind of jogging, and smiling smiling smiling in his big white t-shirt, his knees-ripped black skinny jeans, his black leather jacket that should look edgy but on Jeongguk looks nothing but soft. It makes him look like someone's boyfriend is what it does, and Yoongi has a jacket that's prettier than that one and the sudden urge to drive back home and insist that Jeongguk wear it, but that would be impertinent, and there's the whole black hole empty sort of thing going on, and Yoongi just watches as Jeongguk hops into the car, hair dyed darker now but not quite natural black, still chocolaty in the aching winter sunlight.

"Hello, Yoongi-hyung," Jeongguk says, slouching in the seat so his knees bend, showing off the pale skin beneath the rips.

Yoongi swallows and blinks and nods. "Hey." It's all he can manage, the only thing he can dredge up from the other side of the wormhole eating him alive, stretching him thin.

Jeongguk's smile stays strong, but something fades in his eyes. "Do you like my hair?" He fidgets with the hem of his jacket and looks surprisingly shy, and Yoongi swallows hard against how much he aches at the moment, at the fact he can't give Jeongguk the things he needs.

"Yeah," Yoongi manages, nodding as he turns away. "It's nice."

Insecurity radiates off Jeongguk and fills the car. "Are you sure? It'll wash out fast, I—I didn't mean for it to get this dark..."

"You look pretty, Jeonggukkie," Yoongi rasps, but he can tell it does little to assuage the worry tensing Jeongguk's shoulders, making him duck his head and chew up his bottom lip.

"Okay," Jeongguk says, and fuck Yoongi wants to do more, wants to fix this. But Jeongguk just sort of barrels on: "Do you want to go see art, or science?" He reaches his hand out, covers Yoongi's. Yoongi lets him but it hurts, everything hurts. Yoongi wants to pull away but he doesn't. He's well-practiced at staying still in the face of unwanted contact, especially because it's not Jeongguk's fault Yoongi is feeling like this. And Jeongguk will think it is, if Yoongi pulls away unbidden, if he resists the touch. Jeongguk hasn't encountered Yoongi on a no-physical-contact day yet. It would be unfair to make him feel worse than Yoongi has already made him feel with the hair thing. Which is stupid, because Yoongi does like Jeongguk's hair, it's lovely and dark and Yoongi honestly wants to feel enough to love it. Jeongguk looks fucking beautiful, just like he always does. But. Unfairness abounds. Yoongi steels himself and lets Jeongguk hold his hand.

( What's really unfair is not letting him in on what's going on with you, says a traitorous voice in the back of Yoongi's head.

Shut up, Yoongi tells the voice.)

"Art," Yoongi says, even though he's never been particularly into it. But the art museum will have fewer children, and it will probably be mostly quiet. Plus, with art museum courtesy protocol, there's a good reason for Yoongi to not talk, even to Jeongguk. To only whisper in the dimmest comet-trails of glimmering syllables, space dust in a space storm in a big empty space.

"Okay! Great! That's where I wanted to go! I hear the museum has a really interesting exhibit on fashion right now that we could look at," Jeongguk says, brightening up after the disaster of the new hair dye—and he says it quietly, bright without being loud, and Yoongi loves-loves-loves him for the gentleness of it—

And can't touch him. Drags his hand away in relief with the excuse that he has to shift out of park and then steer, and Jeongguk pouts but Yoongi doesn't look and maybe Jeongguk kind of gets the point because he starts monologuing about Overwatch and how boring his apartment is without Jimin and Taehyung and have they been at your place, hyung? I feel like you would've texted me about that, but you didn't, you were so talkative on Tuesday-Wednesday and jokey with me but then Thursday you were quiet and I didn't want to bug you, have they been bugging you? Or are they holed up at Jimin-hyung's? I have to water the cacti, Taehyung insists they're Jimin's 'succulents' he always calls them 'succulents' but Jiminie doesn't care it's just Taetae who cares and honestly I just wanna say the word 'cacti' because it's like 'syllabi' and 'octopi' —

The art museum is packed. Because as luck would have it, it's a free day.

