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it’s only once everyone has gathered just outside the doors, pulling their coats a little tighter around their frames to battle the chilled air and laughing about jimin showing up last, late, as he always does, that jeongguk realizes yoongi is missing. he often arrives so silently, blending into the rag tag army of loud personalities and louder voices that he can go unnoticed—at least to the others, maybe, or the staff.
but jeongguk always notices. he has always noticed, seeking yoongi’s familiar and warm silence in the midst of the others’ boisterous games and jokes. he’s seen the pictures collected over the years, he and yoongi always just a bit apart, watching as the others shout and laugh and dance. never detached from them, just in their own smaller world. it has always been something they shared, from day one, from the first time yoongi noticed jeongguk hanging back and decided to hang back with him, to catch his sleeve, to say, you are part of this, too. you are part of me.
jeongguk pulls out his phone and kids himself into thinking he’s merely checking the time, cautiously disappointed to see no new notifications. they’re already ten minutes behind the time they said they would meet, although he can hear namjoon reminding them that he actually told them to meet ten minutes early because he knew this would happen. it always happens. even now, at the end—they are still the same boys underneath it all: years of hardship and success, but humility. but bad habits, and jimin always coming late.
as the others argue about the fastest route to get to the restaurant they have a reservation at, jeongguk wordlessly opens his text messages. he sees a handful he meant to reply to but hasn’t, yet another bad habit he’s never been able to shake, and finds yoongi’s name on top, as it often is. he hesitates, looking up at the building and searching for lights in the windows.
if he and yoongi have always had their own understandings of each other, then jeongguk knows that sometimes yoongi doesn’t want this, even if he needs it. closing his eyes briefly, jeongguk tries to decide which kind of night it is, what kind of yoongi he’ll end up facing. everything is so delicate these days, tonight of all nights.
seokjin and hoseok are arguing about using speed boats on the han river. jeongguk texts yoongi without allowing himself to second-guess it.
jeon jeongguk
are you coming down for dinner?
it’s hopeless without you
he tucks his cold hands inside the sleeves of his sweater as he watches the screen, sees the delivered turned to seen and then nothing. jeongguk looks up at the windows again, knowing it’s no use, and then to the other five. they will all notice, too, if they haven’t already; after so long, they no longer have to count, have to even look. it’s just a feeling, when one of them is missing, like everything is just a bit off-kilter.
for jeongguk, when yoongi is missing, it’s more than just a bit.
when he looks back to his phone, he sees the three little dots at the bottom of the screen appear, then disappear. again, again. jeongguk holds his breath. finally, the dots disappear and don’t appear again, and jeongguk understands. after so long, he thinks, it’s just a feeling. when he was younger, he doubted those feelings, overthought them, tucked them away in a corner of his heart where they could grow dusty as they grew untouched.
now, there’s no hesitation.
jeon jeongguk
can i come up?
that’s easier. the reply comes almost immediately.
min yoongi
yes
“are we all here?” asks taehyung, and jeongguk looks up so that their eyes meet, like taehyung knows. (he probably knows. they all do. it used to be an inside joke between them, how yoongi and jeongguk seem like binary planets at times, orbiting around each other and yet the sun of bangtan as well, and in times of silence and solitude, where one was, the other could almost always be found. how they could ask for jeongguk by asking for yoongi, how yoongi and jeongguk could speak for each other, how it stopped being a joke eventually and started being—truth.)
jeongguk doesn’t know what to say that won’t incriminate them both, not when they had planned this so excitedly. there will be other dinners, he knows. there will be other nights together, other opportunities to drink and have the conversations they will have. but it will never be on this night of all nights, when yoongi is missing and jeongguk feels his heart missing, too.
his eyes move helplessly to namjoon’s, asking in a way he knows their leader will understand. “we’ll be late,” says namjoon almost immediately, reaching for jimin’s elbow to push him toward the waiting car. “jeongguk?”
“you guys go on ahead,” he says, grateful for the out. he takes a step toward the door, phone clutched in his hand. “i—forgot something. i’ll catch up later.” namjoon just nods, a soft sort of sadness in his gaze. they all know the truth of it, that where yoongi goes, jeongguk will always follow. that neither of them is sure what that means anymore, or what it will look like from now on, but it’s more important for jeongguk to be here. a poor excuse he’s given when all six of them have played this game for so long, but no one calls him out on it, instead heading for the car.
taehyung catches his wrist anyway, before jeongguk can head back into the building. he doesn’t say anything, but jeongguk gets it, nodding once before taehyung lets him go. there in his gaze, in his fingers around jeongguk’s wrist: take care of him. they all can, they all know how. but sometimes yoongi won’t let them. sometimes jeongguk is the only one foolish enough to force him.
the bighit building is silent now, closer to midnight. these days, it bustles with life and potential, reeks of dreams not yet realized but so, so much hope. jeongguk remembers being so young, having so much courage and conviction, remembers when it was only them. now, he can almost pretend this is the beginning rather than the end, can pretend there is only him—only him and min yoongi, a fever dream.
he stands outside of the door to genius lab for a full minute, debating. his fingers itch. the passcode, along with so many before it, sits somewhere just behind his eyelids. the first time, yoongi was exasperated with it, with jeongguk constantly knocking, seeking solace and advice and the calm of yoongi’s studio—their own little world, no matter if yoongi complained that jeongguk was distracting him. he relented, eventually, flustered and stuttering through a half-thought out explanation for why he was giving jeongguk his passcode, anyway.
the second was almost as bad, jeongguk flushing just as yoongi did. somewhere down the line, with each forgotten passcode after long vacations, or move from building to building as growth demanded it, yoongi stopped being embarrassed and jeongguk stopped trying to find excuses to ask. jeongguk was just there anyway.
he’s the one who came up with this passcode, anyway. the final one.
eventually, he decides not to knock, reasoning that yoongi is expecting him anyway. he enters the passcode, fingers deft and no longer shy about the numbers he’s chosen, and finally lets himself in.
yoongi’s studio has been in a handful of locations. the first, one jeongguk was never fortunate enough to see, was likely in yoongi’s basement or somewhere similar, nothing but gritty passion and anger at the world fueling his music. the second nothing but a crammed closet in bighit’s office building. each movement allowed the studio to grow, to flourish along with yoongi’s movement—new equipment, decorations, touches of life that only yoongi himself could give.
this one, the last one, might be jeongguk’s favourite. it has the sofa from the studio before, well-worn and well-loved. it has countless awards, so many years’ worth of dedication and promises to do better, and knick-knacks collected over the years, each with their own special story. yoongi’s equipment is a collection unlike any other, tailored perfectly to his tastes. despite having grown into a skilled producer himself, jeongguk has always felt small next to the sprawling expanse of yoongi’s equipment, taking up at least half of the studio.
min yoongi sits in the middle of it all, the eye of the storm as he’s always been. his back is to jeongguk, fiddling with something on his desktop. jeongguk notes the box sitting on the sofa, half-filled with figurines and books, appearing as though he could be at the tail end of moving in or the first whispers of moving out.
that lone, half-filled cardboard box suddenly makes jeongguk feel very, very tired.
he takes a seat next to it, watching what little of yoongi he can see around the chair. jeongguk always loved his hair best dark, sideburns just peeking out beneath the beanie he wears. skin smooth, perfect as an idol, bulky sweater making him look smaller within it. even now, yoongi looks as though he hasn’t aged a day.
for a time, it feels as it always did—jeongguk has been here so many times, watching yoongi from his spot on the sofa, waiting for him to turn around. in some part of his heart, jeongguk is always waiting for yoongi to turn around. with bated breath, with his heart clenched in anticipation, always one moment away from yoongi realizing he’s slipped into the most intimate places of his life, has made himself at home here. and that’s it, he thinks now—genius lab has been so many different studios, but across time and space, it has always remained home.
eventually, yoongi does turn around. (it’s just a feeling.) he meets jeongguk’s eyes, sliding the headphones over his ears and setting them down beside his keyboard to give his full attention. the others are likely at the restaurant by now, ignoring the two empty chairs they’ve had to leave so often, too often.
“hey,” says jeongguk quietly. he glances at the box beside him. “i see you got far with cleaning.”
yoongi exhales in a laugh. “yeah,” he says, and nothing more. is there more to say? jeongguk has never been the best with words, but the truth is that he’s never needed them with yoongi. so many of his favourite moments have been the quiet ones, the gentle ones. but now, he thinks he needs words.
he settles on, “what are you doing on there?”
yoongi looks to the desktop before his shoulders sag. “i was cleaning,” he says, “but i got distracted. i was looking for a file, some half-finished song i remember from years ago, and i discovered a whole treasure trove of songs i never finished. a whole lot i never released. it was probably a bad idea, but i started listening to them.”
“find any good ones?”
“all of my songs are good, jeongguk,” says yoongi, vaguely exasperated. jeongguk grins, because it’s more than true. the problem is that yoongi rarely ever thinks good is enough.
“what will you do with them?” asks jeongguk. “maybe you could rework some of them, or take parts of them and turn them into new songs. recycle.”
“i don’t know,” says yoongi. “i wrote so many of these for bangtan. i don’t know if i could cut them apart and auction them off to the highest bidder. it would feel—off. it’ll feel off to not produce anything for bangtan in general.”
jeongguk’s grin is sad and slow and wanting. the truth is that jeongguk understands that, in more ways than just being able to understand yoongi. the truth is that he’s not sure how he’ll do anything if it’s not for bangtan, if it’s not in consideration of the six other lives he has made his own for over half of his life. there is so much relearning to be done.
because the truth is, he knows why yoongi is here, why he got stuck. jeongguk spent part of the evening cleaning his own studio, saying goodbye to parts of himself that he’s not ready for yet. they have been bangtan for fifteen years, and today, they decided to stop. today, they all gathered for one last meeting here, signed what had to be signed, put into motion what had to be put into motion.
jeongguk knows that yoongi will continue to produce for bighit. namjoon will too, likely, and maybe some of the others. but that was never where jeongguk’s passions laid. he thought that perhaps cleaning out his studio in one go would be easiest, like ripping off a band-aid, but he got stuck too—around the pictures, around the old files on his desktop, fifteen years of his life that are now behind him. but fifteen years can’t be over in just one day, he’s learned. he’ll take it bit by bit, piece by piece.
suddenly, he realizes he must extricate himself from yoongi’s studio, too.
“why didn’t you come down?” asks jeongguk eventually. yoongi is still facing away from him, like it’s easier.
yoongi sighs. “i didn’t feel like celebrating,” he says. “i wanted to. i wanted to laugh at our inside jokes and tell stories from debut days and be happy about closing one chapter and starting another in our lives, but i came here and i thought about… about me at sixteen, in the shitty little studio that i had, and how i’d have to choose between eating or taking the bus some days because i wasn’t selling enough music. and how this is more than i could ever have dreamed of, and leaving bangtan doesn’t mean leaving the industry, doesn’t mean leaving my dream, but i feel…” he hesitates, like he’s searching for the right word.
jeongguk says, “sad.”
yoongi finally looks at him, grin crooked. “i was looking for a bigger word.”
“if i’m being honest, i didn’t feel like going out either.”
“that’s introversion for you.”
“hyung,” huffs jeongguk, laughing. “i feel… tired. i’m so tired, yoongi-hyung. how am i meant to say goodbye to any of this? after so long, after so much. it’s not like i’ll never write another song, but how do we just clean out our studios and go on with our lives? how do we stop being bangtan?”
“maybe we don’t have to,” says yoongi. “we’ll always be bangtan, jeongguk-ah. after what we’ve accomplished, after all we’ve been through—we’ll always be a part of this. and each other.” that’s a fear jeongguk doesn’t realize he has until yoongi voices it, some part of him curling up tightly within his chest. they’ll be friends, will text and call and meet up, unable to let go after living as one another for over fifteen years. but he’s feared that saying goodbye to bangtan means losing so much of what he’s had, means giving the separation a chance to seep in.
ultimately, he thinks that perhaps no part of him is really ready to quit.
but it’s hard to talk about that—to talk about the fear, about saying goodbye. jeongguk chose to be with yoongi here rather than go with the others because he knows the drunken restaurant conversation will turn to this, too, and he’s not ready for it. not yet. there will come a time when he can speak of it, can think of the future. but now—he doesn’t want to. he wants to be here, with yoongi. wants to be here, at home.
so he sighs, runs his hand over the arm of the sofa. “i’m gonna miss this studio,” he says.
“who says you can’t stop by?” asks yoongi, and when jeongguk looks at him, there is almost pleading in his eyes. jeongguk wants to say, i won’t be around. he wants to say, i won’t have an excuse. he wants to say, i don’t know how to say all of these things i’ve kept from you for fifteen years and now i’ve run out of time. now i’ve run out of opportunities to be here and love you from the background. before he can say anything at all, yoongi adds, “you’ve never let a little distance or adversity stop you before.”
jeongguk snorts. “i was a stubborn little bastard, wasn’t i?”
“was?” asks yoongi. “just last week, you barricaded yourself in here and wouldn’t let me in until i promised to give you half of my lunch.”
“i was hungry.”
“how many times have you sat on that stupid sofa and told me you weren’t hungry when i ordered food and then demanded i give you some when it arrived?”
jeongguk can’t even deny it, too busy laughing at the memories, so many rushing forward in his mind now—of yoongi’s exasperated expression, his wariness. and still, too, his fondness. “you’re the one who always handed over your food, anyway,” jeongguk argues. “you could have said no and i wouldn’t have had a reason to keep asking.”
he sees yoongi’s ears turn red, just enough to know he’s been caught. “that’s hardly the worst of it,” he says. “you made that sofa your bed plenty of times, too.”
“that’s why i have back problems at thirty-one, hyung.”
“i told you not to sleep here.”
“and yet you let me,” says jeongguk. “every time.”
“yeah,” sighs yoongi. “i did.”
jeongguk will miss the concerts, touring around the world and realizing how loved they are even in the farthest reaches of the planet. he’ll miss hearing thousands of fans sing his words back at him, will miss doing that with them. he’ll miss the late nights and early mornings on music programs, even if he cursed them at the time, and countless choreography practices, and living crammed in a dorm with his six very best friends, moving and breathing as one most days.
but jeongguk realizes that he will miss this most—having just a piece of peace away from it all, here in yoongi’s studio, with yoongi. he will miss hiding from the others here, or sneaking in to ask for production advice. he will miss doing backing vocals on this very sofa, will miss punching in that passcode at one two three in the morning to find yoongi still here, bleary-eyed and determined—will miss pulling him onto the sofa for much needed rest, will miss yoongi’s fingers in his hair, will miss, despite the pain it has caused, all of the close calls.
and yoongi is right—jeongguk can visit. but it will never be quite the same.
“i don’t know why you spent so much time here, anyway,” says yoongi. “you have your own studio.”
“my studio doesn’t have you,” says jeongguk, plainly. it has been fifteen years. he thinks it is time to tell the truth. “i used to wonder why i couldn’t get my studio to feel the same as yours, but it was always just you. nothing feels right without you, hyung.” he always liked his own studio best with yoongi in it. it’s not the first time he’s said something like that—there have been fifteen years of skirting around it, wondering, wandering. it’s been fifteen years of jeongguk learning the language his heart speaks and realizing, perhaps a little late, that it has always sounded like yoongi’s music.
he’s so used to yoongi’s flustered laughter, his denial of it. but jeongguk is keenly aware that they spoke of this once, twice, so many times—when jeongguk was tired and worn thin, cramming his limbs into yoongi’s space. sometimes in this very studio, sometimes not. he’s embarrassed of the words he spoke as a younger man, words whispered and whined and cried into yoongi’s skin of how much he wants, and yoongi’s constant reassurance that one day, he would be allowed.
one day as in—this day, as in when it was over. they will not stop being famous. they will not stop being bangtan, not in many ways, but—jeongguk thinks perhaps this is the reason he’s here, the reason yoongi stayed behind. he got stuck on songs he wrote about jeongguk, began but never finished, too terrified of what it would mean to let them go. this is something new, now, knowing that he will have no excuse to sneak into yoongi’s studio, no excuse to be close—but also knowing that he will have no excuse to hold back, no contract or threat of earth-shattering scandal to keep his feelings locked far, far away.
yoongi rises from his chair, finally, making his way across the studio to jeongguk. and jeongguk closes his eyes, pretending he is twenty again. pretending he is twenty-one, twenty-two, every year before this one, every year where he has wanted this. he thinks some part of him has always been in love with min yoongi. for too long, that part has been—all.
he feels yoongi stop in front of him, knees brushing against knees. and jeongguk leans forward until he can press his forehead into yoongi’s stomach, and he is—tired. he doesn’t want this to end: bangtan, the music, the flashing lights and love of millions. but he must trade one thing for another, and for the first time in fifteen years, jeongguk finally lets himself want.
yoongi cards his fingers gently through jeongguk’s hair, makes him feel small and young. jeongguk wants and wants and wants.
he breathes yoongi in, breathes him out. eventually, he pulls his face away, looking up at yoongi silhouetted by the overhead light, and says, “you don’t know many times i came here and had to stop myself from kissing you.”
yoongi brushes his hair away from his forehead, wearing that soft grin he keeps just for jeongguk. he asks, “what’s stopping you now?”
and for the first time—for the very first time—jeongguk realizes the answer is nothing.
in the end, it’s yoongi who kisses him. yoongi who takes jeongguk’s face in his hands and tilts it back, who leans down until their foreheads can rest together. who mumbles, “you don’t know how many times you came here and i waited for more.”
jeongguk sighs, wrapping his fingers around yoongi’s wrist, whispers, “hyung,” like a prayer. yoongi tilts his head, brushes his thumbs over jeongguk’s cheekbones, and then finally kisses him.
it’s not the first time. jeongguk has known for years that there was something more, something else. he can count the incidents on his fingers: a drunken slip-up here and there, a kiss running on the high of a show well-performed, one or both of them being lonely and touch-starved. those nights when jeongguk couldn’t keep it all in, the want. the nights yoongi gave in.
but it is the first time, in a way. it’s the first time they can, the first time they don’t have to look over their shoulders. the first time jeongguk’s want hasn’t been met with we can’t or we shouldn’t or it’s not allowed. he understood, always—being in bangtan could never afford them much with each other, other than stolen touches, stolen glances, and so, so much patience.
but they’re not in bangtan anymore. not like that, not anymore.
yoongi presses gently, then a little harder. jeongguk opens his mouth, wants to drink him in after so long of being thirsty, of being parched—but yoongi pulls away instead, breath heavy as he presses another kiss to jeongguk’s lips, then another: his bottom lip, his top lip. one of his moles. jeongguk sighs, keeping his eyes closed and his head tilted back as he waits for more, wants for more.
he has waited so long for this, and he thinks—he will not let go of this, too. heart in his hands, heart in yoongi’s hands. it has always belonged there.
yoongi kisses him again, pushing him against the back of the sofa. jeongguk thinks perhaps—but yoongi pulls away again, breath hot against his lips. “what did you tell them?” he asks, and it takes long moments for jeongguk to understand what he’s asking. he wants to think not of their friends in this moment, wants yoongi’s lip back on him, his hands, his breath.
“it’s not like they don’t know,” breathes jeongguk.
“let’s not give them any reason to tease.”
“we’re not in a band anymore,” protests jeongguk. “we never have to see them again if we don’t want to.” and yet—he feels lighter now. he is no less tired, no less afraid of saying goodbye. they will still have to clean their studios, working backwards through fifteen years’ worth of success and trials and pain. and love. it will hurt. but knowing this, knowing less in words and more in actions what he and yoongi want—it’s a little easier to imagine.
tonight can be about the seven of them, as the last fifteen years have been. jeongguk will let the rest of his life be about him and yoongi.
on the way to the restaurant, then, only half an hour behind the rest of them, yoongi takes his hand. that’s not the first time, either, but jeongguk doesn’t glance at the driver this time, doesn’t worry what someone will see through the tinted windows.
“do you want to come over after?” asks yoongi tentatively. “i don’t think i’ll be getting much studio cleaning done, so i might as well go home.” unspoken is the truth that home is anywhere they are together, and now that they have the chance, now that the whole future is wide open in front of them, they won’t waste another moment apart.
jeongguk nods, leaning over to press a kiss to yoongi’s cheek. and he thinks of how they’ve never actually admitted their feelings to each other, but also how they’ve never had to. after so long, it’s just a feeling. it was an unspoken thing between them, as soon as talks turned to finally disbanding: they would fall together, as they have been heading toward for years. they’ve never needed the grand gestures, the love confessions. it’s just yoongi asking jeongguk to come over, and jeongguk knowing that he doesn’t just mean for tonight, doesn’t just mean for now.
he means—forever. he means—the end of bangtan is only their beginning, something longed for. something aching.
finally, jeongguk gets to go home.