Archive of Our Own ^beta

jeongguk wakes up slowly, a groan already on his lips as he comes into consciousness. he’d been dreaming about—something. it had been warm. maybe that had more to do with the few drinks that he consumed before drifting off, the high of a new award on the shelf. maybe it had been yoongi’s mouth pressed to the back of his neck, his arm around jeongguk’s stomach, and—jeongguk always dreams like that, always something good. when he wakes, though, it’s cold—colder, at least.

the first thing he’s aware of is the lack of warmth behind or beside him, no other body pressed to his or holding him tight. with his eyes still closed, he find himself grumbling, rolling over a little and patting his hand over the bed just in case yoongi has simply rolled over. all he finds is the edge of the bed.

it must be early if he hasn’t been woken by an alarm, but now he rolls under he’s on his back, yawning before he finally opens his eyes and blinks blearily at the ceiling. yoongi could be anywhere—probably holed up in his own room or one of the offices with a fresh determination to finish the next song, always working for something more. jeongguk told him last night that being awarded the order of cultural merit by the government should be enough to make yoongi take a break for one day, but yoongi had just grinned, said, now we just have to make sure we don’t disappoint.

it takes jeongguk almost a full minute to realize that the ceiling he’s staring at is not the one he was staring at last night before he fell asleep. his brows furrow and then he slowly pulls himself into a sitting position, casting a glance around the rest of the room, which—is definitely not the room he fell asleep in last night. he blinks again, harder, rubs at his eyes like it’ll change what he’s seeing, but no matter how many times he tries to rub the sleep out of his eyes, the room is still the same.

the same white walls, the same cluttered floor. the same bunk beds. jeongguk stares at them, trying to remember if any room in their house has bunk beds, but he comes up short. he rubs at his face again, letting out a little sigh—so maybe he’d drunk more than he intended to last night. he takes a closer look, leaning over the side of his bed toward the nearest bunk and then—he stops short when he sees there’s a person sleeping in it. there are people sleeping in all of the beds.

jeongguk tilts his head as he leans back in his own bed and takes a better look at what he’s seeing, and then. then he understands, at least somewhat, now that he’s waking up properly, now that he’s not still convinced that he’s in some strange dream—this is their dorm.

it’s just their dorm from 2013.

“what the fuck,” he whispers, throwing the blankets off of himself and slowly climbing out of bed. he stares at the other beds, all of the other boys sleeping soundly, and—of course, of course. it’s them, somehow—all of them with darker hair, all of them with the baby faces they debuted with. someone is snoring. he counts them, both horrified and fascinated to recognize all six of his hyungs as they were years ago, but if all six of them are like that, then—

jeongguk gasps, throwing his gaze toward the door. last night, he fell asleep in 2018, and now he’s suddenly woken up in 2013 which means—he runs for the door (quietly), throwing it open and stumbling out into the hallway. he still knows this place like the back of his hand, despite five years having passed, and he stumbles into the tiny bathroom before hurriedly throwing on the light. he’s panicked when he looks in the mirror, terrified of what he might see, but—

that’s still him. that’s still him from last night, from the night before, and the night before that. his hair is the brown it always is, a little shaggy and sticking up in odd places because of bedhead. his sharp jawline, the little scar on his cheek. he’s still twenty-one, so he hasn’t woken up in his past body, just—somehow shown up here anyway. he shakes his head, slapping at his cheek a few times like they do in the movies. it might change it. he might suddenly wake up in his own dorm again, with yoongi pressed against him and everything back to normal.

maybe he is dreaming. but even pinching himself does nothing to change the situation, and jeongguk lets out a strangled noise as he turns the light off in the bathroom and ventures out into the hallway again. it’s been so long since he was here—here as in the dorms, here as in… 2013, maybe. he was so young back then. they’d barely had anything, and it’s more jarring now when he’s suddenly here again—all seven of them crammed into this tiny space, trying to make something of themselves.

nostalgia pushes him onward, creeping down the hallway and into the kitchen. and then—jeongguk stops. there’s someone standing by the counter, stirring at a cup of tea. jeongguk is frozen, eyes widening, and—had he miscounted? there had been six other people sleeping in the room, and with him, that makes seven.

unless—

the person turns around.

jeongguk stares. at—himself. as a sixteen-year-old. he’s got—black hair, just as fluffy and terribly dishevelled as it’s always been in the morning, and there’s baby fat on his cheeks, and there are gauges in his ears, and he’s staring with those wide wide eyes that jeongguk knows, that jeongguk has—this jeongguk. and also that jeongguk.

they stare at each other for an inordinate amount of time, it feels—that jeongguk with a tea cup in his hand and a massive white t-shirt on. and jeongguk had just assumed that if this was a dream, he would be the only jeongguk. and if this wasn’t a dream and he’d somehow ended up here for real, he would have switched places with himself or just turned up in the other’s place.

but. that’s clearly not the case.

“um,” says jeongguk, this jeongguk. “hello?”

and jeongguk—that jeongguk—screams.

he’s the middle of trying to lunge for the kid and tell him to stop screaming so loudly and there’s nothing to be worried about—which ends up being jeongguk chasing himself around the kitchen and loudly whispering like a madman—when someone else stumbles into the room. when several someone elses stumble into the room, yelling, and jeongguk has to duck out of the way of a bat suddenly aimed at his head by one of the hyungs attempting to rescue little jeongguk from what must be an intruder. and jeongguk understands that, of course, since he’s just shown up here but amidst all of the screaming and swinging of baseball bats, he manages to jump onto a chair with his hands held out.

“stop trying to hit me!” he yells. “i’m not a burglar!”

“then who the fuck are you?” someone—yoongi, it seems—yells. hoseok is the one with the bat still held high in his hands, all seven of them crowding together like a ragtag army in the doorway between the kitchen and the hallway. sixteen-year-old jeongguk is currently being pressed against both namjoon and jimin, the tea cup rattling in his shaking hands.

despite himself, jeongguk just stares for a second. it’s different, somehow, when they’re all awake—and they look exactly like he remembers them from five years ago, faces swollen with sleep and all of those hours of hard work and little sleep already taking a toll. they’re all smaller, less defined. they’re all terrified.

it’s seokjin who says, “oh my god. he’s jeongguk.”

somehow, that doesn’t make jeongguk relax—he still has his hands held out like he’s dealing with wild animals, and all seven of them are still staring at him. now they’re just staring harder, the silence grating on his ears as he waits for someone to say something.

“what?” asks taehyung. “how can he be jeongguk? jeongguk is right there.”

“look at him,” says seokjin. “he’s jeongguk, just… not our jeongguk.”

jeongguk swallows tightly. “he’s right,” he says, and all seven of them flinch like they forgot that he was a real person and not a hologram or a statue. “i’m jeongguk. just, um—from 2018? i think i time travelled or something. i don’t know.”

they all continue to stare at him. they might kick him out—jeongguk didn’t even know time travel was real, but it has to be the only explanation for this. he didn’t wake up in his younger body, or switch places with him. he’s just woken up five years ago, and now there are two jeongguks and he has no idea how it happened or how he’ll get back. but he’s here now. and he’s not sure he’s going anywhere.

surprisingly, it’s the younger jeongguk who speaks after that, slowly pulling himself away from his hyungs—jimin grabs his arm like he has to protect him from something dangerous—and peering up at jeongguk with those same wide eyes. “are you really?” he asks. “you’re me?”

jeongguk nods. “yeah, just… older. taller. better at gaming.” no one cracks a smile at that, despite jeongguk attempting to lighten the mood, so he just awkwardly clears his throat. “i didn’t come here on purpose. i just fell asleep in my own bed last night and woke up here, so i’m just as confused and frightened as all of you are, but i promise i’m not here to kill anyone.” they don’t seem convinced. “hobi-hyung, can you just—put down the bat, please?”

