Chapter Text
Taehyung tastes like cheap beer and strawberry kiwi flavored gum.
His hands are everywhere, and Yoongi tries not to focus too intently on the way they trace his hips, his stomach, his thighs with the sort of familiarity that would otherwise force him to see all of this for what it really is: a mistake.
Yoongi doesn’t miss this.
“F-Fuck, Tae– Right, ah– Right there–“
He doesn’t need to.
“Hyung,” Taehyung rasps, sweaty bangs clinging to his forehead and shoulders shuddering with each wave of pleasure. “Hyung, I’m so close– Fuck– Hyung, I miss–“
But Taehyung, it seems, does.
Yoongi silences him with another kiss, pressing his hips upward and licking into the wet heat of Taehyung’s mouth with a muted growl. His patience is slipping. The longer this takes, the longer his brain has to catch up with his body and put an end to what is absolutely a piss poor decision.
There’s an unrecognizable sense of urgency writhing through the heat of Taehyung’s flat. An ember of desperation that sparks between their tangled limbs and floods their veins with more need than want. It feels like they’re racing both each other and the clock.
“Tae– Shit, I’m gonna– “
“Hyung– Yoongi–“
They finish quickly, a messy blend of stuttered moans and labored breaths that tumble from their swollen lips, dissolving into sated sighs. The next several minutes are spent chasing residual trembles from their bodies and trying not to melt into each other the way they have so many times before. Habits are hard to break.
There’s a remote stillness in the air that draws Yoongi’s attention to each and every point of contact between Taehyung’s skin and his own. In the past, all of these moments – the moments of quiet nestled between sex and sleep – had been punctuated by playful quips, exasperated chuckles, and contented kisses to foreheads. Now, it’s as stale as the taste that clings unpleasantly to the backs of their throats.
Yoongi doesn’t linger. He’s a mere four steps from the door, one arm pulled through the sleeve of his hoodie, when Taehyung finally breaks the heavy silence.
“Hyung.”
His voice warbles in a way that makes Yoongi’s inhale catch in his throat, muffled slightly by the press of a pillow to his cheek. He refuses to meet Taehyung’s eyes, pointedly turning away as he pulls the rest of his hoodie over his head and glares at the wall. He can’t do this.
“I’m leaving,” is all Yoongi can manage in reply.
“Maybe it’s just me,” Taehyung says quickly, following each of Yoongi’s movements with guarded eyes, “but I feel like our sex has gotten better since we broke up.” His words are spoken with a whimsical airiness that sounds much too forced to be genuine.
They make him freeze, though, back stiff and hand already clutching the handle of the door. He turns after a moment, though, gradually allowing his gaze to wander in the direction of Taehyung’s futon.
The boy is propped up on his elbows, pillow clutched to his chest and mouth fighting to remain upturned at the corners. His expression is, for the most part, unreadable, but Yoongi knows Taehyung too well not to notice the traces of sadness etched faintly into the set of his brow and curve of his lips.
A million questions simmer imploringly just beneath the surface Taehyung’s eyes. Or maybe it’s just the one question repeated a million times, over and over, weak and pleading.
Why?
Yoongi turns away almost immediately, carefully tempering his own expression into one of cold indifference. He’s stepping through the door and into the January evening chill before his next words even form on his tongue.
“Bye, Taehyung.”
Taehyung's full name feels strange on his tongue. Too heavy. Too deliberate.
It doesn’t occur to Yoongi until he’s more than halfway home that he’s left the box of his belongings in the entryway of Taehyung’s flat. Again.
Fuck it, he thinks, bowing his head against the wind. I’ll grab it next time.
+
“You got back pretty late last night.”
Yoongi grunts without looking up from his laptop, neither confirming nor denying, and Namjoon sighs.
“Do I even need to ask where you were?”
“I don’t know,” Yoongi mutters, swiftly deleting a sizeable chunk from his latest track and scrolling through his folder of previously discarded beats. “Do you?”
Namjoon regards him silently, eyes searching and brow furrowed, as though torn between admonishing Yoongi and removing himself from the situation entirely. It’s Namjoon, however, and Yoongi watches his expression settle into one of grim resolve.
He opens his mouth to speak, but Yoongi beats him to the punch. As much as he appreciates his friend’s concern, he really isn’t in the mood for a lecture.
“I know what I’m doing.”
“Really?” Namjoon sounds entirely unimpressed.
Yoongi removes his headphones and shuts his laptop sharply, rising from his seat and fixing Namjoon with a frigid stare. His hips still ache from the night prior and it takes all of his self-control not to wince.
