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The Before started with a car. The After started with a fire.
Jungkook had joined the others last, and it wasn’t even really like he did it on purpose. He wasn’t looking for friends, wasn’t looking for a reason or a way out, or however else you’d like to phrase it. He just – he wasn’t having a great time, before the Before. Life was difficult. He didn’t really see an escape.
When it happened, he’d just been beaten up by a couple of lowlifes. He ached all over, his jaw and his knuckles and his ribs, god, he hoped nothing was broken, how was he supposed to pay for it? His head was pounding, from where they’d slammed it back against the brick wall but maybe from other things too, maybe from stress and fear and loneliness.
It must’ve looked bad, but honestly, he just didn’t look where he was going.
Jungkook looked up to this blinding light, pointed straight at him, and this screeching sound he couldn’t make sense of. It happened so quickly – a hand curled in the back of his hoodie and yanked him backwards, and he watched as a car shot past, and then it was over. Everything was silent for a moment.
Then, he was spun around, and a pair of large hands held firmly onto his shoulders.
“Are you okay, kid?”
It was a boy, maybe a little older than himself. He had pink hair, kind of a muted pink, almost peachy, and a pale, feline face, all sharp features and round cheeks. His dark eyes were searching Jungkook, lingering on the blood he could still feel congealing beneath his lip, on the bruise blossoming over his cheekbone. Jungkook didn’t reply, still a little dazed, and those hands shook him gently.
“Kid? Say something,” the boy laughed nervously. One hand reached up to push down the hood of Jungkook’s sweatshirt and he inhaled through his teeth as Jungkook’s injuries caught the light. “What happened?”
Jungkook lifted his hand to his mouth and touched the cut in his lip, wincing slightly at the pain that crackled through him like electricity. His fingers came away bloody. The boy grabbed his forearm then, turning his hand over to inspect the wounds over Jungkook’s knuckles.
The boy sighed, long and low. “You’ve been fighting, huh?” he asked. He peered up into Jungkook’s face, something like sympathy in his features. Jungkook couldn’t say anything, though he didn’t know why, so he just looked back. The stranger had a nice face, really, calm and serious but striking in its own way. “What’s your name?”
Jungkook heaved a deep breath and swallowed thickly. That’s a question he could recognise, an easy one, he knew the answer to that. He opened his mouth and stammered, “J-Jungkook.”
“Okay, Jungkook. Where do you live? With your folks? Is it close by?” the boy asked, ducking his head to try and look more closely at Jungkook.
Jungkook shook his head. When did it get so cold? Had he been shivering this whole time?
The boy sighed, then glanced down the street, his eyes scanning for a miracle. “Alright, listen, my place isn’t too far. Let me clean you up, at least. I’ve got a sofa if you need a place to sleep tonight.”
Jungkook looked back at the stranger, knowing that he should probably feel some suspicion, some wariness, but he just – didn’t. His brain seemed to be working at half-speed, and he just didn’t have the strength to doubt this person. He could use a place to lie down, if only for a little while. He’d figure the rest out tomorrow.
Nodding, he shifted a little closer to the boy, wrapping his hoodie further around his shivering torso. The boy’s hand moved from his shoulder to around his back, rubbing up and down his arm as he led Jungkook down the street.
“I’m Yoongi,” the boy told him conversationally, as though he hadn’t just saved Jungkook’s life. “Listen, ah – I don’t want to be forward, but you – you’ve sure got yourself in a bad situation, huh? Why did you get beat up? Or did – did you start it?”
“I didn’t start it,” Jungkook mumbled, his eyes on the ground.
Yoongi hesitated, as though surprised that Jungkook had spoken, before he replied. “Well, alright. How come you’re out so late by yourself? Couldn’t you call a friend?”
