Archive of Our Own

1.

Yoongi wakes to an empty space next to him. The sheets are already cold but when he turns on his side, he finds Kihyun there, seated at the edge of the bed. Yoongi doesn’t call out to him, doesn’t make a noise. Instead he burrows deeper under the covers and watches him, watches his naked back, the tanned skin over the knots of his spine. Kihyun is looking down at something in his hands, his phone, most likely, and if Yoongi slightly scoots back the dip of his neck makes him look like he doesn’t have a head. And Yoongi keeps staring, at the volutes of dark ink curling over Kihyun’s shoulder blades and trickling down his sides, at the dimples on his lower back, at the light scratches on his hips and Yoongi knows his own fingers left them there.

The light is still young outside, pouring through the window whose blinds they forgot to shut. It’s the timid, greyish light of rainy days and Yoongi rolls on his back, staring up at the ceiling still painted in shadows. It’s not long until there’s a rustle, a warm body settling next to his and Kihyun doesn’t say a thing, pressed against Yoongi’s side. He kisses his neck instead, bites lightly at his pulse point, hands looking for flesh to explore and Yoongi sighs, eyes still on the ceiling, watching the light grow. Kihyun finds his mouth then, and so Yoongi closes his eyes, surrendering completely to the lips and the hands and the hips against his, to the warmth and the smell and the thudding of his heart.

Kihyun knows how to play him. Knows the map of his flesh and what yields with each touch, knows the desire etched in his bones, knows how to break him and Yoongi feels grace in each thrust of his hips, in the way Kihyun fucks into him, slow, always too slow at first, tasting and playing, slow until Yoongi chokes on a moan. But Yoongi knows things, too. How to lie and how to hide the too painful secrets he buried deep in the marrow of his bones, deep under his heart, deeper still, deeper than the ground.

Kihyun always comes quietly, whole body tensing. Kihyun always comes last, too, and Yoongi relishes in these moments of immobility where none of them really exist anymore, bent bodies and shallow breaths, warm hands and messy hair, listless, mindless, a little bit dead. But this too must end, and Yoongi watches Kihyun return to himself, watches his muscles move again, watches him as Kihyun pecks soft kisses against his damp skin.

Yoongi was right, about the rain. When Kihyun falls at his side he hears it tapping against the window, the light cold and grey against the walls of his room.

“But the rain is full of ghosts tonight, that tap and sigh upon the glass and listen for reply, and in my heart there stirs a quiet pain for unremembered lads –”

“What the heck are you talking about?”

Yoongi sighs, glancing at Kihyun who’s busy taking the condom off.

“It’s poetry, you goddamn swine.”

“Well, sorry for not being a fucking nerd I guess” Kihyun says as he gets up, smoothing his dark hair back, and Yoongi kicks him blindly, laughing. Yoongi likes Kihyun best when he’s naked, lean body and smooth skin; he likes his moles and the tattoos on his thighs, he likes watching him move, graceful, always graceful.  

“I’m gonna take a shower and then I gotta go. I’ll catch you later, yeah?”

Yoongi nods as Kihyun gathers his clothes and disappears down the hallway with a smile and a wave. He lets out a breath, then, closing his eyes to listen to the rain and he doesn’t need it to feel the ghost trailing his steps. One day he’ll tell Kihyun, when they’re old and withered and it won’t matter anymore. He’ll tell him how much he had loved him.

2.

Yoongi curls up on the couch to fit better under the ratty blanket he dragged there, a sketchbook on his lap. He’s drawing the rain, still tapping against the window. A grey landscape peppered with pencil dust and he doesn’t care, he doesn’t care about the smudges and the sloppiness of his artwork, crisscrossing lines and too many shadows. It fits his mood, he thinks, messy and quiet and empty. It didn’t always use to be like this, but it is now, and it is fine, too. A wistfulness which changed his colours but that he grew comfortable with, in time, learning to tame this little sadness, those little shadows he now finds at the tip of his pen.

He’s half asleep when the doorbell rings, jolting him, and he trips on the blanket as he gets up, his pen lost somewhere in the folds. Yoongi already guesses who it is before opening the door, and once again, he’s right. Namjoon’s standing on the other side, a dumb smile on his face, damp hair peeking out of a drenched hoodie.

“I almost died getting to the door so this better be good,” Yoongi says, and it only serves to widen Namjoon’s smile, who holds out the box in his hands.

“I brought pizza.”

“Good enough.”

They sit on the floor, on either side of the coffee table, Namjoon stripped out of his hoodie they hung up to dry on the back of a chair. The pizza has too much onions and not enough cheese but it’s still good and they eat with their fingers, lips shiny with grease.

“So, are we still pining?”

Yoongi scowls at Namjoon from above a particularly oniony slice and shoves half the thing in his mouth before answering, chewing in a deliberately disgusting manner. Namjoon isn’t even fazed.

“Let’s talk about something else.”

“But that’s all that interests me,” Namjoon retorts, a hand on his heart in mock-emotion. He leaves greasy fingerprints on his white shirt but that doesn’t seem to bother him. “The most tragic love story of the century.”

Yoongi rolls his eyes, throws a mushroom at Namjoon who lets it bounce harmlessly off his cheek.

“It’s not a love story. There’s no love and there’s no story.”

“Aw, now you’ve gone and made me sad.”

And Yoongi laughs, because Namjoon accompanies his words with some sort of ridiculous face, looking appropriately tragic despite the grease-stains and damp hair.

“Look, there’s really nothing to say. We’re just, you know. How do the youths say these days? Fuck buddies.”

“But you’re still in love with him, right? That’s not very buddy of you.”

Yoongi stares, flinches when Namjoon throws the mushroom back to him, and he has to search the folds of the blanket where it fell. He finds the pencil, but the mushroom is lost to its depths.

“Well, at least I’m getting some. Unlike some people I won’t name, to protect what little remains of their dignity.”

Namjoon laughs, something lazy that seems to take too much effort as he finishes his slice in a single bite.

“I’m laughing but the pain is real.”

And Yoongi laughs, too, as Namjoon stretches his legs before him. He’s said what he needed to say, and Yoongi doesn’t mind; he understands the worry, the frustration. Namjoon cares where Yoongi doesn’t, that’s all. He’s used to the longing, to the emptiness below his heart and it doesn’t really matter anymore. It’s just what he is now, and what he will be, until those feelings disappear just like everything else will, someday. Yoongi doesn’t mind waiting.

“You’re still alright though, yeah?”

Namjoon looks serious, suddenly, maybe a bit too much, and Yoongi’s hand stills midway to another slice. Yoongi thinks about it, knowing that Namjoon wouldn’t take a quick, dismissive answer. And then, he nods.

“Yeah, I am. You can’t force people to love you. His friendship is enough.”

A sigh, Namjoon stretching, leaning backwards onto his hands.

“If you say so.”

Yoongi grins, and it looks happier than he feels. When he puts his hands back in his lap there’s something wet and squishy there that has him looking down in disgust. It’s the mushroom, covered in lint from the blanket. Yoongi pokes at it with a careful finger and it’s cold, slightly gross. And then, eyes still strained on the mushroom, Yoongi suddenly feels unbelievably sad. The tap-tapping of the rain against the window is an appropriate song for the grief twisting in his belly, something with claws he had pushed deep, deep in his bones and yet it found its way to the light again, flooding his veins and the circuits of his brain.

“Namjoon?”

“Yeah?”

“Maybe I lied. Maybe I’m not feeling so well right now.”

There’s a shuffling sound, Namjoon straightening up and scooting closer. Yoongi isn’t looking at him, eyes going out of focus and the mushroom is a blurry shadow on the deep green of the blanket.

“Wanna go get drunk?”

A slow nod, Yoongi looking up into Namjoon’s open face and he finds some relief there, someone with whom to share the weight of his sorrows.

“Yeah, let’s go do that.”

3.

Yoongi’s laughing, but he isn’t too sure what was it that was so funny anymore. It doesn’t seem to matter, judging by the similar hilarity of the guy on his left, and he can’t remember his name but he knows that he’s nice, that he smells of shampoo, and that he has stupidly wide shoulders. Yoongi’s eyes can’t seem to focus and closing them is a mistake, the room lurching as if he were at sea, and his stomach lurching with it. He lets his head fall on the guy’s shoulder, who’s still shaking with laughter but tries to calm down, accommodating his new charge the best he can.

There’s a pot simmering on a burner in front of them, noodles, vegetables, and sausages swimming in a red broth. Yoongi’s pretty sure he’s hungry, but his arms weigh a ton and he decides to just leave them where they are, trying instead to communicate with the guy he plastered himself against, to little success. He’s interrupted by a loud clanking noise, Namjoon dumping three pints of beer on the table before sliding back into the booth on the bench opposite them, not minding the beer that sloshed on the table. Yoongi smiles at him, a dopey smile that encompasses perfectly the way he’s feeling right now.