(Taehyung had been uncharacteristically rough, not that Yoongi’s complaining. Good sex is good sex, but rough sex is even better.)
“Yeah. Really.” He makes to leave the table.
“Hyung,” Namjoon remains seated, but reaches out to grip Yoongi’s forearm. “I’m just worried, alright? Even though you haven’t told me the specifics, I know you ended things for a reason. This is the, what? Third time you guys have slept together since the breakup? Honestly, you’d be better off just getting back together–“
“Can’t focus. Heading to the studio. I’ll stop by the convenience store on my way back. Text me if you need anything.”
“Wait, Hyung. C’mon–“
“See you later,” Yoongi cuts him off again as he shoulders his bag and slips into his sneakers.
The crisp morning air that greets him outside their shared apartment does little to improve his mood. Cursing under his breath and glaring at nothing in particular, Yoongi places his headphones back on his head, wraps his arms around himself for warmth, and trudges in the direction of the studio.
He knows he’s being exceptionally difficult.
It’s quite uncommon for Yoongi to find himself putting up walls at home, mostly because Namjoon’s personality has never called for it. But in this moment, he wants nothing more than to be free from questions, free from judgment, free to make horrible life decisions that he will unquestionably come to regret. The last thing he needs right now is a lecture.
Fuck.
Yoongi makes a mental note to pick up some cinnamon pita chips for Namjoon when he swings by the store.
An apology of sorts.
He can already feel the guilt settling in.
+
The walk to the studio is not a long one, but it provides enough of a vacant window for his thoughts to become a bit too loud for his liking.
He’s supposed to be good at this. The whole not-caring thing.
I think we should break up.
Yoongi swallows harshly against a particularly violent gust of wind and shoves his hands into the pockets of his hoodie. He absently wonders if there will ever be a breeze strong enough to sweep away the profound ache that’s been pulsing in his chest since the day Taehyung begged him to change his mind.
This isn’t working out.
Their first encounter was anything but memorable.
Yoongi was hired as the teaching assistant for a university photography seminar and knew Taehyung only as the weird art student with the willowy frame and boxy grin who sat in the front row and exclusively used a Polaroid camera.
Their first encounter was anything but memorable, yet hidden within the folds of Yoongi’s wallet is a faded Polaroid of the two of them, an unflattering candid taken in the kitchen supplies aisle of their campus convenience store.
He hasn’t been able to bring himself to throw it away.
My feelings have changed.
Taehyung’s favorite coffee shop sits on the street adjacent to the studio, harmless and oblivious to the turmoil it triggers within Yoongi's stomach.
Lately, he's taken to circling around in favor of an alternate rout, a scenic one, and it has absolutely nothing to do with Taehyung. Nothing at all.
By the time he reaches his destination, Yoongi is nursing a violent headache. Suddenly all prospects of getting any work done seem as dismal as he feels and he fights the urge to put his fist through the nearest wall. At least the sound booths seem to be free from the usual music production student traffic. The last thing he wants to do is field questions from doe-eyed newbies who don’t know the difference between an AUX and an AV.
“Hyung?"
Yoongi turns toward the voice warily, squinting through the ache in his temple.
Jimin stands just a few feet away, eyeing him cautiously and clutching a roll of black electrical tape.
“Hey, Jimin,” Yoongi greets him with a cough, carefully schooling his expression and removing his headphones. “Didn’t think anyone would be here this early.”
“I haven’t been here long,” Jimin replies, and Yoongi detects an uncharacteristic sort of distance that weaves itself into the boy’s voice. “I would have gotten here earlier, but I had plans. With Tae.”
Realization sinks heavily into Yoongi’s shoulders.
So this is happening, he thinks bitterly, sending the universe what he hopes is the spiritual equivalent of a middle finger. Namjoon’s ultimatum didn’t work, so Jimin’s your Plan B.
"He went home early, though. Said he wasn't feeling well."
Yoongi has always liked Jimin. In the beginning, it was more out of obligation than anything else. Jimin was Taehyung’s platonic other half, and the two of them were something of a package deal.
Their first impressions of each other were the opposite of favorable. Yoongi complained to Seokjin about Jimin being “too soft,” and Jimin described Yoongi to Taehyung as “too prickly.” Somewhere down the line, though, Jimin decided Yoongi was the soft one and Yoongi found himself thinking of Jimin as a friend.
“I know what you’re going to say.”
Jimin raises an eyebrow. “Oh, really?”
“Yes, really. So you can save your breath.”