"Oh," Jeongguk says, slumping like his heart is literally sinking. "Oh, this is—so many people. I'm sorry, Yoongi-hyung."

Yoongi shakes his head. "It's fine. I don't mind."

"Are you sure?"

"I'm sure." Yoongi almost, almost finishes it off with Bunny, but then he can't. It's too much energy, more than he has to spend on talking when he also has to breathe and blink and stay standing and walk forwards and wait in line. Yoongi gets a little lost in his head—take a breath, that will keep you upright, take a step, take another, move here not there, take a breath, follow Jeongguk, let it out, take a breath—it's like he has to command his heart to keep beating, his stomach to keep digesting the few bites of cereal he choked down earlier. Yoongi has to command every system that should be subliminal, and he doesn't want that responsibility, but he has to keep himself going or he'll curl into a ball on the floor and never get up again.

They wander through the art museum for a half hour, an hour, longer maybe. It's so crowded, so crowded, but at least it's quiet. At least people have the common courtesy to whisper, keep to themselves—and there are some dark rooms, places that are lovely and quiet, like living in Plato's Cave—wouldn't that be easier, to sit in a dark space watching pictures go by, never knowing of an outside world, never knowing of this Boy beside you, lighting up with the beauty in front of him, he is the art, you think—

And yet, you cannot reach him. There is some chasm between you, the space between stars and cherry blossoms, that cannot be traversed, nor minimized, nor wished away. Not on the starfire of you, not on the petals in the wind of him: he loves me, he loves me not, he loves me, he loves me—

"What's wrong," Jeongguk asks, when they're among the modernists. Oil paintings in giant splashes on giant canvases expanding across giant walls, white and black and contrast, some streaks of red, some honey-orange, some Gatsby blue.

"I'm fine," Yoongi says, shaking his head. "Just hungry." A lie. Yoongi hasn't been hungry for two days.

Jeongguk looks concerned. "We can go get lunch. I know I said scones, but if your blood sugar is low..."

Yoongi shakes his head, even though actually his blood sugar is almost definitely an unhealthy level of low. "It's okay. You're enjoying the art. I want you to enjoy it." Every word slippery and sticky at the same time, clinging to the backs of Yoongi's teeth until they ooze out around his lips, silken and slurred like he can't form them right.

"Hyung," Jeongguk whispers, stepping forward so he can stand facing Yoongi, eyes wide like the centers of blooming daisies. "What's the matter? Do you not feel good? Do you want to go home?"

Yoongi trembles. Jeongguk pets Yoongi's arm.

And it's not that Yoongi can't do that sort of contact, that he doesn't want it—it's just, he needs to know it's going to happen, he needs to control it, and he doesn't wince because he is well trained in the art of not wincing when people touch him, but he definitely doesn't lean into it. Definitely just stands there, ribs hurting and stomach hurting and eyes hurting and everything hurting, because fuck depression.

"Yoongi-hyung?" Jeongguk asks. "Please, what do you need? Anything, you can tell me, you're safe with me of course you're safe, hey, hyung—"

"Don't touch me," Yoongi finally whisper-gasps, stepping back a good foot and a half, swallowing hard against the nausea churning low in his gut.

Jeongguk's eyes go wide, and he keeps his distance. "Oh, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. What can I do, can I get you water? Do you not feel good?"

Yoongi sucks in a breath and sighs, and he wants to cry but he knows he wouldn't be able to even if he let himself try, and everything just—aches. Makes him want to curl up right there on the floor, because he's not going to survive this, he's not. Fuck, he already fucked up like this at the club. Now he can't even go to an art museum with his almost-boyfriend without losing it.

"Yoongi—"

"I'm fine," Yoongi says. "I just—fuck."

"Can we go home?" Jeongguk asks. "Just—can we go home now and eat something easy and just—do that? Like mac n cheese, or ramyun. Something out of a box. With noodles and not much to digest."

Yoongi might actually be dying. The worst part is the headache, he thinks, or tries to. His thoughts are kinda dull and swimmy, because, you know, there's this absurd aching pulse of pain right in his frontal lobe, and it's making thought kind of difficult at the moment. Also focus, and standing up, and blinking, and fucking breathing. And it sucks, because all Yoongi wants right now is to enjoy his fifth?—sixth?—meeting with the kid who has somehow caused a big bang to happen in Yoongi's chest, the kid who makes galaxies swirl and space dust coalesce into planets and a whole universe burst to life inside of Yoongi's own self.

"Are you dehydrated? You wanna sit down?" Jeongguk asks.

"Can't sit. And I don't have any water."

Jeongguk manages to maneuver around all the people squished in the art museum with them enough to get into the pack he's been carrying. He pulls out a water bottle with maybe one swallow left in it. "Oh," Jeongguk says, "Well. Sorry." He smiles ruefully.

Yoongi takes the bottle and drinks the one swallow, and somehow it helps. Because, like, water. Not the gesture itself. That would be silly. "I don't—I mean. I don't feel good," Yoongi manages to say. "But it's not because I'm sick."

Jeongguk tilts his head. "Oh?"

"I just—it's a head thing," Yoongi cops out. "I don't—oh, fuck. "

"Hyung?"

"I forgot. That's why it's—two days," Yoongi mutters, remembering. He hasn't been hungry, hasn't even been able to think about eating. And Namjoon has been MIA for the past week; he hasn't been around babying Yoongi and policing his eating and telling Yoongi to take his fucking meds —

Jeongguk's eyes widen in realization, like he's putting all these pieces together. "Oh," he says, very light and matter-of-fact. "Hyung, did you forget to take your meds?"

Yoongi wonders if he can still get out of telling the truth. "Um. Yeah."

"And you need them. To not feel bad."

"To feel...it's like there's a black hole in me all the time, and sometimes it's holding everything together, powering the galaxy. Maybe today it's just swallowing me up."

Jeongguk nods. "Namjoonie-hyung used to get that way, huh? He told me about it, how he was in high school. Like, his brain didn't make the right chemicals, so then he took medication for a few years and only just recently started going off it. He said it's really tiring, and just—a lot. To deal with. Are you—I mean. You don't have to tell me." Jeongguk bites his lip and steps forward like he's going for a hug, but then he just stops short and lets his mouth be all soft, his hair all soft, his eyes all soft.

"It's okay," Yoongi whispers. "I should just be honest."

"But you don't have to," Jeongguk says. "Promise, hyung. You can keep all of your secrets."

"I have depression," Yoongi says. "And sometimes it makes me like this."

"And you forgot your meds," Jeongguk says. "Yesterday too, huh? Is that why you were less chatty over text?"

Yoongi shrugs. "It's not just that. I mean—there's more to it than just, like, oh I took my meds today so I'm happy! Oh today I forgot them so I'm sad. That sort of thing."

Jeongguk nods, all understanding and pretty. "That makes sense. I've heard it's really not easy. To find the right type of meds, and the right dosage—that's really brave of you to try. I, um. I don't know if I could. I just—this sounds patronizing. But it's not. I just...you should get some food. And take your medication, we can go home, it's okay. It's really crowded here, and I get sick of crowds. So. I don't mind."

"We haven't even gotten to the fashion exhibit," Yoongi protests, albeit weakly. He doesn't want to ruin this, he doesn't . The catch-22 of it is terrible: wanting to go home and be in the silence with soft blankets and a nap, wanting to not cut this hangout (date?) short because of black hole thought-processes and dissociative feelings of unreality.

"It's okay, hyung," Jeongguk says, smiling, still not moving too close, not touching. "We can come back a different day! When it's not as busy, like I'll skip class some morning and we can do this date again."

Yoongi's brain short-circuits out. "Date?"

Jeongguk's eyes stay wide, and warm, and earnest. "Date," he says, biting his lip. "I wanted this to be a date."