“Heyyyy, Namjoons.”

“Yes, it is I.”

“I don’t know who your friend is.”

“I introduced you guys like three times.”

“That’s sad.”

The guy is laughing again, Yoongi’s head shaking with the rhythm of his shoulders and it isn’t too bad, his smile widening in time with the fuzzy feeling that overtakes him. The guy is warm, too. It’s like cuddling up to a giant dog, and he says so aloud. The guy keeps laughing, and Yoongi enjoys the shakes.

“It’s Seokjin,” His voice is nice, too, smooth and sort of low and Yoongi nods absently, not really listening to the actual words. “If it’s too hard to remember two syllables you can just call me Jin.”

“Okay. I will probably forget all of them.”

Jin shakes his head with a smile, lifting his chopsticks to grab at a stray bit of sausage.

“Just how much did he have to drink before you guys ended up here?”

Namjoon says something in response, words slurring into each other but Yoongi isn’t listening anymore. He looks around, at the people crammed in the other booths, yelling, laughing over drinks and too much food, happy, it seems, sheltered from the rain and the cold and the harshness of everyday life for a few hours, a lightness of being allowed only at night, when words and deeds don’t weigh the same. Yoongi sighs a contented sigh, smiles a happy smile and lets himself sink against Jin who doesn’t seem to mind, eating and talking with Namjoon in a bright voice mixed in with bursts of laughter. It’s nice, here, Yoongi thinks. He can borrow other’s happiness for a time, hoard it behind his ribs for the wistful days to come.

And then, Yoongi has enough of looking. He raises his head, Jin’s warmth still lingering on his cheek, retrieves a pair of chopsticks from the cutlery box on the table and starts stuffing his face with whatever is floating closest to his side of the pot. It’s easy, to slide into the conversation once his head clears enough to follow, easy as if Jin and Namjoon had both kept a space for him in between them, and maybe they did, Jin absent-mindedly picking the best pieces from the pot to put on Yoongi’s rice, Namjoon filling his glass with water in between sips of cold beer. It’s nice, and Yoongi’s laughing, launching into inane debates, remaking the world with a wave of his chopsticks.

And then, somehow, it’s two hours later and they’re staggering down a busy street, holding onto each other and singing—or rather, yelling.

Somehow, Jin manages to scream louder than Namjoon and Yoongi put together. He’s got a good singing voice, Yoongi thinks. And then, he doesn’t think anything anymore, he’s just yelling and laughing, entrusting his steps to the friends on either side of him.

“La la la la!! My friend!!”

A group of girls sidesteps them, laughing, one of them starting to sing with them as her friends drag her away.

“Throw all your regrets to the sky!”

And Namjoon throws his bag, Yoongi laughing as Jin dives to snatch it before it hits the ground.

“La la la la!! My friend!! Let’s start over!!”

They pass a bunch of students smoking in front of a basement bar who whoop and clap, Jin curtsying to them before disappearing around a corner.

“Disheartened life doesn’t suit you! Hold your head high my friend!!”

And Yoongi does, holds his head high, looking up at the sky and he can’t see the stars but it’s okay, there’s neon lights of every colour winking at him against the dark of night, the moon hanging high, high above and he lets out a laugh, something with a crazed edged that leaves him feeling new.

“La la la la my friend!! Laughs all you want!”

Namjoon trips then, and maybe they were less stable than they thought. It’s like dominos, Yoongi tripping in turn over Namjoon’s flailing limbs and Jin just follows, hanging as he was onto Yoongi’s arm. They end up in a heap on the ground, people skirting around them and Yoongi wouldn’t really mind just staying there, despite how wet the ground is.

“We should probably get up,” Namjoon says from somewhere under him.

“You first. Maybe I’ll just sleep here. It’s cool and nice.”

“I don’t want you to catch pneumonia and die.”

“I’m not some frail Victorian lady.”

“You’re dramatic enough to be one, though.”

There’s a wet slap, Yoongi’s dirty hand against Namjoon’s forehead, a pause and some struggle, and they finally manage to stand, hauling Jin to his feet despite his lack of cooperation. They end up seated on a low wall, shoulders to shoulders, messy and damp under the light rain that started to fall. There are less people in the street now, the rain chasing them away to find shelter, a warm space to spend the late hours. Yoongi does not mind the cold, though, head resting on Namjoon’s shoulder, Jin’s warm presence at his side. Their high spirit wanes and Jin’s humming, a different song, something slow and slightly wistful that better fits the languid mood falling over them.