The younger boy stares at him for a short while, but then he’s approaching Yoongi with a storm brewing in his eyes. Yoongi ignores the vague spike of alarm that shoots up his spine. He’s known Jimin long enough to know that he’s a force to be reckoned with when upset. It’s one of the things he’s always liked most about him.
“Since you already know what I’m going to say, I guess I’ll spare the non-essentials and give you the short version instead.”
Yoongi just blinks, outwardly unperturbed. “Let’s hear it, then.”
“Leave Taehyung alone.”
Silence.
“Is that it?” Yoongi inquires, sounding almost bored.
“Listen, Hyung,” Jimin takes another step forward, closing the distance between them by a margin. “I know you’re not as cold and uncaring as you want people to believe, which is why I also know that you cared about Taehyung a whole fucking lot. You probably still do. But you gave up the right to fuck with his heart the moment you broke it. He’s too kind and too vulnerable and too hung up on you to admit it, but whatever it is you two are doing now...it's ruining him. So stay away. Give him space. He needs time to heal and that’s never going to happen if this continues.”
There’s no denying the way Jimin’s words feel like a punch to the gut because they all ring with undeniable truth and excruciating clarity. And Yoongi is suddenly back in Taehyung’s flat, drowning in his reverent touches, radiant smiles, and overflowing warmth. He’s drowning, and has been, perhaps for a very long time. Only now does it occur to him that maybe it was less because he didn’t know how to swim and more because he simply didn’t want to.
Taehyung has always had that effect on people. Rather, people have always benefitted from the effects of Taehyung. He loves them, cherishes them, gives them everything he has to offer. There is no end to his kindness, even for the most selfish of people.
Even for people like Yoongi.
He used to think all of those qualities made Taehyung easy. Now he knows those are just the qualities that make him Taehyung.
The Taehyung who stays up until three in the morning, waiting for Yoongi to get home from work at the studio because he can’t fall asleep without knowing his boyfriend is safe.
The Taehyung who secretly makes copies of Yoongi’s mixtapes and distributes them on campus, insisting his boyfriend is the best rapper in the world.
The Taehyung who cries alone in the bathroom when he’s sad because he hates being a burden to the people he loves.
Yoongi doesn’t realize he’s stopped breathing until Jimin places a hand, gentle but firm, on his arm. When he speaks, his voice is as soft as his touch.
“I’m not saying this is your only option. And I’m not saying it’s too late to fix this.”
Yoongi hates fixing things, but an image of Taehyung from the night before burns itself into the backdrop of Yoongi’s eyelids: vulnerable, breathless, familiar, sad, desperate, imperfect, beautiful. And it hurts.
“You’re hurting,” Jimin insists quietly, as though he can read Yoongi’s emotions clear as day, written into the way his eyes cast downward, mouth draws taught, and fists clench at his sides. “You both are.”
Silence descends once more, offering Yoongi time to catch his breath, unbalanced and shaky.
After what seems like a lifetime of bated breath, Yoongi rasps, “I got scared, Jimin.”
Jimin’s expression melts, softens into one of deep understanding.
“Scared of what, Hyung?”
It takes Yoongi a moment to fully digest the weight of his next words, what it will mean for him as soon as he says them out loud. He feels like he’s breathing below ground, underwater, and above clouds all at once.
Finally, he speaks.
“Caring this much.”
+
It began in increments, like the gradual onset of rain. It was manageable at first, and easy to ignore. Raindrops that left spots on his ripped jeans and stained the pavement a dark grey. But then a couple drops turned into several, several turned into hundreds, and hundreds turned into Yoongi standing alone in the thick of it all, drenched and chilled to the bone, watching Taehyung’s retreating back become obscured by sheets of downpour and the cover of cloud.
When did he become so important?
It’s a question that first took root in Yoongi’s gut months before he made the decision to break things off. He’d been staring at Taehyung from across the quad, eyes instinctively drawn to him. Taehyung in that moment, head thrown back in laughter and arm slung affectionately over Jimin’s shoulders, was too bright, too brilliant, too blinding.
When did I become so scared of losing him?
Yoongi was known for being rough around the edges. His glare was deadly, his words were venomous, and his humor was sardonic at best. Taehyung was luminous and Yoongi, who had lived most of his life with his back to the sun, didn’t realize he’d grown so accustomed to the light until it was staring him in the face, sending him dazzling smiles from across the room, placing kisses along the underside of his jaw, and sleeping soundly at his side in the earliest hours of the morning.
What happens when this is over?
Relationships were never his thing. He was a man of one-night stands and impermanence. He enjoyed having nothing to lose, because it meant less mess and fewer drunken fucks that needed to be paired with faces and names. Never before had he been forced to think about what happens after college, what happens when we get older, what happens if we break up.