Yoongi's lungs are shivering in his chest. "Oh," he says. Pauses. "You asked me out on a date in a card you mailed to me."

Jeongguk nods like there's nothing out of the ordinary about it. As if Jeongguk himself isn't out of the ordinary , the disruption in Yoongi's long-standing track of apathy and unfeeling, the sudden branch that appeared in the path and Yoongi wandered onto it unthinkingly, maybe un knowing ly, just looked up from the pace of his slow-dragging steps and here he was, in another forest, in another world. "I guess I didn't say it was a date in the card. But it is. If you want it to be."

"How are you so honest about it? You act like this is easy," Yoongi says, relaxing into Jeongguk's bravery like it's Jeongguk's arms, only Yoongi can't do Jeongguk's arms quite yet, needs a little more time. A little more solitude so his space-storming galaxies can settle down into something that won't rip flowers up out of the ground if someone like that, someone with flowers growing in their chest, were to get too close. Yoongi takes a step towards the gallery's exit and Jeongguk follows, his strides long so he can gravitate to Yoongi's side, still not touching, their sleeves not even brushing. But Jeongguk is there, and he's brave, and Yoongi can breathe again.

"Hyung, I'm not acting like anything," Jeongguk says after a second of silence. "It is easy. It's not...you're good. You're not cruel. You're not selfish, or callous, or flippant. So you won't hurt me. Even if you change your mind, even if you don't lo—like me. Like me , like me. That's okay. So it's easy. Also, I read your letter. Which makes it easier, too."

Yoongi takes a minute to process. Finally: "Did you just actually use ' like me , like me' in an actual, real life sentence?"

Jeongguk pushes open the door in front of them, letting them out into the cold January air. He giggles. "Yes," he says. "We said slow. We didn't say what, exactly, but we said we should do things slow."

Yoongi looks down at his feet as they walk away from the building, dodging children and tourists until they reach a quiet side street. "We said we didn't have to say anything."

"Maybe that's why I didn't say anything in my letter. About this being a date."

"The roller rink was a date. And the milkshakes," Yoongi says. Dares to look over at Jeongguk, and Jeongguk is smiling-smiling.

"Was the club a date?" There's something cheeky in it, something that zings feeling up from Yoongi's stomach into his chest. Lightning and thunder in a rumble that wants to escape Yoongi's throat as he remembers the feeling of Jeongguk's hands all over him.

"Yes," Yoongi admits, stepping closer to bump his shoulder into Jeongguk's.

Jeongguk ducks his head and smirks, smirks, but he doesn't push the physical contact thing. He just keeps walking, nonchalant as all hell, like nothing ever happened. "Would you come out with me again, hyung?"

"Yeah." Yoongi puffs out his lips. He feels better, kind of, now that they're away from all the people. Now that they're almost at Yoongi's car, where they can just be safe, and quiet, and not assaulted on all sides by the existence of a world outside themselves. "Those leather pants, Jeonggukkie, fuck. "

Yoongi is expecting a blush. Is expecting Jeongguk to huff, to blow hair out of his eyes, to bite his lip—but instead: Jeongguk raises an eyebrow. His smirk widens, he seems to grow two inches, he's strutting instead of walking. "Oh really, hyung? You liked the look of me in those?"

"Yeah," Yoongi says, feelings stirring in his gut. It's so hard, with the fog of his brain, to really classify them as anything other than that—feelings—but at least they're there. At least it's not just apathy and unreality anymore. Yoongi reaches out and grabs Jeongguk's hand, lacing their fingers together even though the car is in view. "Liked the choker too, kid. Collar. Whatever that was."

"You didn't think I was a kid that night," Jeongguk says, low and raspy and somehow still affectionate, somehow still warm. "You wanted me to hold your hips and move them right and be all slow and desperate— "

" Kook, " Yoongi says, kind of snappy and kind of low and kind of punched out. "God, save this for when I'm—when I'm not like this, " he begs, and Jeongguk eyes him for a second and then nods decisively, accepting.

"Okay," Jeongguk says. "Rain check. For now, let me drive you home?"

Yoongi squeezes Jeongguk's hand. "Drive me home? You wanna drive my shitty-ass car?"

"I just want you to sit down and curl up in the seat and pick songs you like and be quiet or be whatever you need to be right now, and I'll handle the other stuff."

Yoongi waffles over it a little, fingering his keys with the fingers not linked through Jeongguk's. "Do you even have a driver's license, kid?"

"Yep," Jeongguk says. "You wanna see it, to verify?"

Yoongi raises an eyebrow, rubbing his thumb over Jeongguk's wrist. Sometimes it feels better to Yoongi to give with physical stuff, not to receive. Like he doesn't deserve it if he gets it, but he can get the same lovely calm out of giving it to someone else, and that's not selfish, so it doesn't feel fake. "How long ago was the picture taken?"

"When I was 18."

"Then yes," Yoongi says. "I wanna see it. So I know this is legal."

"Sure, hyung," Jeongguk says, rolling his eyes as they lean up against Yoongi's car, Yoongi's left hand in Jeongguk's right, holding on even as Jeongguk pulls his wallet out of his pocket. He flips it open and thumbs his ID out, and Yoongi takes it just to examine the photo.

"Wow. Nice cheeks," Yoongi says.

Jeongguk's head falls back, exasperated even though he's smiling. "Shut up, hyung! It was three years ago! I had baby fat!"

Yoongi snorts. Hands Jeongguk his license back and then reaches up to pat Jeongguk's cheek. "You still have baby fat, Bunny," he says, laughing as Jeongguk whines and tilts his head out of Yoongi's reach.

"Do not, " Jeongguk says. "My cheeks are chiseled. "

"Sure," Yoongi says, pulling out his keys and handing them over. "Here. You drive. I pick the playlist."

Jeongguk flashes a triumphant smile at Yoongi as he accepts the keys, and then he squeezes Yoongi's hand and lifts it up to his mouth to press a kiss to the back. "Thanks, hyung," he says, cocky and tall and wild next to Yoongi's beat-up Hyundai.

Yoongi's veins are livewires, his whole body lit up suddenly with the surge of this. "Sure." It's a hard word to manage, small as it is, and Jeongguk's smirk goes even wider, more of that jagged edge of victory glowing white in the sharp of his teeth.

Jeongguk squeezes one more time and lets go to open the door for Yoongi, and Yoongi kind of collapses into the passenger seat as Jeongguk swings around the hood and climbs in the driver's side. There's a moment of silence while Yoongi plugs in the AUX cord and Jeongguk familiarizes himself with the controls, and then—

"What," Yoongi says, glancing over as Jeongguk stifles a laugh. " What. "

"Just—you're so short, hyung," Jeongguk giggles, reaching down to slide the seat back.

"You only moved it, like, an inch, " Yoongi insists, shaking his head, rolling his eyes. His chest has lightened up a little, he realizes, taking a breath that doesn't feel like his diaphragm is weighted down by a million blocks of lead. "You're not that much taller, oh my god."

"I'm just taller enough for balance, hyung," Jeongguk says, and the honorific is said with this vaguely bratty, disrespectful lilt that for some reason sends a shiver down Yoongi's spine. "You're older, but I'm taller, so we can be equals. Like, there's no power imbalance, even though I have to call you 'hyung'."

Yoongi slouches lower in the seat and curls his knees up into his chest, slipping off his shoes so his socked feet can rest on the plush of the seat. He feels swamped in his jacket—he'd meant to look nice today but getting dressed at all had been a struggle, so. Whatever. At least Jeongguk doesn't seem like he thinks Yoongi is underdressed for this actually-officially-a-date. "You do have to call me 'hyung'," Yoongi says. "Good thing you at least know that."

"For now," Jeongguk says. "It matters now. Because we've only known each other for a couple months, and we're young so four years is a long time. For age difference."

"Four and a half, " Yoongi grumbles.