Jin sings and Yoongi listens, hitting his heels against the wall they’re sitting on. As he watches the blurry pendulum of his feet Jin’s voice rises slightly, words taking shape but Yoongi still has to strain to hear them.

We sleep for a while but then you are gone, all I have left is the story, all I can see before me is the darkest blues, because I slip to the depths without you…

And he’s still listening when a pair of shoes stops in front of them, interrupting Jin’s singing. Yoongi looks up, up to the hand curling over the umbrella’s handle and he knows it, he knows it well; he stares at the thorn bushes inked there, at the crown resting upon them and it’s oddly fitting, he thinks, that this beloved hand would bear thorns. Deep they sink into his heart, deeper and deeper with each touch, each breath, each pounding heartbeat and Yoongi knows whose face he would see were he only to look. He doesn’t want to, though, staring instead at the petite girl hanging onto Kihyun’s arm, pressed against him to fit under the umbrella. Yoongi stares and he wonders if she gets more love than he does, if she has Kihyun stay until breakfast, if he calls her, too, when he feels lonely. 

“Huh, hello.”

Kihyun sounds meek, even a bit embarrassed, and somehow that makes Yoongi mad. So he straightens up, and when he speaks his voice sounds crisp, cold as the wind tangling in his soaked hair.

“Hello back.”

“Night out, huh?”

“Yeah. I think your girlfriend is getting cold, though.”

“She’s not my girlfriend.”

“I know, I was being polite.”

Kihyun frowns, muscles working in his jaw but whatever it is he works past it, looking at Namjoon instead of Yoongi.

“What are you guys doing here?”

“Having the utmost fun,” Namjoon replies in a deadpan way that makes Jin laugh, and Yoongi sags against him, feeling the weight of Kihyun’s stare. Kihyun wants him to look up, he knows, but he won’t, staring instead at Jin’s big hands resting in his lap.

“You guys noticed it’s raining, yeah?”

Jin shrugs and Yoongi realizes then that the rain is heavier now, falling in big drops and it won’t be long before they’re soaked through. But there’s a sort of stubbornness born between them, a hostility Yoongi isn’t sure whence it came from, until he understands. It’s from him, coming off in waves and suddenly he hates him, he hates Kihyun and his stupid tattoos and stupid hair and that stupid love he has for him.

“Yup. It’s washing off our sins,” Jin says, and this time it’s Namjoon who laughs and it’s true, it is kind of funny—this whole situation is—so Yoongi starts laughing too, Jin turning slightly to watch him, making a face as Yoongi hides his laugh against Jin’s lapel. The cloth is cool and damp against his burning face and it’s nice, smothering a bit of the anger within him. 

“Are you all drunk?”

“It would be weird if we weren’t,” Jin says, and Yoongi looks up, but Kihyun doesn’t see him, staring at Jin instead with the same frown on his face.

“It’s still weird, though.”

The girl rolls her eyes then, tugging on Kihyun’s sleeve with mumbled words and he’s torn, Yoongi can tell, it’s written all over his face. So Yoongi plasters himself tighter against Jin who sneaks an arm around his lower back and it’s stupid, he knows, but that’s all he got, petty childishness and a cold fire under his skin. Kihyun watches him, watches them, and he’s about to say something when he thinks better of it, abruptly turning his heels, trailing the girl after him. They watch him go quietly, Yoongi suppressing a shiver.

Namjoon’s the one to break the silence, pushing back his soaked hair.

“Well, that was nice. Can we go somewhere warm now? I think I caught tuberculosis.”

Yoongi pushes himself off of Jin, struggling to his feet and it’s raining hard now, soaking through his coat and his shoes and flowing in rivulets down his hair.

“Fuck off, I was the one supposed to be all Victorian.”

Namjoon hits him on the shoulder and suddenly it’s light again; they take off running, laughing and yelling, tripping down the street and it feels like Yoongi’s leaving something behind, something heavy and slightly ugly but it won’t last, he knows. It will be here when he gets home, waiting in the tangles of his sheets on his dirty couch, looking out from the mirror in his bathroom.

4.