Yoongi hated uncertainty. He still does.
“Taehyung, we need to talk.”
Taehyung had come bounding up to him, light and playful and warm. He’d rested his head in Yoongi’s lap, sprawling over half the couch and staring up at him through his thick lashes.
“Am I in trouble?” he’d joked, settling his expression into one of false seriousness but failing to hide the melting, adoring way he traced Yoongi’s face with his eyes. “Whatever it was, I swear it was Jimi–”
“I think we should break up.”
The look that had shadowed Taehyung’s face in that split second is one Yoongi still thinks about, a look of panic and disbelief and confusion. It was a look he never thought he’d be responsible for, not on Taehyung.
He’d pushed himself up into a sitting position and grabbed Yoongi’s shoulders.
“Hyung, why?”
At the time, Yoongi himself had no answer. He’d convinced himself that he was being responsible because that was the most believable excuse. He was saving them years of wasted time and broken hearts and all of the other messy symptoms that seem to come with things like relationships. He was acting on every wave of nausea and spike of fear that ran through his limbs when his brain wandered unceremoniously to questions like what happens to me when you leave?
Yoongi knew how elementary it all was, the foreign feelings, the getting scared, the drastic measures. But it wasn’t just the uncertainty of their future that haunted the hours he spent listening to Taehyung breathe steadily next to him. It was the certainty, too, knowing that he would never care about anyone quite as much, knowing he’d never done anything to deserve someone so unconditionally and inexplicably good.
“This isn’t working out.”
What we have right now is perfect.
“My feelings have changed.”
They’ve grown.
“This needs to end.”
I don’t want it to.
“Sorry.”
I’m sorry.
+
Yoongi leaves the studio with his jaw set and eyes ablaze.
+
It’s not until a week later that Yoongi locates his resolve. Organizing his thoughts amid Namjoon’s concerned stares and Seokjin’s pitying looks is no easy task, so it’s kind of remarkable that he’s made it this far at all.
Taehyung never locks his front door and Yoongi thinks it’s extraordinarily stupid how much the kid trusts people not to break in. He’s grateful for it now, however, stubbornly refusing to use the spare key Taehyung had gifted him on their six-month anniversary. He’s not quite ready for that yet. He'd used it only twice before the breakup and it would feel...indecent, somehow. Wrong to use it now.
If this all goes south, a voice in his head murmurs, return the key. You'll have no use for it.
It’s dark when he enters the flat, made more so by the inky blackness that paints the evening sky outside, and he enters with purpose, searching for signs of Taehyung. The box of his belongings still sits forlornly by the door. Yoongi doesn’t even spare it a glance.
The smell of ramen, bleach, and strawberry shampoo mingle strangely with each other, clinging to the thin walls and instilling in Yoongi a hollow pang of something that feels as fond as it does wistful.
Taehyung’s voice greets Yoongi, then, alert but still thick with sleep. The sound fills Yoongi with a sense of longing that’s both foreign and recognizable.
“Who’s there?”
Yoongi’s tongue suddenly feels like it’s too big for his mouth and he swallows against the lump that’s already beginning to form in his throat.
“It’s me.” He doesn’t need to specify. Taehyung knows.
The ceiling light flickers to life and Yoongi blinks, adjusting. Taehyung stands in the darkness of the hallway with his back to the door of his small washroom, leveling Yoongi with a tired frown. His hair is a golden brown mess and his oversized pajama bottoms grapple with the jut of his hipbones, revealing a strip of tanned stomach that Yoongi pointedly avoids staring at for too long. He’s cloaked by one of his many fleece blankets, looking the most vulnerable Yoongi has ever seen him.
Maybe this is a bad idea, after all.
He hates the way his arms instinctively ache to reach out and pull Taehyung to bed the way he has so many times before. The dark circles under his eyes look terrible and Yoongi is starting to feel sick. Taehyung hasn’t been sleeping, he can tell. He’s never slept well on his own.
“Oh.”
Yoongi shifts his weight from foot to foot, uncomfortable and momentarily at a loss for words.
“If you’re here to pick up your stuff, the box is by the door.”
“That’s not,” Yoongi begins, pausing to huff in mild frustration, mostly at himself. “That’s not why I’m here."
“I’m not really in the mood for sex tonight, Hyung.”
“What? No!” Yoongi nearly chokes on his own words, but is quick to recover. “No. I’m not here for that either.” His pulse is quickening steadily and he wonders for a moment what the fuck he’s doing here, what sadistic force of evil possessed him to think this would possibly go well. “I just– There’s something I need to say.”