“hold on,” says yoongi. “if you’re really from the future, then prove it. tell us something that happens to us.”

“how is that going to prove anything if those things haven’t happened to you yet?” asks jeongguk. “and i can’t tell you anything, because that probably disrupts the… quantum physics of the space-time continuum or whatever.” he would, he thinks—like to tell them about all of their success and how everything they’re going through now is worth it in the end. but that’s not fair, and it’s not right, probably.

“are there hoverboards?” asks taehyung.

“i mean… yeah, i guess. not like back to the future, though.”

“what about flying cars?”

“2018 isn’t that far in the future, you know.”

“who’s the president of the united states?” asks namjoon.

“donald trump.”

“he’s definitely a fraud.”

jeongguk sighs, rubbing at his face again. when he drops his hands, he doesn’t think he detects as much fear on the faces of the seven—they must have decided that if he hasn’t tried to attack them yet, then he’s not going to. “look, i don’t know why i’m here,” says jeongguk. “but can i please get off of this chair? i’m not going to disturb you or anything. i could… probably help you out, actually. what’s on your schedule for today?”

hoseok slowly puts down the bat. they all look at each other, like they’re silently trying to converse about whether they can trust this strange jeongguk from the future—he has to wonder what he looks like to them, older and taller and different yet still somehow the jeongguk they know and love. and he can’t help staring at himself, trying to remember if he’d always been so… small compared to the rest of them. he’d grown into his teeth, at least.

“fine,” says namjoon at last, turning to face him. “you can stay. we have a broadcast recording today, so… you can come along and give us pointers or something, if you’re really jeongguk. i assume you know n.o.”

jeongguk almost blanches—so he’s really gone right back to the very beginning, if they’re promoting n.o. maybe he’s simply shown up in october of 2013 instead of october of 2018, travelling exactly five years to the day. but that also means—he pauses just slightly, remembering all of the struggles that the seven of them faced after debut, during this era and the ones after. it had been hard. almost too hard, almost enough to call it quits, and he doesn’t know how he’s supposed to just live here and remember all of that, but. but. he knows that it turns out alright—he’s living proof of that.

“yeah,” says jeongguk, slowly getting down from the chair. “i know it. unfortunately, i don’t think i can do anything about the tragic costuming, though.”

“hey, our outfits are fine.” jeongguk can’t help but giggle, deciding that it’s best just to find the silver lining in this—he can help them, at least as much as he can without changing the course of their lives or revealing what happens in the future for them.

“we really do have to get ready, though,” says namjoon after a moment. “everyone go get cleaned up.” as the group begins to filter out of the room, leaving with last glances at jeongguk, he’s suddenly left with—himself. literally. the kid is still standing there holding the teacup, staring at him. it’s incredibly weird to meet his past self, but it must be weirder to meet his future self—this person who has five more years of experience, who has lived all of his life and then some. he can’t blame the younger jeongguk for looking at him like that.

“your hair is brown,” he says, taking a tentative step forward and reaching up for it. jeongguk tips his head a little, grinning when he feels fingers tugging at some of the strands.

“it’s been pink, too,” says jeongguk, and the hand is suddenly snatched away with a gasp. when he looks up, the younger jeongguk is touching his own hair protectively.

“no,” he says. “i would never dye my hair pink.”

“the fans seem to like it.”

that makes the kid pause, it seems—he drops his hand, jaw setting. jeongguk knows that he wants to ask a question, knows those kinds of faces like the back of his hand—because they’re his faces. “i know you want to ask about the fans,” says jeongguk, “but i can’t tell you anything. i think it’s against the rules.”

“are there rules for this sort of thing? i don’t think people just randomly show up in the past like this.”

“maybe i’m like the ghost of bangtan future,” says jeongguk. “i’m here to teach you a lesson.”

the kid’s eyes narrow. apparently he doesn’t seem keen on that sort of thing—which jeongguk remembers well, too. he’d be a brat back then, a little selfish, a little too focused on himself and his dancing rather than the group as a whole. he supposes being sixteen does that to a person, before he grew into who he is now, but—maybe that’s the lesson. he’s supposed to teach himself how to be kind.

then—“jeongguk-ah!”

both of their heads snap sideways, calling out a yeah before jeongguk finds his cheeks colouring—he’s not entirely sure what the others would call him. and anyway. the kid looks at him a little strangely before setting the tea cup down on the counter, still entirely full. someone calls for him to get ready, and jeongguk stands there in the kitchen after he’s gone, still not entirely sure what he’s meant to do about this whole thing.

this is what he does do: he changes out of his own pajamas and into some of namjoon’s clothes, since any of sixteen-year-old jeongguk’s clothing is far too small for him. even then, it’s with much reluctance, because 2013 fashion, particularly for teenage boys, was a disaster—and namjoon had yet to really grow into his own fashion sense. they didn’t really have the money for it. he stays out of the way as the seven of them get ready, because seven people is already enough in their tiny dorm—and jeongguk marvels at that, too, how they managed to live like this for so long, how they managed to cram together. there’s not a lot of food in the fridge, he notes. not a lot of anything but determination and a desire to do more for themselves. it’s hard to see it again, to know this is all they know, but he tries not to think about it.

they somehow manage to convince their manager to take jeongguk with them with as little explaining as possible. they give him a black mask and cap to cover himself up. the younger jeongguk practically stays glued to his side in the car, bombarding him with questions now that he’s apparently decided to stop being freaked out about all of it.

“what do we do after this?” he asks.

“i’m not telling you.”

“can you tell me how many albums we have?”

“no.”

“can you tell me how many albums we sell?”

“also no.”

“do we get a win with any of our songs?”

jeongguk—stops. he turns to look at the kid, with all of his eagerness. he remembers being that age, remembers debuting and being so hopeful but so unsure. all they’d really wanted was to do well. all they’d really wanted was to get a win on a music show, maybe have a concert that sold out, no matter how small the venue was. yesterday, jeongguk stood on a stage and was given the order of cultural merit from the south korean government after spending several months overseas on their sold out world tour for their latest set of albums, two of which reached number one on the billboard 200.

and his sixteen-year-old self, fresh after debut, is wondering if they ever get a win on a korean broadcasting show.

he almost wants to cry—almost wants to grab him and tell him that he has no fucking idea. but jeongguk just grins, nudges the kid a little. “don’t be afraid to dream a little bigger,” he says.

after a moment—“isn’t that a line from that inception movie?”

“yeah, but the sentiment still stands.”

“whatever, you’re a nerd.”

“i’m you. so you just called yourself a nerd, loser.”

jimin snorts from the seat in front of him. “glad to know you’re still as much of a brat as you are now,” he muses.

jeongguk stands in the wings, watching as the group performs. he can’t remember this day if he thinks about it—not the specifics of it, because all of it has blurred together so much, at least from the beginning. it was a lot of broadcasts and music shows and practice, a lot of working as hard as he possibly could to make something out of bangtan and always seeming to fall just a little short. it’s different to watch it from here, though, instead of being part of it—to know exactly how the kids on stage are feeling because he felt it, too, but to see it from an outsider’s perspective.

and they are—trying so hard. there’s that determination in all of their eyes, a need to find something bigger than themselves. coming from a small company is difficult. jeongguk is keenly aware of how hard it had been right after debut, where he’s somehow turned up. he remembers this too well: getting cut off on broadcasts, having few but dedicated fans, thinking that maybe they wouldn’t make it but never really voicing those concerns for fear of somehow making the true.

on stage, they’re singing they say i’m on my way to happiness. then how do you explain my unhappiness? backstage, jeongguk feels something strange curling up inside of him, something familiar—doesn’t he still have worries about bangtan even with their success? in the beginning, they were so worried about surviving at all. now they’re afraid of falling, afraid of having nothing underneath them when all of the bright lights inevitably turn off and they’re left in darkness.

it’s the same fear. it’s the same root, the same desire to be seen and heard. they’ve grown, he knows, but in so many ways, they’re still the same boys that jeongguk sees before him, singing and dancing and begging for someone to hear them. maybe he understands this desire more now that it’s evolved, now that he’s somehow removed from the original struggles of the group.

on stage, he sees his younger self fumble, just slightly—misses just one beat, slipping back into the choreography within the blink of an eye. jeongguk tilts his head slightly, trying to see the kid’s face from here, because he knows—knows himself. knows that even if nobody else noticed the slip-up, it might as well be the worst fucking thing in the world to him.

he’s waiting, then, when the group finally finishes their recording and hurries off of the stage—heavy breathing, sweaty. most of them look pleased with their performance, and then jeongguk sees himself come last—head down, hands curled into fists at his side. he brushes past the staff waiting in the wings, past jeongguk as he tries to reach out and catch his arm.