“I don’t – I don’t –”
Yoongi’s arm tightened around him. “You don’t have any? Really?” he asked in disbelief. Jungkook shrugged noncommittally. After a moment, Yoongi began to walk a little faster, held onto Jungkook a little more firmly. “Well. All the more reason you should let me take care of you. I’m not a bad guy, Jungkook-ah, and – I can be your hyung, if you want.”
He had no reason to trust Yoongi, but Jungkook found himself nodding shyly, curling closer into Yoongi’s side. There was something there, he thought, something of a kinship between the two, something about Yoongi that said, ’I know, I’ve been there, I can help you’. Whatever happened, he had nothing to lose. Quite literally.
♡ ♡ ♡
True to his word, Yoongi had patched Jungkook up, given him a hot drink and plied him with instant ramen until he couldn’t physically eat anymore, only then nodding with satisfaction and leaving him be. Yoongi lived with his family, in a kind of one-story renovated garage tacked onto the side of the main building. It was nice, if a little small. Definitely a boy’s home, decorated sparsely with a huge television and a bong on the coffee table. Jungkook liked it a lot, and he was thankful that Yoongi’s parents weren’t around to question him, ask where his own parents were, maybe even call the police.
Jungkook sat shyly on the edge of the sofa, his arms around his knees. Yoongi was fussing around at the kitchenette, dropping the empty cups of ramen into the trash, humming under his breath. It was kind of domestic, peaceful in a way that Jungkook wasn’t used to. He liked it, though he tried to remind himself not to get too comfortable; he didn’t know Yoongi, not nearly well enough to trust him so much, and he’d be on his own again before too long.
“So, Jungkook,” Yoongi started, his back to the younger as he tidied up. “I’m assuming you don’t have much to do tomorrow?”
“No.”
“Right. Well, I’m only asking because I’m meeting the guys tomorrow, and – if you wanted to tag along and meet everyone, that’d be cool. You don’t seem like a bad kid, and you – you’d like them. They’d like you. Bunch of misfits, but we’d take care of you.”
Jungkook didn’t reply, something thick and hot crawling up his throat and pricking tears in his eyes. Don’t fucking cry now, Jungkook, don’t be so pathetic, he’s just being nice, he probably doesn’t mean it.
“Kid?”
When Jungkook looked up, Yoongi was standing a lot closer, concern on his face. He crouched down by the arm of the sofa and lifted his hand to card through Jungkook’s hair at his nape, and Jungkook leaned into the touch, closing his eyes. He hadn’t realised how affection-starved he was.
“Hey, it’s alright. I’m not a creep, I swear,” Yoongi said, and it was enough to draw a weak sort of smile from Jungkook. His eyes fluttered open and he saw Yoongi was smiling, too, his fingers scratching comfortingly at Jungkook’s scalp. “If you hate it, you never have to see any of us ever again and you can go back to doing – whatever you were doing. But if you like it, if you like us, we’ll be around to make sure you don’t get beat up again. Right?”
Jungkook nodded, and Yoongi stood up, ruffling Jungkook’s hair once more before he moved away. He returned after a moment, a thick blanket and a couple of pillows in his arms. He dropped them onto Jungkook’s lap unceremoniously, followed by a t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants.
“Get some rest, Jungkook-ah. Things will be better in the morning.”
Yoongi moved out of Jungkook’s line of view and a moment later, the lights switched off.
“Thank you, hyung,” Jungkook called out, hoping that Yoongi would hear. There was a pause, before Jungkook felt a hand in his hair again, gentle and warming.
When Jungkook changed and settled down on the sofa, he was undeniably uncomfortable. The sofa was old and busted, the springs digging into his back and thighs. His ribs were aching dully, worsening whenever he so much as inhaled too deeply.
That being said, as he curled into the blanket, the smell of something fresh and kind of smoky lingered on Yoongi’s clothes, and if he concentrated, he could still feel the pressure of Yoongi’s hand in his hair. He slept better that night than he had in months.
♡ ♡ ♡
One thing Jungkook noticed the next day was that Yoongi seemed to have a preoccupation with fire.
In the light of day, Jungkook spotted dozens of candles, lighters and empty cigarette boxes strewn around the elder’s home. Yoongi must have seen him looking at one of the cigarette boxes, because he playfully shoved at Jungkook’s shoulder as they were brooding over their morning coffee.
“No, you can’t have one. What are you, eight?”
“I don’t smoke,” Jungkook replied petulantly. “And I’m nineteen.”
“Okay. Neither do I,” Yoongi said. He didn’t elaborate, and Jungkook wasn’t confident enough to ask, so that was that.
Even when they left to meet Yoongi’s friends, the elder took a lighter with him, stuffing it in the pocket of his denim jacket but keeping his fingers curled around it protectively at all times. Jungkook wanted to ask, honestly he did, but then they met the others, and all thought of it was driven from his mind.
Yoongi led him to an old stretch of train track, dozens of empty shipping containers and disused trains littered around. Jungkook had been a little suspicious at first, wondering why Yoongi would bring him to the middle of nowhere – there’d be no point in mugging him, he doesn’t have anything worth stealing – but then Yoongi had rapped on the side of one of the containers, and somebody from within slid open the wall, ushering them inside.
It was probably the coolest thing Jungkook had ever seen. It was a fucking mess, no doubt about that, but there was something so unique about it, something secret and hard-earned, and he almost didn’t feel like he should be there. Furniture had been dragged into the container, old couches, tables and chairs, and somebody had strung up battery-powered fairy lights over every available surface. Most of the seats were occupied, at the moment, by four other boys that Jungkook didn’t know, the fifth dropping heavily into the lap of another.
“Guys, this is Jungkook,” Yoongi called to the room at large, gesturing at Jungkook, who shrank a little further into his hoodie. “We’re going to take care of him now, okay?”
Surprisingly, no questions were asked. Jungkook was pulled further into the room by two boys with dark brown hair, immediately interrogating him to discover his age, his favourite animal, his favourite soft drink – the answer to which was immediately pushed into his hand, complete with a twisty straw. They told him their names were Jimin and Taehyung, and they were most pleased to discover that he was the youngest, and that he’d have to call them ‘hyung’.
The other boys seemed nice too; there was Hoseok, with a personality so huge it barely fit into the container; Seokjin, the eldest, as warm as he was broad-shouldered with an undeniable goofy streak; and Namjoon, the calmest, the smartest, and, unequivocally, the clumsiest. Everybody took him under their wings at once, and nobody ever asked why he had a bruise under his eye, why he had a split lip, how he’d ended up spending the night at Yoongi’s. He appreciated that. Friendship, with no questions asked – it was nice. It was different.
The next few weeks passed this way. Even after that first day, Jungkook expected for the others to forget about him, but they never did. If it wasn’t Yoongi blowing up his phone at nine in the morning, it was Taehyung; if it wasn’t Taehyung, it was Jimin, or any combination of the other six at once. They didn’t do much, not really. Seokjin had this big, beaten-up pick-up that he’d cart them around in, driving to empty lots just to let Jimin have a go behind the wheel. Sometimes they’d drive down to the beach just to clamber over the old docking structures and watch the sun go down. Sometimes they wouldn’t leave the train tracks all day, playing card games and listening to music and just being together, a concept that was, before now, completely unknown to Jungkook.
Jungkook had his own place, sure – it was a little out of the way of the train tracks, of the others’ homes, but he knew it was there if he ever needed it. Nevertheless, most nights he’d spend with his new friends. Once or twice, they all passed out in the container, waking up to go for a coffee run in Seokjin’s truck, but more often than not, Jungkook crashed at Yoongi’s. Yoongi didn’t mind. He’d always have the same blanket, the same pillows, the same change of clothes, laid out and waiting, just in case.
One day, Seokjin had driven them to the underpass of a highway, the roar of traffic overhead continuing well into the night. Clearly, this was an old hangout of theirs, Jungkook thought; sofas had been dragged into the centre around an old burned-out tyre, sheltered from the elements, and Seokjin was already handing out blankets from the bed of his truck.