Taehyung just stares at him, looking half doubtful and half scared.
“Tae, I–“ his voice breaks and he hurries to clear his throat and start over. “Fuck. I owe you an apology.”
No one says anything for a short while, and then:
“Me too.”
Yoongi snaps his head up, bewildered.
“What?”
“I’m sorry, too,” Taehyung whispers, wrapping himself more tightly in his blanket and offering Yoongi a small smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.
“What could you possibly have to apologize for?”
“For whatever it is that made you realize I wasn't worth the trouble.”
And then Taehyung is crying, curling into himself and biting his lip to keep from making too much noise, and fuck, Yoongi has never felt lower.
Maybe it’s the broken sobs that wrack Taehyung’s sturdy frame, maybe it’s the sheer amount of time that has passed since Yoongi last held him in his arms, maybe it’s the way Taehyung’s tiny flat suddenly feels more like home than his own apartment ever has. Maybe it’s a combination of all those things, but he’s in front of Taehyung in a matter of seconds, curling his hand around the nape of his neck to pull their foreheads together.
“Tae,” he breathes, eyes closed and heartbeat thundering in his ears. “Tae. Listen to me.”
“I can’t do this,” Taehyung chokes on a shaky exhale. “I miss you, Hyung. So much. I can’t–“
“Tae–“
“I don’t t-think I can– I just– Why a-are you–“
“Kim Taehyung,” Yoongi commands more with his hands than his voice, gripping Taehyung securely. “Shut up and listen to me.”
Taehyung hiccups wetly before nodding.
“I needed–“ he breathes out nervously. “Damn it. I'm sorry, Tae. I'm so sorry. I had to learn how to live without you. I don’t do relationships. I don’t do commitment. I don't do pillow talk and breakfast in bed and Studio Ghibli marathons. But I gave you all of those things, all at once, and I–” He stops, struggling to find the right words. "I couldn't just- I didn't– I got-"
Taehyung finds them first.
“You got scared,” he whispers, understanding flooding his voice.
When Yoongi looks up into Taehyung’s face, he sees the sun, but the brightness isn’t unbearable. It’s a soft, comforting warmth framed by those impossibly large eyes and that familiar squarish smile. It fills him with a hopeful sort of relief, a sliver of hope that maybe he hasn’t ruined this completely.
It was fear of loss that had pushed Yoongi to try and maintain some element of control over what he believed to be an inevitable goodbye. It was selfish and cowardly, but at least he'd gotten a say in the precise moment they parted ways.
“I got scared,” Yoongi confirms. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry,” Taehyung sniffles, shuffling closer to rest his head in the space between Yoongi’s neck and shoulder. “It’s not your fault.”
“It really is.”
“…Maybe a little.”
Yoongi chuckles and he can feel Taehyung’s lips pull up in a wet smile against his skin.
“I want to fix this, Tae.”
“You h-hate fixing things.”
“Only things that aren’t worth it.”
“You think we’re worth it?”
“Fuck yeah.”
When Taehyung kisses him, the feeling of euphoria that sweeps through his chest very nearly outweighs the fear. He’s still scared, but Taehyung tastes of all the weeks they were forced to fall into bed alone, all the nights spent clutching at their chests because it felt like their hearts were dwindling to a few strings of tissue at best, and all the moments together that could very well have been their last.
The kiss is not absent of pain. It’s all hands, all teeth, all tears, racing to make up for lost time.
Yoongi has Taehyung pressed into the wall, drawing moans from his chest that send shivers of electricity through their joined hands and parted lips. It’s a lot messier than it should be and Taehyung won’t stop smiling, but Yoongi finds he doesn’t care.
His lips tingle, unsatisfied and craving more, when they finally pull apart.
“You know,” Taehyung pants, face thoughtful. “I wasn’t lying when I said our sex got better after breaking up. Maybe we should just, you know. Stay broken up.”
He knows it’s meant to be a joke, but Yoongi still shakes his head in disbelief.
“You’re so full of shit.”
Taehyung giggles, color rising to his cheeks. His lips are red and ravaged in the very best way and Yoongi wants nothing more than to suck them back into his mouth and worship them with a careful reverence, like a prayer.
“But you still love me.”
There’s still a trace of doubt woven into his words, a question he’s too nervous to articulate fully. It’s horrible and Yoongi hates himself for it.
And so he says, “Yeah,” and Taehyung looks like he might cry again. “Yeah.”
Yoongi reaches up to brush the boy’s hair back from his forehead.
“I really fucking do.”