"So I'll call you 'hyung' for now," Jeongguk continues, ignoring Yoongi entirely. It's like he's talking to himself almost, driving carefully down Seoul's narrower streets, back the way they'd come. Oh. They're going to Jeongguk's, Yoongi realizes.

"For now," Yoongi scoffs. "Whatever, kid."

"For now. Min Yoongi-hyung," Jeongguk says, wisely preserving the honorific.

(Although—he's right, maybe. Probably. Namjoon doesn't always use honorifics with Yoongi, Hoseok either. Yoongi thinks of Jeongguk in a future where they're still together, they're still friends and they still know each other and they're— permanent, or whatever, enough that Jeongguk just calls him "Yoongi" with the sort of intimate familiarity of a lover, a partner, an equal. It's nice, or something. It's something.)

They pull up outside Jeongguk's apartment after a few minutes of comfortable silence, the stereo soundtracking them with wordless a synth beat that Yoongi likes. Jeongguk parks, turns off the car. "Um. Sorry. I kinda just went to my place on autopilot. I can drive you home if you want, and I'll take the train back after. If you want."

The Yoongi of a half hour ago would have wanted that. Or at least would've wanted Jeongguk to get out of the car, let Yoongi drive himself home in silent peace, only to drag himself upstairs and out of his clothes and into bed, sleeping away the hours to avoid the pain of being awake.

But Jeongguk is so easy, so simple, such a non-presence that it's like solitude, being here with him. Jeongguk is company that Yoongi somehow doesn't register, someone here without invading, someone Yoongi wants around. "It's fine," Yoongi says. "Whatever you wanna do. I can...I could just hang here. If you wanna play Overwatch or something, and I can just fuck around on my phone. Or I can go home, it's fine, whatever you wanna do."

Jeongguk smiles. "Come up, Yoongi-hyung. I have a letter for you anyway. You can read it and snuggle in my bed while I play. You can even nap if you want, although I might talk in my headset. Or I could turn off voice chat, if you want."

Yoongi and Jeongguk climb out of the car. Head into the building together, holding hands again, like they just do that now. "You can chat, Bunny. I won't mind," Yoongi says.

Jeongguk nods. "And food. You need food, hyung." They take the elevator up, head inside. The apartment is empty. Jeongguk goes to the kitchen. "The letter's in my room. If you wanted to read it now. I'll make lunch. Dinner? It's still kinda early. Is rice and chicken and veggies okay?"

"Oh, that's—" Fuck, Yoongi can't even remember the last time someone cooked a meal for him. Namjoon certainly hasn't, because he literally can't, and Seokjin has been known to prepare big group dinners and send leftovers home with Yoongi and Namjoon, but—a meal prepared just for Yoongi, because Jeongguk can, and because he cares, and because he wants to is just—

"Or we can—I mean, I know that's not very special, we can get takeout if you want, I know it's...childish. To just eat that. Chicken and rice."

"And veggies," Yoongi says, shifting from side to side, ducking his head to study his socks. "Um. I guess you don't have to make the veggies. But you could...not takeout. It's..."

When Yoongi glances up, Jeongguk's eyes are soft and warm. "I'll cook for you, yeah. I could...I could be good at that. Like, cooking. And cleaning stuff, I'm good at cleaning."

Whatever Jeongguk is offering, it makes Yoongi's heart fucking ache. Ache like something beautiful and sad and stunned and grateful. "I would help," Yoongi whispers. "I can...you don't have to be..."

Jeongguk blinks, slow and steady. "Can I hug you, hyung?"

Yoongi's head jerks up properly this time, facing Jeongguk wide-eyed, and startled. "I—Bunny..."

"It's okay if you don't want me to, hyung. Yoongi-hyung."

"No, it's...you can," Yoongi whispers.

"Really?"

Yoongi folds his arms over himself, hugging his own waist. Nods. "You should."