It was nice. It was different.
Namjoon turned out to be particularly good at building fires, managing to keep it burning for hours upon hours, and Jungkook never once felt the cold. He and Yoongi shared a sofa, tucked beneath a huge blanket thrown over their legs, and the whole thing, the whole situation, had – things flickering to life in Jungkook’s chest.
He didn’t know how to explain it. He didn’t really want to question it. He’d never known anything like this before, had never had so many friends, so many people in his life who were happy to see him, who never questioned or doubted him, who only smiled at him and pet his hair and called him their ‘lost puppy’, called themselves a family.
’Misfits’, Yoongi had called them, but Jungkook didn’t agree with that. They seemed to fit together perfectly.
And none of it would ever, ever have happened if it weren’t for Yoongi. Yoongi, who had pulled him out of the way of oncoming traffic, tended to his wounds, fed him and given him a place to sleep, all without ever asking for anything in return. Not only that, but he’d introduced Jungkook to these five hyungs, these boys who seemed to genuinely like him, even love him. He didn’t know what he’d done to deserve it, any of it.
Yoongi was laughing at one of Seokjin’s jokes, something Jungkook hadn’t heard, and when the elder threw an arm over his shoulder, pulling him in close, something leapt in Jungkook’s chest. He hadn’t known them for long, hadn’t known Yoongi for long, but he was the closest thing to ‘home’ that Jungkook had ever known. As he curled into Yoongi, letting the elder warm him and play with his hair, he allowed himself to think that maybe it could become something. Maybe Yoongi could – could be something more.
Maybe.
That was the Before. It wasn’t long until the After.
♡ ♡ ♡
There was a fire.
Jungkook had known the others for several months at this point, and it had been one of those rare nights that he spent in his own home. He was woken up early by Jimin hammering on his door, the pale faces of Seokjin and Taehyung poking out from the truck behind him. After picking up Namjoon and Hoseok, they went to Yoongi’s place, a deathly silence permeating the cabin of the truck.
They found him huddled on the curb, draped in a blanket, sirens everywhere, reflecting in his pale hair. Behind him; smouldering ashes, pillars of smoke, and rolls upon rolls of yellow tape.
His family didn’t survive.
Jungkook couldn’t remember much of that day. The sun had risen, but the smoke in the air kept everything half-lit and hazy, as though they were in a dream. He’d pushed his way to Yoongi’s side, refusing to move even when police officers tried to shift him, even when nurses came to shine lights into Yoongi’s eyes. One thing he would later recall vividly is how violently Yoongi was shaking, from head to toe, his fingertips curling in the blanket, his lips almost blue with the cold.
Everything changed, after that.
Yoongi blamed himself. How could he not? Even after the countless investigations into the cause of the fire had come up dry, with only speculation and supposition to explain how it had happened, Yoongi continued to blame himself. People would tell him, time and time again, ’these things happen, it was probably a faulty outlet, a worn wire, don’t blame yourself’, but it fell on deaf ears.
He was convinced he’d left out a candle, a cigarette, maybe a lighter that had – exploded, or something. He didn’t speak much for a long time after the fire, but when he did, all he would talk about was how he’d caused the fire, how he knew he’d done it, knew in his bones.
Yoongi never stopped carrying around a lighter, but it had turned into something of a punishment, a reminder of what he’d done, and every time he pulled it out of his pocket to flick the flame in and out of existence, it made Jungkook ache.
Not that it really mattered, as Yoongi didn’t seem to notice Jungkook anymore.
As the days turned into weeks, the situation only worsened, and nobody seemed exactly sure where Yoongi was living these days. Whenever anyone tried to ask him, he’d simply brush them off impatiently, and eventually, they stopped asking. Jungkook only knew that sometimes, sometimes, Yoongi would let himself into Jungkook’s apartment in the dead, dark hours before dawn, stinking of cheap vodka, and collapse into bed with the younger, pulling Jungkook in close with an unrelenting grip. It would have been nice, but Jungkook always woke up the next morning to an empty bed.