“hey,” says jeongguk, and his younger self snatches his arm back before throwing a dark glance over his shoulder. “you did good.”

there’s a familiar darkening of his eyes, furrowing of his eyebrows. jeongguk knows all too well what sort of insecurity and doubt is running through the kid’s head, so he says, “don’t beat yourself up over a little mistake. it’s not that big of a deal, and you can just work to improve next time. don’t—”

“whatever.” the word is said with a snap, the kid already turning and stalking after his hyungs.

“it’s not whatever,” says jeongguk, following him. “i know what you’re thinking right now and i’m just saying that you don’t need to spend fourteen hours in the studio perfecting that one step just because you did it wrong once.”

“can’t afford to make mistakes,” says the kid as he shoulders his way into the dressing room, jeongguk trailing after him. “not now, not ever.”

“there’s nothing wrong with making mistakes.”

“leave me alone. you don’t understand.”

jeongguk stops, staring at the kid as he begins pulling off the costume. he’s shoved into the corner, away from the others, and jeongguk doesn’t—know what to do. he’s always been stubborn, even more so as a sixteen-year-old. and he knows what it’s like to be in that head, to have those doubts and that anxiety.

“you don’t think i understand?” he asks. “jeongguk, i am you. i went through this exact same thing five years ago. i’ve done everything you’ve done and then some. and you know what?” he puts a hand on the kid’s shoulder, forcing him to turn around and look. “you make more mistakes. you make worse mistakes. and you’re always going to get in your head and overthink it and think that you’ve disappointed yourself and your hyungs and your fans. it’s what you do.” the kid is staring at him now, wide-eyed with his lips parted. maybe it’s not what he expected. but it’s what he needs to hear. “i know because that’s what i do, because we’re the same person. and i’m trying to work on not thinking i’ve failed people every time i make a wrong step, but it’s hard. i know it is. and it always will be. but that doesn’t mean you need to just let those thoughts take over.”

he’d just been injured through the last part of their tour, unable to perform properly. and it broke his fucking heart, feeling like he’d disappointed everyone who had waited so long to see them—but he knew where the problem was with his thinking. and he knew, too, how to deal with it. “don’t isolate yourself when you start thinking like that,” he adds. “your hyungs care about you. they want to help you and take care of you and show you ways to improve. you’re allowed to ask them for help. you’re allowed to tell them when you’re feeling like this.”

he knows, too, that he’d been a little selfish during the first years of the group—or a lot. he laughs about it now, but he’s seeing it in the flesh, seeing the kid that he was who could sometimes only focus on himself, on his own hardships.

“what if they don’t understand, either?” asks the kid, frowning now.

“impossible,” says jeongguk. “you’re all in this together. and yeah, you have different roles, different struggles to a point. but all of them make mistakes like you do, and all of them feel bad about it. you really think you’re the only person who feels like this? that’s not how bangtan works.” they’re still new. they still have so much to go through, and jeongguk knows that the events of the next five years will carve them into the unbreakable family that he knows. but they have to start somewhere. “you’re allowed to be upset about making a mistake,” he adds, dropping his hand. “but just remember you’re not alone in it. and sometimes even just a hair ruffle from someone else can make you feel better.”

he thinks that maybe he’ll have gotten through, that it’ll make a difference now—but his younger self just turns back to his clothes, muttering a, “yeah, whatever,” before he pulls his shirt over his head. it’s clear that the conversation is done, whether or not he’s going to listen. and jeongguk hopes that he might, even if it’s not today—it’s hard to get out of that mindset, he knows. jeongguk wants to tell him about all of the love that he gets every day from fans, from the other members. wants to tell him that no one ever makes him feel bad but himself.

but he recognizes when it’s time to let go, at least now. so he just nods, more to himself than anything, and says, “you did do well, though,” before he turns back to the rest of the bustling room, the rest of his hyungs.

he sees namjoon throw him an apologetic look, jeongguk rubbing at the back of his neck as he joins he and yoongi on the other side of the room.

“he gets like that sometimes,” namjoon says quietly. “gets in his own head, especially when he makes a mistake. he’ll be fine.”

“i know,” chuckles jeongguk. “i was him, remember? still am. i think i just realized how far i’ve come and yet how little progress i’ve made at the same time. it’s just… weird to see my own issues form the outside perspective.” he shrugs. he knows that he has his six hyungs, the boys who will help to raise him and help him grow into the person he is now, standing before them—the product of their hard work and dedication and love. he wonders if they know that he owes them everything, especially now. he thanks his hyungs a lot when he can, but maybe coming back to the very beginning is better.

he can understand now more than ever how impossible it was—he looks at yoongi, his yoongi and yet not—this yoongi is younger than him. seokjin is his age here, and they’re all just kids. yet they raised him, yet he turned out—like this. impossible.

“any advice?” asks yoongi as he pulls on his shoes, grinning up at jeongguk. “on how to deal with him, i mean. he’s a goddamn brat most of the time.”

“sorry,” says jeongguk. “on his behalf, i mean. just… give him time. but talk to him and be kind to him. i dunno, just—love him. you do that already, but that’s all it really took. you didn’t completely fuck up if i’m here and not a terrible person.” he means it as a joke, but it comes out sort of flat, and yoongi just quirks an eyebrow at him.

“good to know,” says namjoon. “he’ll probably be moody for the rest of the day, but he’s sixteen. what can you expect?”

“he’ll get over it,” jeongguk reassures him. “um—you all did well, too, by the way. kinda forgot how hard that song went.” it’s not often that they perform it anymore, if at all. there are so many other things—and how strange to think that right now, this is practically all they have. they have no idea what they’re going to do in the future. it almost feels like waiting for his best friend to watch a movie that he loves, excited for them to see all of the twists and turns, to experience it themselves, as tempting as it is to give spoilers.

namjoon snorts at him, clapping him on the back. “you guys still sing songs like that?” he asks, a sort of hope in his voice—and jeongguk feels like it’s less about if they still sing songs like that or if they still sing songs period.

jeongguk grins. “you’ll find out,” he says, and both namjoon and yoongi groan, clearly not pleased with the answer. after a moment, he turns and points at yoongi, “although we certainly don’t sing songs with yoongi-hyung looking like a housewife.”

“excuse me?”

“i’m just saying—”

“they said the hair was fashionable!”

jeongguk giggles, skirting away before yoongi can try to swat him with anything, fleeing for jimin and taehyung across the room because at least they’ll appreciate his roasting of everyone else’s fashion sense.

later, jeongguk helps them make dinner out of the little food they have in the fridge, trying to spread it out between all eight of them now—he wishes he could buy them something, but he didn’t show up with any money, and he’s not sure a credit card would work five years in the past, anyway. he tells them that he doesn’t have to eat much, not wanting to take their food, but seokjin just gives him an incredulous look that tells him that they’re not going to let him get away with that. they’re still trying to take care of him, even when he’s five years older than the jeongguk they know.

they eat crowded around the little table in the kitchen, knees and shoulders pressed together. jeongguk forgot what little space they shared, and how they managed to cram themselves into each like this, to make it fit—maybe that’s why they’re so tightknit, because they’re so used to being part of one another: physically, metaphorically. he finds himself laughing as they take their share of the food, too little but all they’re used to—as they joke about things that happened at the recording, or inside jokes that niggle at the back of jeongguk’s mind as something familiar yet long forgotten.

and jeongguk—fits. he sits there and watches the group laugh and talk, even his younger self, having gotten over whatever was ailing him earlier. neither of them talk much, still the same kid, but this jeongguk is more interested in just watching, just remembering, seeing how their dynamic has changed yet stayed irrevocably the same—this is where it started. he can see so many roots taking shaping here, can see how they’ll all grow into the members he knows.

he sees the way his younger self steals glances at yoongi across the table, sees the way seokjin tries to hold in his laughter instead of being as utterly chaotic as he is in the future. he sees the way the older hyungs keep offering the younger members pieces of meat despite not getting enough for themselves. sees all of the hardship and how it’s forming them, molding them—sees all of that love, too. makes him feel warm inside, knowing that it’s always been there, as if he could forget.

eventually, jeongguk—the younger jeongguk—takes his leave, claiming he’s tired. and maybe it’s true or maybe it’s not, but they let him go, waiting to hear the bedroom door close before they all turn back to the table. hoseok reaches out for the last of the rice, offering it to namjoon. jimin asks, “is it weird?”

jeongguk realizes jimin is looking at him and snaps out of his thoughts, eyebrows rising. “sorry, what?”

“being here,” explains jimin. “seeing everything as it was five years ago. seeing yourself from five years ago.”

“yeah,” he says, ducking his head as he laughs. “i’ve already lived all of this stuff, so it’s weird seeing it again with all of the experience and knowledge i have. i mean—here in 2013, i’m just as terrified of things going wrong as all of you are. but now i know what happens, so i see things differently.”

“you’re sure you can’t tell us anything about the future?” asks namjoon. “even just a little hint?”

“i wish i could,” says jeongguk, “but i don’t think it’s right. you should experience it yourself. even the bad stuff.” he thinks of—plagiarism claims, and sajaegi accusations. of death threats, black oceans, quotes in the media trying to take them down year after year. he wishes he could warn them about that, too, because they have no idea what’s going to come next. but there are also all of the achievements, the awards, the impossibility of it all and yet how they conquer the music world little by little. he looks at all six of them, staring back at him with wide and wondering eyes, and he thinks: you have no fucking idea.

“we already deal with enough bad stuff,” yoongi mutters, the first to turn his eyes from jeongguk. “i mean, look at this.” he gestures to the table. “we barely have enough to eat most days. not that we usually have time to eat because we’re running all over the place trying to get someone to listen to us.”

“it’s not that bad,” adds taehyung quietly. “that’s just what we have to deal with if we want to be successful in the future. right?” he looks at jeongguk again, clearly wanting confirmation that it’s all going to be worth it.

before he can reply, yoongi says, “still sucks, though. i’m allowed to say it sucks, right?”

“it does suck,” agrees namjoon. “most days, it’s not really what i imagined trying to be rapper would be like.”

“s’what you get for being an idol rapper,” says yoongi.

“i think i care less about the food,” says hoseok, “than the actual recognition. you know? like… we spent so long training and we still spend so much time every day trying to be better and trying to make good music, and people still just… don’t care.”

“it’s because we’re not from a big company,” says jimin. “no one cares about people who don’t already have the whole industry backing them just for breathing. which is unfair, because we’re just as talented and hard-working as someone from a big company, right?”

“that’s the thing about all of this,” agrees namjoon. “people start a different starting points. idols from big companies—they get to start halfway down the track while we have to start at the very beginning. it’s not their fault, it’s just—what they got, i guess. we just have to work twice as hard to catch up.”

“do you ever think you made a mistake?” seokjin pipes up, staring at the table when jeongguk looks at him. “choosing to do all of this? not that i—don’t like it. i love it. i love being a singer and having all of you and everything, but…”

there’s a lull, just a moment—as though no one else wants to admit that maybe they’d had similar thoughts. maybe they didn’t think that all of it was worth it, that it would be easier to just give up and go back to what they had before. maybe it wasn’t any more stable than all of this, but at least it wasn’t this.

then—“yeah,” says taehyung. “yeah, i’ve thought that a lot. i love bangtan. but i can’t help thinking that maybe we’re just going to crash and burn, you know?”

“we’re not,” says hoseok, pointing at jeongguk. “he’s proof that we’re not going to crash and burn. if he’s here and clearly still in bangtan, then we’re together for another five years at least.”

“that doesn’t mean it’s an easy five years,” seokjin says. “i don’t know. it’s just hard when people don’t think we’re worth anything just because of what company we come from. it’s just hard.”

“this is all i have,” says yoongi. “i don’t have any other option than this.” jeongguk knows all of their stories like the back of his hand—where they came from, how they came to be in the band. he knows things about them that these versions of themselves don’t know about each other. but he gets it. he gets it.

and as the others begin to agree with yoongi, quietly offering their sides of it—they can’t go back home, they don’t want to go back home, but they’re tired and hungry and it hurts and they’re frustrated that nothing seems to be working, no matter how hard they try—jeongguk feels tears beginning to sting at the backs of his eyes. he knows that it all works out fine in the end—the bangtan he knows still has struggles, still has fears and doubts and obstacles to overcome, but he knows that these struggles end.

their own country starts paying attention to them. they can finally eat, can finally afford to make music the way they deserve. they move into bigger dorms. their voices are heard not only by their own people, but by the whole world—jeongguk knows this. jeongguk lived through it, all of the hardships but also all of the triumph.

but being here again, saturated in it, and seeing his hyungs struggle with it again has something twisting inside of him. he sees how painful it is for them, sees how hard they’re trying only to get minimal payoff. he sees all of their fears, sees how tightly they’re holding onto this band knowing that there’s something far worse if they let go.

he hangs his head, trying not to give into the tears that begin to well in his eyes as he listens to them. it might be worse that there’s solidarity in all of their struggles—that each of them understands so well the hunger, the pain, the desire to do more. pushing themselves too hard to be perfect, to look better, to do better. not knowing what to do if people just won’t listen to what they have to say.

it’s only once he hears jimin mumble, “maybe if i don’t eat,” that jeongguk can’t stop it, a tiny and broken sob leaving him as the tears spill over onto his cheeks. his hands fly to his face immediately, hiding in them because it’s embarrassing, but he can’t stop himself from crying even when the others stop talking, no doubt staring at him.

“sorry,” he says through his hands, trying to wipe at the tears as quickly as they come. “sorry, i didn’t mean—”

“jeongguk-ah,” says yoongi, and then it’s like everyone snaps into action at the same time—by the time he looks up, all of them are crowding around him, rushing to his aid with comforting words and hands. someone is hugging him from the side, someone running a hand through his hair, someone else tugging his hands away from his eyes to wipe at the tears on his cheeks.

“it’s okay,” says taehyung. “it’s okay, you don’t have to cry.”

“sorry—”

“it’s fine, c’mon,” says someone else, still wiping at his tears, and as all six of them start bombarding him with questions of what they can do to help him, jeongguk just—laughs. it’s a complete switch from the crying, even though he’s still crying, too, and he sniffs as he tries to will it to stop before he shakes his head.

“i think he’s gone insane,” says hoseok beside him, and jeongguk laughs again.

“no, sorry, it’s just—” jeongguk wipes at his eyes. “i’m not even your jeongguk but you’re still babying me.”

“shut up, of course you’re our jeongguk,” says yoongi. “you’re just older than most of us.”

“wait, are we supposed to call you hyung?” asks jimin. “god, please don’t make me. i’d rather die.”

jeongguk laughs again, along with the others, but—it’s nice. it’s nice to feel like he’s still part of this even if he’s from the future, and he leans into seokjin, who is hugging him from behind. he is older than most of them, and taller than some of them, too. but here, he still feels like the same jeongguk that he does when he’s with them in the future—they still love him, still want to take care of them.

“sorry for crying,” he adds after a moment. “it’s just—really hard to hear you guys talk about that stuff. i’ve heard it before and i’ve lived it, but it’s different to be here instead of just reminiscing about how hard things were back then.”

“don’t be sad, jeonggukkie,” namjoon tells him, squeezing his hand. “you’re not here to be sad.”

“i can’t help it,” he admits. “not when i see you struggle. it’s like—the worst thing i can imagine?”

someone snorts to his right. “you should tell our jeongguk that,” says jimin. “he’s always such a brat. i don’t think he’d cry in front of us even if we stabbed him.”

“please don’t stab him,” breathes jeongguk.

“you’re a lot more affectionate than he is,” muses hoseok. “does that mean you actually let us hug you in the future?”

“as if i’m able to stop you,” says jeongguk. “but yeah, i guess i come out of my shell a lot, so you have that to look forward to. and me crying sometimes, obviously.” he wrote a whole song about wanting his hyungs to be happy, not wanting to see them struggle—but he can’t tell them about that, either. he’ll let them learn about it for the first time from their jeongguk, just so he gets the reaction that he deserves.

“we are going to be okay though, right?” asks yoongi. and when jeongguk looks at him, he can’t help seeing his yoongi—can’t help seeing everything between them, and how it’ll grow, and how it feels like a different sort of question between them, even if it’s not what yoongi means.

so jeongguk nods. “yeah,” he says. “i mean, obviously you’re not going to disband before 2018. but it’s not always easy. i wish i could say that you get a big break early on and it’s smooth sailing from there, but…” namjoon squeezes his hand again. he feels a fresh wave of tears and blinks them away, not wanting to cry again. “you have to fight for every inch,” he continues. “but it’s worth it in the end. and i don’t want you to take me being here as an excuse to take it easy because you know that it’ll be fine in the end. just—use it as an excuse to try even harder. to find out what the rest of you are like where i’m from.”

jeongguk worried about them a lot in the beginning—about himself, of course, but about the rest of them, too. worried about what would become of them, trying to follow their lead as the youngest member of the group and the least experienced. and he worries about them now, but if anything, being here has reminded him of how determined they were in the beginning, how much they wanted it. even though he knows what obstacles they’ll have to face in the future, some worse than others, some leaving more lasting scars—he’s not afraid. he knows they’ll be fine, even if he wasn’t from the future.

“i’m glad,” sighs seokjin. “i’m really glad.”

“our fans say karma is an army,” adds jeongguk. “i think they’re actually right. so you just have to—work for it. and it’ll come true.”

“you’re great at giving pep talks, you know,” says taehyung after a moment. “surprisingly.”

“hey, just because i’m the youngest doesn’t mean i’m not smart,” says jeongguk, flinging a leg in taehyung’s general direction. “and i am older than you right now, might i remind you.”

“so you do want us to call you hyung?”

“please don’t call him hyung,” groans namjoon.

“he doesn’t even call me hyung,” complains jimin. “jeongguk-ah, can you call me hyung once? it would make me feel much better about the future to know you actually respect me there.”

“i don’t call you hyung in the future, either,” says jeongguk, and jimin shrieks before launching himself at jeongguk, and jeongguk laughs as they get into a sort of wrestling match—along with taehyung, somehow, and seokjin is still holding onto him and it’s good. he’s not worried about them, because they have each other, and now jeongguk sees—that’s always been the most important thing about them.

jeongguk spends the rest of the evening staying out of the way of most of them—namjoon and yoongi are working on music, hoseok and jimin working out a few kinks in the choreography that they noticed during the recording. he spends his time watching them, reminiscing in the days when this was his life, when this was all he knew. although namjoon asks for a few hints about their later releases, jeongguk still stays mum about it, choosing to let it be a surprise.

eventually, the boys head to bed. they cram into their little dorm room, seven in one—tucking themselves into the little spaces they’ve been able to make for themselves, dreaming that one day, it won’t be like this. last night, jeongguk fell asleep in one of the most expensive neighbourhoods in seoul, and now—this. their humble beginnings. maybe this is less about jeongguk being able to teach them something and them reminding him of where he began. it’s hard to forget.

anyway—there are only seven beds. and although taehyung holds up his blanket in a silent offer, jeongguk just grins at them. “i think i’m gonna do some exploring,” he says. “don’t mind me. i promise i won’t steal anything.” it’s been a hectic day of following after them, trying not to feel overwhelmed about their past, their beginnings. jeongguk feels like he hasn’t had a moment to breathe, to attempt to understand what’s happened and why it’s happening in the first place. so when they bid him goodnight, jeongguk closes the bedroom door behind him.

it’s dark, quiet. he remembers this well, too—he used to stay awake sometimes, staring up at the ceiling as he listened to the breathing of the other six around him. as he tried to imagine what would become of them, and what would happen if the answer was nothing. he moves through the dorm quietly, looking through what they have here—their belongings, all of their shoes and coats shoved into one closet. it’s a mess, as expected from seven boys. still, it makes him grin.

he finds himself growing ever grateful for how far they’ve come, for the course of their journey. as much as the struggles after their debut taught him so much, he hopes that he gets to go back home—to where things are more familiar, where he knows he belongs. the truth is that jeongguk doesn’t belong here anymore—not with what he knows, not with how he’s grown. this space is entirely for his sixteen-year-old self, who still has so much growing to do. still has so many things to discover.

he likes what he has—their achievements, sure, but more importantly: yoongi. he remembers how it had been in the early days, when yoongi, like most of his other hyungs, was just someone to look up to, someone trying to raise him and do it right. there was always something a little different about yoongi, and now he finds himself grinning as he comes across a few framed pictures of the group from before their debut—jeongguk keeping his hands to himself, almost too afraid to touch.

maybe that’s the part he’s most excited for, at least when it comes to his younger self—the journey of becoming unafraid. unafraid of feelings, unafraid of opening up and letting someone else in. maybe he didn’t need the extra stress of realizing that he had new and terrifying feelings for one of his own bandmates, but he’ll last through it. that will be worth it, too.

as if on cue—there’s a sound in the kitchen. jeongguk turns around to see yoongi pouring himself a glass of water, feels something twist in his gut. he’s been ignoring it for most of the day—trying to look at this yoongi and not see his, not compare them. they’re the same person, of course, just different versions. they don’t love each other yet, not the way that they will, and that’s—good. just different.

yoongi lifts the glass to his lips, taking a sip before his eyes shift to jeongguk watching him, and his eyebrows rise. once he swallows, he says, “oh. hey.”

jeongguk almost almost almost laughs, but he stops himself at the last second, just grinning instead. “hi,” he replies.

they kind of just—look at each other for a few seconds. jeongguk isn’t sure what’s left to say—he’s been bombarded with questions throughout the day, has tried to impart as much wisdom as he dares. it’s not like yoongi is a stranger here, anyway. but he waits until yoongi drinks all of the water anyway, waits until he sets the glass beside the sink and then joins him in the living room. yoongi stops by his side, looking at the framed photo that jeongguk was examining earlier.

“can’t sleep?” asks jeongguk. his yoongi does that too—spends far too many hours of the night awake, either working or writing lyrics or just getting lost in his own head. it’s no wonder he falls asleep everywhere else.

yoongi doesn’t answer. just mutters, “it’s fucking weird,” and jeongguk snorts.

“what is?”

“you’re taller than me.” and—oh. jeongguk is used to that, too. yoongi looks over at him, looks up, and it must be so strange for him to see an older, taller version of the shy kid he’s used to. not so afraid to just exist. jeongguk used to apologize for taking up space.

“everyone is taller than you, hyung,” jeongguk tells him. “so you have that to look forward to.”

he expects yoongi to laugh at that—or be offended—but he just sort of… tilts his head, examining jeongguk’s face. searching for differences, maybe, or similarities. the scar is the same, and the nose. the eyes. there’s something sharper about his everything, jeongguk knows, but he’s still the same kid in a lot of ways. just in the same way as yoongi is the same, too.

after what feels like ages, yoongi finally looks away, peering at the photo again before he leaves jeongguk’s side to collapse onto the sofa. he pats the spot beside him and jeongguk goes willingly, thighs just barely touching where he sinks into the sofa. “is it like you remember it?” yoongi asks. “all of this, i mean?”

“for the most part, yeah,” says jeongguk. “my memory has muddled a bit of it, couldn’t remember all the details, but… i wasn’t too worried about remembering exactly what this room looked like. i was more interested in remembering what we did, who we were. it’s different seeing it from the outside, but i think i understand it better. you know, back when we debuted, i was just… blinded by a desire to be someone. sometimes i think i forgot that i wasn’t the only one.”

“it’s weird hearing you say that,” says yoongi. “you’re—different.”

jeongguk looks at him sideways, brows furrowing. “different how?”

“more—” yoongi makes a vague gesture with his hands, as though that will explain anything, “—mature, i guess.”

“i am five years older than he is. i hope i’ve matured from when i was sixteen.”

“you’re not such a kid anymore, huh?” and maybe that’s it—yoongi seeing him with new eyes. seeing him as an adult, as someone he can actually understand and connect with. yoongi was sixteen once, too, but he’s never been the same age as jeongguk, not like this. not as though they’ve always been like this.

“you still baby me sometimes,” says jeongguk with a shrug. “i’m still the youngest. i still get upset when i made a mistake onstage. i still listen to a lot of the same music, like a lot of the same things. i’m not too different.”

“what about me?” asks yoongi. “am i different?”

and jeongguk looks at him—in the future, yoongi still looks the same. his hair is even a strikingly similar colour at the moment, ironically enough. he still wants to change the world with his music, still wants to reach the top and then keep going if that’s what it takes. he still offers his food to the younger members even when he hasn’t eaten enough. he still stays awake like this, like there’s something about the night that will speak secrets to him.

but he’s different, too, of course—older, more mature. jeongguk thinks of the secrets hidden deep in yoongi’s mixtape, the things that he hasn’t told anyone yet. the story of his shoulder injury, the one that he won’t tell anyone for years. jeongguk looks at yoongi with all of this knowledge, knowledge that yoongi doesn’t know he has—and that’s dangerous, isn’t it? a little thrilling. mostly—

“i don’t think you’re very different,” says jeongguk. “people just understand you more. you… let people understand you more.” that’s part of it, part of how the two of them came about in the first place—both introverts, both so eager to hold their cards close to their chests. and maybe it came with a little trade, with a little give and take until they weren’t so unafraid to peel back their hearts and let the other in. it’s always felt like he’s been holding something very precious when it comes to yoongi, to yoongi letting him in.

and yoongi leans back on the sofa, frowning a little before he nods. “that’s very cryptic,” he says.

“i’m not going to tell you any secrets,” says jeongguk. “i haven’t told anyone else any, so you don’t get special privileges. those are—for later.”

“what does that mean?”

jeongguk grins. “you’ll find out. there’s a lot of fun things to find out. i think you’ll like them.” there are things that yoongi likely can’t even wrap his head around now, but they’ll come anyway, bit by bit, in pieces that he can swallow until he’s not afraid to reach for more.

he’s avoided questions about their success all day, but he finds himself more inclined to talk to yoongi about it—maybe not in terms of what will happen, but in other terms. terms that his younger self can’t understand but his older self can, things like yoongi pulling his feet onto the sofa and looking at him and asking, “do we get greedy?” and jeongguk looking at him and seeing that fear like a mirror.

when jeongguk doesn’t immediately respond, yoongi adds, “i’m scared of that, you know? we don’t have much now, but i’m afraid that if we do get something, we’ll just want more and more and it’ll stop being about… making music that matters to people and becomes us just wanting more because we can’t stop. because that would make us richer, or more famous. i don’t want it to stop being genuine.”

what jeongguk wishes he could say is—a few days ago, namjoon released his second mixtape with three days warning, released it for free on several music platforms and it still went to number one in more countries than their own group’s last promoted album did. that hoseok did the same earlier in the year, that they did it because all they really want to do is share their music. share their lives, share words that might help someone—that it’s never about the fame, or the money.

what jeongguk does say is, “it’s never been about that, hyung. right now, you’re not in this to be famous, are you?”

“of course not,” says yoongi.

“that doesn’t change. and yeah, we do gain fame and recognition and that’s really, really nice. it’s nice for people to understand and recognize what we’re trying to do, but it’s never about ourselves. we’re always stressing how we just want to make music that can touch people, that can help them. we’d still be making the same music if only one person was listening.”

“that’s how it feels sometimes,” says yoongi with a frown. “like only one person is listening.”

“but if it makes a difference to that one person, isn’t that worth it?” asks jeongguk. “and trust me—it’ll be more than one person. you wouldn’t believe it, hyung. but you never get greedy. we hold each other accountable about that.”

“do you ever worry about it, though?” when yoongi looks at him next, the fear is still there—but there’s something searching, too. jeongguk realizes belatedly that he and yoongi rarely had conversations like this now, when jeongguk was sixteen. he wouldn’t have known what to say, wouldn’t have known how to make it any better. and maybe it’s not about making it better, but letting yoongi know that jeongguk understands.

“yeah,” he admits. “yeah, i worry a lot about coming across as ingenuine, coming across as someone who is just making music that doesn’t mean anything so that i can make more money. i don’t care about the money, though—it’s nice. it’s really nice, especially when i still remember spending so long here, when we had nothing. but i try so hard to be genuine and honest. i don’t know if it works sometimes.”

“that’s what i worry about,” agrees yoongi. “being seen as authentic. especially because—well. you know. being in an idol group wasn’t really my plan.”

“i know, hyung,” says jeongguk.

yoongi opens his mouth, and then closes it away. doesn’t look at jeongguk, their knees knocking together when he shakes with it, just a little—all that he wants to say. jeongguk feels like he knows it already, knows enough about these struggles since yoongi finally opened up about them—but for this yoongi, it’s different. maybe this yoongi hasn’t told a lot of people about it, too afraid of jinxing himself. too afraid to coming across as someone who would rather be anywhere but here.

so jeongguk carefully reaches out, setting his hand palm up on yoongi’s knee. just—a silent offer. just in case.

yoongi looks at it. he doesn’t take it, not yet, but he must understand what it means, because he whispers, “i hate being an idol. being called an idol, being—reduced to this. does that mean i’m not as much of a rapper? does that mean my words don’t matter as much?”

he tries to place it in the timeline of their lives, even with the blur of his memory. have yoongi and namjoon gone up against this yet, have they dealt with it yet? have they been called fakes, sell-outs for choosing to be part of an idol group instead?

and how is jeongguk supposed to deal with that?

and how is he supposed to bridge to gap between this version of yoongi, the one he remembers so well, and the one who so happily sings an entire song about being an idol and not being afraid of it?

“no,” says jeongguk quietly. yoongi is still watching his hand. “you’re still you no matter what your title is—rapper, idol. it’s still the same music, the same words. you don’t have to like it. and other people might not like it, and they might say terrible things about it, but in the end—you’re still making music. you’re still rapping, still putting your words out there.”

“even if i have to dance?”

“you’re not a bad dancer, hyung,” grins jeongguk. “and maybe it’s not what you imagined when you auditioned for bighit, and maybe it’s not what you imagined when you left home. but it’s what you have. and if you want it—you have to work for it. you’ll come around to it.” jeongguk can’t pretend to know about that journey, can’t pretend he understands everything in yoongi’s story—he just knows that it’ll happen, slowly but surely. he’ll get there in the end, and jeongguk will be waiting.

“do you ever hate it?” yoongi asks him. he finally, finally—reaches out his own hand, just carefully. traces a finger over the lines of jeongguk’s palm, focusing on that instead.

jeongguk shivers. “sometimes,” he says. “i love being on stage and getting to perform and seeing people fall in love with music because of us. but it’s exhausting—not just practicing or working hard. it’s exhausting… seeing how vindictive other people can be. there’s always someone who has something to say.”

“exactly,” breathes yoongi. “how do you get over the idea of not caring what other people think? how do you just focus on yourself when you’re trying to put yourself in the spotlight like this?”

“you just have to put it in perspective,” says jeongguk. “who are the people who matter the most? there are always going to be people who don’t want you to succeed. people who will do everything they can to make sure you don’t succeed, even if it’s for no reason whatsoever. but i’ve found that… you help.” yoongi’s eyes rise finally, watching him in the darkness. “all of you. we have each other.” he grins a little more, dropping his eyes and almost blushing when he quotes yoongi himself, five years in the future: “what a relief that we are seven. what a relief that we are together.”

yoongi finally takes his hand, slips their fingers together. “that’s poetic as fuck.”

“a great lyricist said that,” he laughs, fingers curling around yoongi’s. “maybe i’ll put it in a song.”

“you make music?”

jeongguk grins. “we make music together, yoongi-hyung.”

when they finally head back to the bedroom, jeongguk conceding that he should sleep—and maybe he’ll wake up back in 2018, or maybe he’ll be here a little while longer—yoongi stops him just outside of the door, tugging on his hand and turning to look at him with a scrutinizing expression.

“can i ask you a question about the future?” he asks, holding up an index finger when jeongguk opens his mouth to protest. “you don’t have to answer. i just want to ask.”

there’s something suspicious in his eyes, but something nervous, something unsure. jeongguk just nods, figures there’s only so many things yoongi can ask.

and then yoongi says, “you look at me differently. from—how you look at everyone else, i mean. and how he looks at me.” when jeongguk was sixteen, he loved yoongi—loved him like a kid, loved him like a role model. and he didn’t mean for the something else to seep in anyway, but it’s not easy to just switch it off. it’s not easy to be entirely endeared with this version of yoongi, too.

still. jeongguk suddenly feels a bit like a deer caught in headlights, backed up against the wall next to the bedroom door. “that’s not a question,” he whispers.

“are we—” starts yoongi, and then stops again. he drops jeongguk’s hand. “not that i’d—i mean, he’s sixteen.”

jeongguk almost grins. “he won’t be sixteen forever,” he says, and maybe that’s enough of an answer. he breezes past yoongi, opening the door to the bedroom—with six sleeping boys inside. someone is snoring. it feels strangely like home, this warm and fond memory of what he once had. as much as he enjoys having a room to himself, maybe sometimes he misses this, too—this ragtag army of boys, armed to the teeth with hope, sleeping side by side and waiting waiting waiting for their chance to go to war for what they believe in: themselves.

there are still only seven beds. but it’s unspoken, really, as yoongi pulls him toward his bed, trying to stay silent as they cram onto the tiny mattress. jeongguk accidentally smacks his head on the side of one of the bunks and almost sends himself into a giggling fit, even with yoongi tugging him onto the bed and tossing his pillow into his face to shut him up. he remembers nights like that, too—less people. more just trying not to wake seokjin or namjoon, trying to find some little piece of privacy even when it was least convenient. he feels nineteen again.

anyway—anyway.

“this bed is too small,” grumbles jeongguk when he’s in the midst of trying to fit himself into the space, curling into it. yoongi elbows him in the stomach, not used to sleeping in a bed with someone else—not yet, anyway, even though they’ll learn. it’s like a trial run.

“just stop moving so much,” yoongi whispers back, finally managing to find enough space—and they’re facing each other, noses nearly pressed together and legs tangled. jeongguk realizes, quietly, that yoongi is holding his hand under the covers, that he’s kind of just staring. and jeongguk—would give him anything. even now, especially now.

he wants to say it—feels a horrible sort of emptiness and longing to be here even though it’s not the same. this is yoongi but not his yoongi, not yet. he can’t jump the gun for his younger self, can’t ruin anything—it’s new and quiet and will grow. it’ll grow, he tells himself. but he lets his head dip forward anyway, forehead knocking against yoongi’s as he breathes.

“jeongguk-ah,” says yoongi quietly.

“yoongi-hyung.”

“you didn’t answer my question.”

he can feel yoongi breathing on his lips. and he loves him—loves him even now, always did. and maybe just this once—just this once.

“i think you already know the answer,” he whispers, and maybe that’s enough. maybe there’s no other way to say it anyway, and he feels yoongi’s free hand moving through his hair carefully. yoongi used to tell him that he didn’t like jeongguk like that until jeongguk was eighteen at least. yoongi has two years to go, but he’s here anyway, and then there’s a gentle, barely-there press of yoongi’s lips against his—more the side of his mouth than anything, but it’s something nonetheless.

“okay?” breathes yoongi.

and jeongguk grins, can’t help it—it’s what yoongi said the first time they kissed, too, three years in the future, with jeongguk’s hands fisted in yoongi’s coat and the first snowfall drifting down around them and yoongi’s lips just brushing against his—okay? okay, jeongguk-ah? this is okay?

and jeongguk said—“yeah, hyung.”

there’s a thump from above them—someone turning, someone hitting their knee against the side of the bunk bed, and jeongguk’s heart jumps in his chest as he looks at the wooden slats above them. he’s forgotten what it’s like to not be alone. “jesus,” he mutters. “i definitely don’t miss these bunk beds.”

“sorry, jeongguk-ah,” says yoongi, still holding his hand. always holding his hand. “sorry.”

“go to sleep, hyung,” he decides, turning toward yoongi again so their noses brush together. “i have to go home.”

“what if you don’t?”

jeongguk closes his eyes. feels all sorts of tired, bogged down by worry—but hope, too. he knows they’re worried, too, but he also knows that they’ll be just fine. it’s only when he’s half-asleep, yoongi’s breathing heavy against him, that he thinks to answer—“you’d miss me too much.”

when jeongguk wakes next, he’s cold. he must have kicked the blankets away from him, leaving him making a noise of discomfort as he slowly slips into consciousness. with his eyes closed, he pats his hand over the mattress in search of the blankets, but comes up empty—and comes up empty, too, when he doesn’t feel anyone beside him. he distinctly remembers falling asleep beside someone last night, beside—yoongi, and then it all suddenly comes rushing back to him: the last twenty-four hours, his strange time travel.

jeongguk’s eyes open, panic already setting in when he fears what he’ll see—would it be worse to stay in 2013 and have to relive everything and not know what he was missing in the future? would it be worse to go back to 2018 and find out that he’s somehow unintentionally changed the course of their group and now everything is different? what if they’ve broken up, what if he and yoongi aren’t together, what if they hate him—

but. when he sits up and looks around the room, it’s familiar. it’s his room—not the one from 2013, but the one he’s been living in for months. that’s his desk, with his equipment. that’s his closet, with his clothes. this is his bed—empty, though. the panic doesn’t go away, then, as jeongguk’s heart seizes into his throat, and he scrambles to get out of bed and throws open the door, hurriedly padding down the hallway and toward the kitchen.

he needs to—see them. needs to know, needs to think that everything is still fine, that he hasn’t ruined anything. and more than that: he misses them. how strange that he was with them yesterday, but it wasn’t really them, not the way that he’s come to know them. he felt so strangely alone there, with people that they no longer are—the remnants remain, the base foundation of the men that they’ve all grown into, but it wasn’t the same. it was only one day, but his hands itch to hold something familiar. he misses yoongi.

and what if they’re not there? what if he lives here, but it’s only him, and what if the bangtan from 2013 took his presence as an excuse not to try and now they’ve all failed and—

he stumbles into the kitchen, stopping short when he sees all six of his hyungs around the table, reaching for food and talking. just—there. just there. they don’t even notice that he’s rushed into the kitchen only to stop short, too engrossed in their breakfast and talking. someone mentions the cultural merit award, which means—they still won it. they don’t look different, don’t seem different. which means jeongguk didn’t somehow mess up their entire future, didn’t somehow end up back in a world that he doesn’t recognize.

finally, it’s hoseok who notices him. “about time,” he says through a mouthful of fruit, waving jeongguk over with his chopsticks. “i had to stop jimin and taehyung from eating your share, so you better actually eat it before they steal it anyway.”

jeongguk swallows tightly. he takes a few steps into the kitchen, trying to reason with himself—maybe it was all just a dream. maybe it doesn’t make a difference. but it’s such an extraordinary relief to be here, to be with them, to know that they’ve all survived the struggles that he was plunged back into yesterday. he’s ginger about it, almost, as he makes his way to yoongi’s side—as he always does, but now for some reason, he pauses. hesitant, like maybe he doesn’t actually belong here. he had to remind himself to keep a careful distance yesterday, and now it’s rubbing off on him.

yoongi looks at him with raised brows. “don’t just stand there,” he says, gesturing to the empty chair beside him. jeongguk—does him one better, instead squeezing himself between yoongi and the table and plopping down on his lap, sideways so that he can wrap his arms around yoongi’s neck and hold him tight.

it doesn’t help with yoongi trying to eat, but he wraps one of his arms around jeongguk’s waist anyway—comfortable. how it should be. “feeling okay after last night?” he asks, then, reaching over for a strawberry and holding it up to jeongguk’s lips. “i think you drank a little too much. hungover at all?”

jeongguk just stares at him. he doesn’t know why—but something about the question, something about the concern and care has tears springing to his eyes, and he lets go of yoongi in favour of hiding his face, not wanting them to see that he’s just started crying in the middle of breakfast for no apparent reason. of course—they notice. they always notice. and it’s almost like it was yesterday when he started crying, too; yoongi’s hand is already moving over the small of his back, asking, “guk-ah, baby, what’s wrong?” and seokjin, beside yoongi, reaches out to squeeze his shoulder, and he hears jimin and taehyung already cooing over him, and, and, and—

jeongguk starts crying properly, earnestly, can’t stop it. someone tugs his hands away from his eyes, and then he sees how they’re all crowded around him, already trying to wipe at his tears and pet his hair and ask him those concerned questions. he was right, yesterday—they’re not so different. they still baby him, still love him.

jeongguk doesn’t know what to do with all of it.

“jeongguk-ah?” yoongi asks, right in his ear, and he finally tries to pull himself together, swatting at the hand on his cheek.

“sorry, sorry, i’m fine,” he sniffs, wiping at his own eyes. “sorry, i’m just—really happy.”

“about… breakfast?” asks namjoon.

“no, just…” jeongguk sniffs again. he gestures with his hands, trying to convey what he means because he doesn’t quite have the words. “just us. i’m just happy that we’re all together and we’re all here and we’re all okay. i’m really happy that we got here.”

“at… breakfast?” namjoon asks again. jimin smacks his arm.

“there was just a lot of bad stuff at the beginning,” jeongguk continues, “and after that, too, but like—i dunno. i’m just really happy that we got through it and we got through it together and now we can be here and have some great breakfast. it wasn’t always like this, was it?” he means—this massive, expensive house. he means—eating for breakfast what they previously had to spread out through the whole day. he means—not being worried about what they’re going to do tomorrow, if anyone will actually listen and like their music. he was right when he told the younger version of the group that they still have a lot of the same worries and doubts, just twisted a little. but there’s so much more here. jeongguk didn’t realize how grateful he is for all of it until he got here, until he saw such a contrast.

but still—the same love. the same bond. the same family.

“me too,” says yoongi finally. jeongguk looks at him, sees his grinning face. “i’m really glad we’re here, too. jeongguk’s right—it wasn’t always like this, was it?”

“if you mean the two of you being disgustingly domestic at all times, then yes,” says seokjin, apparently deeming the situation defused as he turns back to his food. “and i would like to go back to when you were afraid of talking to each other for fear of the other figuring out that you had disgusting gay crushes on each other. i miss it.”

jeongguk giggles, and that’s enough, apparently, for the rest of them to stop fearing that jeongguk is going to drown in his own tears; they move back to their own seats around the table, beginning to pick at their food again, and he’s content to just watch them. to be happy that they don’t have to struggle like they did in the beginning.

after a minute, though, he feels yoongi squeeze his waist.

“are you actually okay?” he asks when jeongguk looks at him, concern written all over his face. his free hand rises to wipe at one last tear on jeongguk’s cheek, and jeongguk nods.

“i’m okay, hyung,” he says, and then—giggles again. “remember when you had that curly red hair and you looked like a rich housewife for a whole era?”

“oh, jesus,” sighs yoongi, and jeongguk can’t stop laughing again as he dips down and holds yoongi’s face and kisses him. “i thought we agreed to never speak of that again.”

“it was cute,” jeongguk tells him between kisses. “remember when—”

“excuse me,” says taehyung, kicking at jeongguk’s leg. “while you’re reminiscing, might i remind you of the no pda at the table rule?” jeongguk is very aware of it—he and yoongi aren’t usually very flashy about their relationship around the other boys, but jeongguk is feeling particularly clingy this morning and he’s not going to let a stupid rule stop him. so he wraps his arms around yoongi’s head, hugging his boyfriend to his chest as he sticks his tongue out at taehyung.

“you’re just jealous that you don’t have anyone to cuddle at breakfast,” he says.

“actually, i’m just trying not to throw up.”

“2013 taehyung wouldn’t disrespect me like this.”

“what on earth—” and that somehow sets most of them off on an argument about their younger selves, or something. jeongguk just giggles, stops listening halfway through. wonders, briefly, what their younger selves are doing now—if yoongi woke up to an empty bed and felt it, too, and if he found something to look forward to, something to grow into as he and his version of jeongguk grow up together. if they’re sitting around a little table, too, sharing breakfast, and thinking about how they’re grateful for what they have, even if it’s not always easy. thinking about how they want to work for something more now, want to become the version of bangtan that jeongguk knows, that he has.

someone’s finger pokes into his side. jeongguk lets go of yoongi’s head suddenly, remembering that he was holding onto it in the first place, and yoongi looks up at him with a slightly red face.

“sorry,” breathes jeongguk. “sorry, hyung.”

but yoongi grins at him. in that face, jeongguk sees every hard day of the past five years, and beyond that. he sees what he saw yesterday, and more. he sees proof that there are always things worth fighting for.

“is this okay?” asks yoongi, referring to—something. jeongguk isn’t sure. just being here, just enjoying this.

is this okay?

jeongguk grins. “yeah, hyung,” he says. “it’s okay. everything’s okay.” and—he means it.