Jeongguk lights up the way children do at Christmas, when they see the tree and the presents, before any of it comes unwrapped. Before the possibilities for the future are distilled by time into one simple truth, infinite possibilities of what could be collapsed into what was. When every box, tightly papered in red and silver and gold, contains a hundred million everythings, not just the actual thing inside it but also, more importantly maybe: hope.

"'Kay, Yoongi-hyung," Jeongguk whispers, stepping forward.

It's not anything they haven't done before. If anything, it's tamer than most of their relationship has been, not that any of it has been risque even if heretofore there have been beds involved—but Jeongguk is closing Yoongi up into his arms like he doesn't expect any reciprocation, doesn't think Yoongi should have to hug back to still be hugged, and to deserve to be hugged. Jeongguk hugs like he does everything else: soft and forceful at the same time, timid but sure of himself. Careful, and delicate, but also passionate, and intense. The innocent belief that something like this, this motion, this moment, can make a whole world of wrong turn right.

Yoongi lets Jeongguk hold him, and he leans into the embrace even though he's the hyung and he shouldn't need to, shouldn't want to—

"Hyung, thank you," Jeongguk is saying, Yoongi realizes when he gets out of his head for a second and self-consciousness dissipates, the way it does when you're swept up in a reality too real for cognizant thinking. "Thanks for letting me touch you. And drive you home. And make sure you're okay."

Yoongi buries his face in Jeongguk's collarbone. "Why are you thanking me? I'm the one who should be doing the thanking."

"No way," Jeongguk insists, somehow managing to pull Yoongi in closer. "You don't let people in, do you, hyung? It's a privilege. An honor. That you let me see you like this."

Yoongi huffs and finally unwinds his arms from around himself, tentatively placing his palms flat on Jeongguk's stomach. "Well. It's only fair, you know. Because I saw you when you were sick, and when you were asleep the other night, I mean..."

Jeongguk sighs into Yoongi's hair. "Thank you, hyung. For both of those things. Seeing me sick, and sleeping, and still liking me."

Yoongi's breath feels punched out of him. "How could I not, Jeonggukkie? Fuck. "

Jeongguk's laugh is wind chimes and angel choirs and bird songs. "You're really nice, hyung," he whispers, and Yoongi can feel him tense, ready to pull away.

Before he goes, Jeongguk presses a kiss against Yoongi's temple, just soft, just light. Yoongi's hair is mostly in the way, and he hardly feels the contact, but it still makes his fingers dig into the exposed skin at the collar of Jeongguk's loose shirt. Yoongi sways back, and gets the world spinning sensibly again, and Jeongguk's smile is gossamer across his lips. "Go lie down, hyung. I'll bring in food when it's done."

Yoongi nods and goes back into Jeongguk's room, still too drained and generally numb to protest. He should go home probably, and get his meds, except you're supposed to take them at the same time every day, so he kind of already blew that one. At this point, it shouldn't hurt, really, to just curl up here, hide out until late, until tomorrow even; his shift isn't until the evening—

Yoongi curls under the throw blanket that's heaped in a soft mountain atop the duvet and sees the letter on the nightstand. He unfolds the paper with shaking hands.

My starry, silvery, supernova-stunning, sometimes-sad Yoongi-hyung,

I would like to watch you sleeping, which may not happen. I would like to watch you, sleeping. I would like to sleep with you, to enter your sleep as its smooth dark wave slides over my head—

That's a poem Namjoon-hyung showed me once. "Variation on the Word Sleep", by Margaret Atwood. He translated it for me from English. Or, he made me help translate it. Maybe my letter will be prettier if I structure the whole thing around that poem, like how you wrote me that beautiful lyrical ballad scene about how lovely I looked in your bed—oh, hyung, can I look lovely in your bed again? I can look so lovely, I can BE so lovely too, just for you—

And you are lovely for me too, when you sleep. Hyung, I haven't seen you the way you've seen me, like when I was sick and when I fell asleep after the club and then you let me sleep late so I wasn't too hungover and you drove me home and it was like a dream, hyung, this pretty dream that I can't describe because you're right, I don't think I'm good with words—

I would like to sleep with you, to enter your sleep as its smooth dark wave slides over my head and walk with you through that lucent wavering forest of bluegreen leaves with its watery sun & three moons towards the cave where you must descend, towards your worst fear—

I've sort of seen you asleep next to me when I've woken up in the night and you were there. It was a fever dream the first time, I thought—like, you were there and I could feel you and when I opened my eyes everything was so dizzy and blurred but I could feel you there and you had your arms around me and you were so asleep, just holding me, even in your sleep, and I felt so sick and I was so scared because I felt so BAD but I didn't want to wake you up, hyung, and it was okay because you were so pretty, sleeping there with me. You made me feel better, like moonlight shining on some magic fairy thing, like you were the moonlight and I was the magic and that's just. How do you do that? How do you make me feel like I'm the magic?

I think you're afraid of me, hyung. And of yourself. I think you're afraid that we're like the whole balance of the universe, the way you're all the physics and the chemistry and the star powering my garden, how I'm blooming out of your light and giving you oxygen back in return. But you don't have to be afraid, hyung. That's just how the universe works. I can make a whole planet bloom for you, I bet, and I will, please, if you'll let me.

I would like to give you the silver branch, the small white flower, the one word that will protect you from the grief at the center of your dream, from the grief at the center. I would like to follow you up the long stairway again & become the boat that would row you back carefully, a flame in two cupped hands to where your body lies beside me, and you enter it as easily as breathing in—

If I could, I would hold you until you believed all this. But I think it wouldn't help, maybe, and that's okay. I'll just be here, to teach you, to remind you every day. I'll text you nice things and smile at you and send selfies and you can pet my hair whenever you want, hyung. Even if it's the middle of the night. Even if I'm asleep and you wake me up, that's okay, because you should. You're the sun energy of cellular respiration and I'm the sugar-oxygen of photosynthesis and I think without each other we'll just be really sad, to not have that. I know you say it would be better if you had hanahaki but you don't have to think that. It's not better that way. We can be in this together, whatever it is. Symbiosis needs two people, hyung. And I want to be that for you.

I would like to be the air that inhabits you for a moment only. I would like to be that unnoticed & that necessary.

I'm running out of room, hyung. But that's okay, because we can make more. More room, and time, and space, and flowers. Just, when you miss me, it's okay, because I'm right here. <3

Love,

Your flowery, fluttery, favorite full-of-love Jeonggukkie <3

P.S. I'm sorry I had to steal a bunch of the words for this from someone else, because I wanted to invent them myself. But maybe I'm just better at interpreting them, like when you cover a song or something? It doesn't make it any less true, I hope. I believe that, at least, and I hope that you can, too. <3 <3 <3

Jeongguk comes in after Yoongi has read the letter four times through, mouthing the words the last time, sucking all the meaning out of them and holding them like cool-throat lozenges on his tongue, something candy-sweet but sharp, too, made out of longing and memory and sadness and the resonance of words that hang true no matter where they came from, who said them or why; real is real; a poem should not mean, but be.

"Hyung?" Jeongguk says softly, footsteps careful as he pads into the room. "You okay?"

Yoongi can feel the heart on his sleeve, bleeding red for the beautiful Boy before him, and he tries to tuck it away into his chest, but it's harder than he would have thought. "I'm fine," Yoongi says. "Can I stay here tonight?"

"Oh," Jeongguk says, exalts, chants. "Yes. Yes, please, Yoongi-hyung. Would you like to watch something while we eat? Or put on music?"

Yoongi is trembling as he refolds the letter and tucks it in his wallet. "Either is fine," he says. "Thank you for taking care of me." It's an honest thing, the meaning that's just come out of his mouth. Fragile and pearlescent in the just-turned-evening light. "I mean. Thank you for taking care of dinner."

Jeongguk smiles and sets the tray of food he's carrying on the mattress. "You wanna change before we eat, hyung? Into Soft Things."

Yoongi takes a breath, and is brave, and so he nods.

Jeongguk's crescent moon eyes are the prettiest thing.