Jungkook, after a while, thought he’d take matters into his own hands. That was his first mistake. He knew he had five other friends who would have his back if he asked, who had known Yoongi for longer and so might be able to get through to him a little better, but he was stubborn. He knew, he knew that he and Yoongi had something special. He managed to convince himself that maybe if he told the elder how he felt, Yoongi might come back to him.
Retrospectively, he’d call that fucking foolish.
Early one morning, well before dawn, when Yoongi stumbled into Jungkook’s basement apartment, clattering down the stairs and nearly busting his ass on his way, Jungkook intercepted him.
“Hyung,” Jungkook said, his hand on Yoongi’s shoulder, but the elder blindly tried to push past. “Hyung, let me talk to you.”
“Fuck off, Kook,” Yoongi slurred.
Really, Jungkook should have stopped there.
“I won’t,” he replied stubbornly, shoving Yoongi a little harder. The elder stood in front of him, by all accounts drunk out of his mind, swaying where he stood and glaring at Jungkook blearily. “You’ve never spoken to me like that before, not once.”
“You’ve never been up in my fucking face like this before.”
“Yoongi, stop it.”
“What’s your problem?” Yoongi snapped, trying to push past again. Jungkook stood his ground and Yoongi ricocheted off the younger’s body, stumbling backwards a few steps. “Jungkook. Move.”
“I miss you, hyung,” Jungkook said imploringly. He could feel the tears welling in his eyes, the emotion wrapping itself around his throat, choking him. In times gone by, in the Before, Yoongi would have seen his tears and held him, whispering words of comfort until they subsided. It was a dumbass move, but Jungkook wanted that again, so he closed the distance between them and clumsily wrapped his arms around the elder, holding on for dear life. When he next spoke, the words were muffled against Yoongi’s jacket, reeking of spirits and sweat. “Don’t you think we had something? Don’t you think there was something there? I miss you.”
Above his head, Jungkook heard Yoongi laugh coldly, lazily, and his heart shattered at the sound. Yoongi pushed him away hard, so hard that Jungkook hit the wall, pain shooting through his shoulder.
Then, Jungkook made his second mistake.
He saw red. There’s no excuse for it. Jungkook had been beaten up before, he’d taken his fair share of swings, but never, never had he expected Yoongi to be violent with him. As he looked up through his lashes at the boy before him, he could barely see the boy that had once pulled him out of the way of oncoming traffic. That hurt like nothing else, more than any split lip or bruised ribs, and that, that was what made him punch Yoongi.
Square in the jaw, full-force, all of his strength behind it. It was like an out-of-body experience. He watched as his fist connected with Yoongi’s face, watched as the elder flew backwards, sprawling over the stairs. He watched as Yoongi lifted his hand to his mouth and watched as his palm came away bloody, watched as the elder spat a mouthful of blood to the floor.
Jungkook couldn’t move, could barely breathe, even as Yoongi flew towards him, throwing Jungkook with all of his might out of his way. Jungkook hit the sofa hard, his ribcage slamming into the wooden frame, and he winced, crying out, his hands covering his stomach to try and contain the pain. Next, he heard a crash, though it sounded almost dulled through the pounding of blood in his ears, and when he looked up, there was glass all over the floor and an empty frame where a mirror used to hang.
There was silence, permeated only by their heavy breathing and by the steady drip of blood onto Jungkook’s bare floorboards. He realised, distantly, that he hadn’t stopped crying, and really, he could do with wiping his nose, but nothing mattered, nothing mattered, nothing mattered.
“Kook,” Yoongi said thickly, still slurred but less so than before. He dabbed at the blood pouring from his mouth with the sleeve of his jacket and Jungkook watched as the fabric stained a sickly, spreading black. “It’s better this way. We can’t be like we were before. I’ll only hurt you. I’ll burn you alive.”
“You won’t,” Jungkook interjected petulantly.
Yoongi only shook his head, his face hard and cold. “You know, every time I come here, I leave my lighters outside. Just in case.”
“You won’t hurt me, hyung, you never would,” Jungkook argued, though the effect was slightly ruined by the shockwave of pain that rippled through his body as he tried to push himself up. “Please don’t, please.”
“’M sorry, Kook.”
Yoongi turned to leave, his footsteps heavy and clumsy but deliberate, and in the time it took Jungkook to stand, the elder had already climbed the stairs and disappeared into the darkness. Jungkook called his name, the word bouncing down the street and echoing back at him mockingly, but there was no use.
He didn’t know why, but Yoongi’s words stuck with Jungkook, needling in his mind in a way that made his heart hurt. Maybe it was to prolong the time he’d spent in the elder’s presence, as unpleasant as it had been; maybe it was to prove something to himself, he didn’t know. But before he went back indoors, he dragged the trash can out of the way, and stared numbly down at the small mountain of plastic lighters Yoongi had left there in the weeks gone by.
The tears didn't stop for some time.
♡ ♡ ♡
When Jungkook had wandered into the shipping container later that day and recounted that morning’s events, there seemed to be a general consensus among the other boys that enough was enough. Seokjin immediately snatched up the keys to his truck and stormed out, and the others followed him wordlessly. Once they were on the road, Hoseok checked Jungkook over, hissing sympathetically as his fingers moved over the nasty bruise already blossoming over Jungkook’s ribcage, but there wasn’t any lasting damage. Jungkook would be fine.
Or so they kept telling him.
They found Yoongi beneath the underpass, sitting on the floor with his back against an armchair, flicking a metal lighter on and off, on and off. He looked up at the sound of the tyres on the gravel, scrambling to his feet defensively, but he didn’t have a chance. Hoseok and Jimin bounded from the cabin and grabbed him, their hands tight around his biceps.
“Get off me you motherfuckers, I fucking mean it,” Yoongi growled, desperately trying to throw them off. Jungkook watched from the truck, his heart aching and thumping sadly in his chest. There was a dark splash of purple over Yoongi’s jawline, a mark that he’d put there. Surely everybody noticed, but nobody asked. He appreciated that.
After a while, Yoongi stopped fighting, allowing himself to be bundled into the back of the truck in between Namjoon and Hoseok. Jungkook stayed in the front, close to Seokjin’s side, and if he squeezed the elder’s arm too hard, Seokjin didn’t say anything. When Jungkook chanced a glance backwards, he saw that Yoongi’s eyes were scrunched shut, his head hanging low, fresh tear tracks down his pale face.
They drove to the beach. Call it a kind of intervention. Some time together to let things realign themselves, to let everybody unwind. Jungkook wasn’t entirely convinced, but it couldn’t hurt. If nothing else, it’d be nice to spend some time with his friends. He needed something else to focus on.
When they got there, it was – fine, really. Yoongi kept to himself, but he wasn’t screaming or crying anymore, so that was a plus. Namjoon was already fussing around, collecting wood for a bonfire; a few sideways glances were thrown towards Yoongi’s direction at this, but he didn’t protest. Taehyung had somehow found the time to pack sandwiches and snacks, and for a little while, if Jungkook squinted, it felt like the Before. It felt like those first few months in the shipping container, like that first taste of belonging. Then, of course, he’d see Yoongi, sitting alone in the sand and staring off into the distance, and it was the After again.
As the hours ticked by, the sun began to set. Jungkook climbed up onto some old, disused pier, perching on the very end and letting his feet dangle over the water below. His friends were shouting and laughing somewhere behind him on the beach, the waves were lapping rhythmically at the pillars below. He felt okay. Better than he had in a while. His ribs still hurt, but he could ignore that. His heart ached persistently, but he was used to that now.
He jumped a little as an arm wound around his shoulder and a body plopped down next to him, and he didn’t even have to look up to know it was Yoongi. He froze up a little, not sure what to expect, but then Yoongi’s hand found its way into his hair, gently carding and scratching, and his eyes drifted closed, just like the first night they’d met.
“I’m sorry,” Yoongi said. Jungkook took a deep breath, but didn’t say anything, didn’t even open his eyes. He wasn’t entirely sure that he wasn’t dreaming, and he didn’t want to jinx it. “For pushing you away. I’m sorry that we fought. I miss you too, Kook.”
Jungkook leaned a little more heavily into his hyung’s side, letting out a sigh he didn’t know he’d been holding in. “Didn’t you think there was something there, hyung? Ever?” he asked, his voice shy and small.
Yoongi made a small, unhappy noise. “I – Kook, don’t ask me that now,” he said helplessly. His hand pulled back slightly but Jungkook whined, his head following Yoongi’s touch, and the elder relented. “Things have changed.”
“Not everything has to change.”
Perhaps it was bold of him to say that, but Jungkook didn’t regret it. He watched as indecision flickered over Yoongi’s face, as he struggled with some inner turmoil, but before Yoongi could reply, the others were calling their names, sitting around them and throwing arms over their shoulders. It was okay. It felt better to watch the sunset together, all seven of them. Jungkook would find another moment.
Sure enough, his moment came later, when the bonfire was dwindling and the other boys had fallen asleep. Jungkook had been dozing off against Seokjin, but a steady clicking sound had stirred him, and he sat up dizzily to see a light flickering in and out of existence. Yoongi’s lighter.
“Hyung?”
“Yeah, Kook.”
Jungkook got to his feet unsteadily, shivering a little in the night air. He made his way over to Yoongi’s side, dropping heavily onto the sofa they’d dragged out from beneath the pier. “Aren’t you cold?”
“A little.”
Jungkook shifted to lie down, resting his head on the elder’s lap. His heart was pounding in his chest, hammering against his ribcage almost painfully, and he hoped Yoongi couldn’t hear it. They sat like that in silence for some time, the embers crackling behind them and Yoongi’s lighter clicking rhythmically, on, off, on off.
After a while, Jungkook tried again.
“Please let me in, hyung.”
He looked up into Yoongi’s face, but it was impassive, illuminated by flame one moment and hidden in shadow the next.
“I’m scared,” Yoongi replied, in a tiny voice.
“You won’t hurt me. You never would. I trust you.”
There was a pause, a trembling, heavy sort of pause, before Yoongi’s free hand moved to trace the lines of his face, brushing hesitantly over his eyebrows, down the bridge of his nose, across his cupid’s bow and the line of his jaw. Jungkook’s skin felt like molten lava underneath the elder’s touch, burning and roiling and wanting to follow those calloused fingertips.
“But I don’t trust myself.”
The lighter was still clicking above his head, the sound starting to grate on Jungkook. He could see the pain in the elder’s eyes, but he could see other things, too – something like longing, something like restraint, and Jungkook just wanted to give Yoongi everything he had to give.
“Let’s just – let’s start here, okay?” Jungkook said, and before Yoongi could reply, he turned over and blew out the lighter in the elder’s grasp. When he looked back up, feeling a little apprehensive, he watched as Yoongi took a deep, steadying breath, watched as he blinked once, hard, and reopened his eyes, a new determination in his gaze. Yoongi nodded, swallowing thickly.
When Jungkook leaned up to kiss Yoongi, his lips tentatively brushing against the elder’s, mapping out the lines of his lips before pressing more firmly, Yoongi let him, and after a while, Jungkook felt fingers through his hair once more.
Things would never be the same again, Jungkook knew that, but there, in that moment, bound to Yoongi like smoke to a flame, he thought that maybe that would be okay. Maybe the After didn't have to be the End.