Archive of Our Own

There he was - a stranger, a friend, a someone from another time - standing there before Hoseok like a statue in the dark, lit stoically by the sensor light that beamed above the doorway, staring back awaiting a welcome, a greeting, a wave, a so-nice-to-see-you-I’ve-missed-you-old-friend.  The night breeze spread over his hair, smoothing it away from his eyes, and the spark beneath his smile – as sheepish as it was – would overwhelm anyone who hadn’t seen him for five years.

Yoongi.

But it felt so singular to Hoseok, like the dust on the pavement was collecting in rings to signal to him that this had to mean something, that the engagement was called off, that they could have what he dreamed, that their old habits weren’t just habits but maybe something more.

And that forgotten feeling of being pulled laughing into a stall, a hand firm over his mouth, a kiss against his ear, a moment of weakness before he eventually came to his senses and stared right back: we can’t keep doing this; it all flooded in. The delight of that rush, the thrill of the pull, the power in being able to call it off again and again, always thinking that eventually, at some point, it would return; until it didn't.

Or at least that's what he thought. 

When they found their fingers in each other’s pockets more often than in each other’s waistbands, when the stare in Hoseok’s eyes begged not just for one more night but a whole other life? A life with you, that’s what I want. “You know I can't” Had that not meant the end? When the calls had all stopped, when the messages had all halted, when the make-sure-I’m-okay was replaced with please-stop; had that not made it clear?

But I love you, Yoongi.

It sat on the tip of his tongue as he stood there staring back at him through the doorway as if no time had passed at all. Like half a decade had collapsed into a few seconds. The last five years - nothing. All dissipated into the air as he blinked down hard and soaked in this body, this image, this love. Whether it remained or returned, he couldn't tell.

But right now, he loved him. Perhaps in more ways than one.

And the more he stood there, and stared, and realised that, yes, it was still here, the feeling was still here, he was still here - the more he became convinced that this certainly must been a dream. Because this was never supposed to happen, he was never supposed to come back, the feeling, the everything, it was never supposed to return. The last five years had been spent trying to destroy that vision of the future, this vision of the future. Trying to cleanse himself of this very fantasy. This dream where he returns, this dream where they can be together, this paradise where things line up. Every discarded invitation, every unknown number, every question at a wedding, every lonely tax return. Every indulgence rebuked with a: That isn't what he wants. 

They had made a promise, after all. Maybe unspoken, maybe unilateral, maybe one Yoongi didn't know he had even made. But the second Yoongi had told Hoseok of his plans, his future, his vision for the next ten years, it became clear. They couldn't have the future Hoseok had wanted. But maybe Yoongi could still have his.

And so, in their five years apart Hoseok paid no attention to any mention in the paper of a young entrepreneur sealing a controversial deal, no mind to the updates of a future wife with a hefty ring, no spilled wine over the whispers of a pregnancy and a townhouse on the hill. Instead he would spend his nights gazing into his reflection on the black window of the microwave, picking at frozen dinner meals that he knew screamed a lifetime alone.

This was what he had always agreed to. Promises had been made, and not just to him. Commitments, obligations, vows - made to be honoured, not broken for mere greed. Because despite the distance, he still considered himself Yoongi's friend. If no other label, 'friend' was still true. And what was a friend who breaks a promise? A promise so precious as the one he had made. To protect his future, to protect his life, to protect those things that Yoongi had worked so hard to retain.

But even still, perhaps there had been a flicker in Hoseok's head, some satisfaction, some excitement, when he noticed in the firm’s analytics a slight upsurge in visits on his company page from the town he knew Yoongi now lived. “What’s that? Can you tell me? Yes that – that IP.” “It’s someone from over the river, sir. Are you scouting any clients from up there?” “Oh no. Just curious.” But the days would still mull on, as dreary and lifeless as they usually had been; after all, nothing had changed. And as every night, he would meet his food rotating just beyond him as he glossed over his emails, praying in his silence for a sign of something new.

Which was distinct from something old.

What he wanted was a new somebody to walk through the door, who would take him, and smile, and laugh and grin, and give him something to latch onto other than dread and fear. Life was fine; comfortable and safe – but it came with an ache that seemed to follow him wherever he went as he held with him nothing but a promise to a friend and the loneliness that came with it.

But would he trade that with what was before him now? Yoongi’s body in all its dimensions, even his breath as it rose moving closer to his skin. His hair, his lips, his eyes, his stare, so vivid and brilliant and screaming for an answer. But as full as it was, this picture was old - old like a rusty knife slash through his chest, blade blunt and unyielding, pulled through his skin with a tear not a slice. This couldn't be happening.

Not now, not yet. He needed to swing a blow to Yoongi's face first, push him to the concrete, kick him to the floor to see his blood spill away – a crisp mortal red that would confirm what he doubted: So you’re real, and you’re here and you don't care bout how hard I tried. No pleasure, no pain. The words forming like ghosts in his mouth just screaming to say what he had been trying to kill, those words fresh and golden, so hopeless and hopeful.

I love - 

But just as distinctly, there was that old instinct, that reflex, that quick way out: to press a kiss to his lips, to pull him through the doorway, to slam the door shut, to not say a word and continue where they'd left off, to talk things down rather than talk things out, back to silence and pretense and a 'friendship' through it all.

But both would have been a betrayal.

Because after all, he was Hoseok. And he had made a promise. If friendship through it all was what he had promised, then friendship through it all was what he would give, with all its compromises and all its pain, it was friendship, real friendship that he had settled on now. So he swallowed his fear, and forfeited a smile: