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when they are sixteen and seventeen, they meet for the first time, bitter wet wind howling in their ears through the month of november and nothing but twitchy handshakes and looks which flicker to the side whenever they think the other isn’t paying attention. they’d heard of each other before, just a little, there’s only so many underground artists of their age around, and when they meet they don’t know what to make of each other. one tall, too tall, gangly and awkward in his own limbs but young and fierce and so hungry for something more from the world — the other intense, desperate, knowing what it’s like to have absolutely nothing but still be fighting for your dream and not wanting to give it up just yet.
they tiptoe around each other, a little too shy to test the waters, afraid that they won’t click and that it’ll be the end of them, afraid to do anything wrong for fear of being out on the streets again. so, so afraid that they won’t make it. there are only two and, later, three of them, and it feels so raw and exposed that they’re a little unsure what to do. so they tiptoe.
and slowly but steadily, the footsteps get surer, heavier. more trusting, if only a little.
when they are seventeen and eighteen, they fight. a lot. it’s exhausting, feels like they’re honestly just going through the motions at this point because neither of them remember what they were arguing about in the first place. but they clash, and constantly. one as the hyung, the other as the leader, and what are they supposed to do? they don’t know how to balance the dynamics of respect between the two of them so that both of them feel heard. they don’t know how to sort this out. their visions for concept, for music and lyrics and style are wildly different, and both of them are secretly worried that they’re going to be the other’s downfall. they want this to work so, so badly, they want to unite and make things they and the world love and rise to the occasion and finally show everyone what they’re made of, but all they seem to do is fight. there’s not enough money for decent meals, they have a few dongsaengs to look after, and they’re still learning how to respect one another. how to listen to each other without constantly butting heads. because they want to, so desperately.
but it’s so hard.
when they are eighteen and nineteen, they settle. there are more of them now, and they’re learning to love each other. neither of them are the oldest anymore, although one of them is still the leader, and through time they learn to cope with that, to feed off of each other instead of taking and taking and taking. they work hard, so hard, in the studios for long hours and perfecting perfecting perfecting choreography even though sometimes it truly seems like it’s for nothing, like they’re going to be trainees in this dorm with these six bunkbeds and one mattress on the floor for eternity. but they learn to live with each other. properly.
they teach each other quite a few things, they bounce off of each others energies and settle into themselves. they each learn to appreciate the other for all their talents and all their flaws, and they learn to genuinely see each other as partners, equals, friends, best friends. members together. they push each other to strive, to work even harder even if it’s excruciating. and they learn to lean on each other.
when they are nineteen and twenty, they debut. it feels like a whirlwind, like an eclipse. neither of them know how they feel about it for a while afterwards, but they quickly realise it doesn't get any easier even though they’re not stuck behind walls anymore. that even though they get to make real music and perform and show the world what they have, that it doesn’t mean the world will want to listen.
so they work harder. they spend long, long nights in each others studios, in their shared room, talking about the future. what they can do to improve, what they hate and love and find harder than anything. what they want to achieve, and how they’re glad the other is by their side on the journey. they learn to fully trust each other. they learn the power of brotherhood, and the importance of support when there is often not much anywhere else. they learn how cruel the world can be, and how a hug or a clap on the back can mean the world. they learn resilience.
when they are twenty and twenty one, they learn persistence is the hardest and yet most important tool of all. they learn that fairytale ends are often just that, and that real life is sometimes very harsh. they learn about the hardships of others, and the ways in which they can combat it. they apply this to their own lives and their own work. they grow, they learn, they try and try again, and even though it seems like they’re getting nowhere, they stay together. they work harder than ever. they know all seven of them want this so badly, and that the pain is worth it. will be worth it, if someone would just decide to listen.
so they listen to each other. they inevitably both get angry at one point or another, waiting and wanting for a chance. for someone to see how hard they work, how badly they want it. and in times like that they lean on each other, and it helps. they get closer. stronger.
when they are twenty one and twenty two, they celebrate their first win. they've been working themselves to the bone for so long, and it’s finally starting. they’re finally being heard. it’s still very hard at times, there are so many things they have to go through and deal with, but they make it. they rely on each other and when their song wins that first award, they’re speechless. they weren’t sure if they’d every actually be able to do it.
it ignites a new fire in them, everyone can see it. they work harder and harder, sleep less, spend longer hours in the studio. make solo music when they need somewhere to tell their own stories, the stories they were alongside each other for. they congratulate each other, and get back to work. slowly but steadily, they rise.
when they are twenty two and twenty three, they become legends. the world sees them weep as they shakily walk to the stage, daesang winners for two thousand and sixteen. they push and push and perform and don’t stop for a second to breathe and suddenly they’re bathed in arena lights, cameras on them as one of them speaks to the world, tells the audience of the story of their pain and perseverance as he holds their pride in his hands. the other can’t help but to sob, the moment so fucking bittersweet. finally, they made it.
the backstage aftermath is overwhelming. they cry, a lot, they’re shaking and gasping and repeating themselves in their shock that they, the seven of them, managed to do something no one else had ever done before. that they were able to push through the hurt and the sleepless nights and the boiling desperation to make it and actually won. they won. the two of them hug, it’s immortalised on camera for the world to see, because the world finally wants to see. they hug so tightly and whisper congratulations into each other’s ears and hope that that is enough to show how utterly grateful they are.
when they are twenty three and twenty four, they blow up. though they'd been steadily increasing and immensely thankful for it, the world seems to finally be listening, and not only that but the world is hungry for more. they attend award shows and make music and perform in what feels like every country on earth and break records and set milestones and cry in the shower when it gets too much but they're always always there for each other. they always have been.
they’re hailed as a phenomenon, they’re in demand everywhere. they make it big in america. like, really big, and the entire time, they hold onto each other as tightly as possible, making sure that the other knows they’re never letting go no matter what happens. no matter how scary this gets, they have each other. they always have. it’s comforting.
when they are twenty four and twenty five, they go stratospheric. they don’t know what to do with themselves. they are the most popular group on earth, and they have so much pressure on them to perform to that standard constantly and without fail. neither of them know if they can pull it off. at first, they find it hard. nearly too hard. they talk to each other very seriously about the implications of staying together, and the implications of breaking up. they talk to each other, they learn what each other want from this. they get through it. they want this more than anything, have always wanted this, and they rise to the challenge by each other’s side. they amaze people, so many people, more people than is fathomable. they have their ups and downs and they absolutely stick by each other through every second of it. what they have is no longer explainable in the english language. they are soulmates, through and through. when one cries, the other is there to be a shoulder to cry on. when one is angry, the other listens. and when one is happy, the other can't help but grin.
when they are twenty five and twenty six, they become each other’s. gone are they days of fighting and eating off a table on the floor and anger and struggling. gone are the days where every moment was precarious and they didn't know what was real and what wasn’t. gone are they days where they feel like they are falling behind. gone are the days of pretending. they tell each other their deepest secrets in the dead of night, they lean on each other when there is absolutely nothing else to lean on. they kiss in quiet little alleys and corners of rooms where nobody can see them, because nobody else deserves to. they belong to each other. they have been there through the worst and the best times, there is no one else who knows them so inside and out. they wonder how it took them this long to realise they were so in love it struck everything around them, crashing into them like a storm. they allow themselves these moments to be happier than they’ve ever been.
and when namjoon holds his hand out, yoongi grasps it. knows in his heart he’s never ever letting go.