Yoongi wakes, head pounding and heart dried out. It takes him too much effort to get out of bed, to drag himself to the bathroom, to wash off the taste of the day before. He looks at himself in the mirror and he feels old and tired, lines on his face he didn’t remember seeing there and he drops his eyes to his hands gripping the edge of the sink, too pale, too dry, stained with ink he never takes the time to scrub off. A mess, he thinks, and he laughs, shaking his head before regretting the gesture and scrambling to find aspirin.

Instead of getting dressed he goes back to bed, face-planting on the mattress, head buried in the sheets and the darkness is welcome. But soon the pounding in his head is replaced by the pounding at his door and he peels himself off, bare feet on the cold floor. Yoongi expects Namjoon, or even Jin, but it’s Kihyun who stands there when he opens the door and he almost slams it back in his face. He doesn’t, though, and they stand there staring at each other until an awkward smile makes its way onto Kihyun’s lips and they start to laugh, discomfort slowly melting away.

Yoongi scoots back to let him in but when Kihyun moves it’s to grab Yoongi’s face in his hands, crowding him against the door; he kisses him, lips still cold from the outside and Yoongi grabs at his coat, dragging him in, blindly kicking the door close and they don’t speak, making out against the wall until an embarrassing moan slips from Yoongi’s throat. Kihyun steps back, then, staring at him, lips parted and spit-slick and whatever it is he’s about to say, Yoongi doesn’t want to hear it. So he kisses him again, almost too eager, and maybe Kihyun understands or maybe he doesn’t care anymore, but soon they’re stumbling to the bedroom, shedding clothes and shyness and that’s it, Yoongi thinks, that’s the Kihyun he prefers, bare and unfeigned and his.

It’s easy, like it always is. Warm hands and yielding flesh, sighs and gasps and Yoongi lets his mind slip from him, lets Kihyun’s body become all that there is, all that there is to feel and to touch and to love. He curls up against him, fits himself against the dips and edges of Kihyun’s flesh and he knows there’s nothing more to get and yet, and yet he’s still looking. He doesn’t mind, he repeats himself, he doesn’t mind and when they’re old and withered—

“Yoongi? You okay?”

Yoongi opens his eyes and Kihyun’s staring, too close, eyes too dark and too deep and Yoongi cannot look anymore.

“Yeah, sorry, just. Drank too much yesterday.”

Kihyun laughs, lets himself fall next to Yoongi, fingers tracing abstracts patterns on his damp skin and Yoongi tries not to shiver.

“Speaking of. Who was that guy you were with?”

His voice sounds too light for his question to be entirely genuine but Yoongi has stopped trying to read anything into Kihyun’s words and actions a long time ago. So he answers, simply, thinking back with a little shame.

“Jin? Some friend of Namjoon.”

“I almost thought I’d find him here when I came.”

Yoongi laughs, weakly hitting Kihyun on the shoulder.

“I’m not you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“What did you do with that girl you picked up? Did you abandon her in some sleazy motel to come here?”

“Hey, I’m not that big of an asshole. We were just going to find her a taxi yesterday. She was going home.”

Yoongi rolls over, humming, fitting his head on Kihyun’s chest, against his heartbeat.

“I’m not lying. Do you care, though?”

“About what?”

“About what I do when I’m not here.”

Yoongi knows Kihyun isn’t lying, knows he never is. There’s only one liar in this relationship.

“No, I don’t.”

Kihyun nods, and a heavy sort of silence falls over them, the sort no one dares to breach. Sweat is cooling on their skin and it’s cold, Yoongi realizes. He sits up to grab the blanket tangled at their feet and Kihyun sits up, too, stretching.

“I have to go, lots of things to do today.”

Yoongi pauses, looking at the blanket in his hands, and he’s grateful Kihyun can’t see the expression on his face.

“Alright.”

Kihyun gets up and Yoongi doesn’t look at him, this time, falling back down instead, dragging the cover over himself. But there are no sounds of Kihyun dressing, no sounds of him leaving and when Yoongi finally peeks, he’s still there, standing naked in the middle of the room, a small book in his hands.

“You shouldn’t leave books on the floor.”

“You shouldn’t step on the books I leave on the floor.”

Kihyun shakes his head, peaking at the opened book he’s holding.

“What’s this? That’s not Korean. Since when do you speak foreign languages?”

Yoongi sighs, rubbing his eyes and stifling a yawn. When he looks back, Kihyun’s staring at him, something thoughtful in his eyes and Yoongi looks down at the book he’s holding, embarrassed under the weight of his gaze.

“Since never. It’s Namjoon’s.”

“Of course he’d have weird poetry books from god knows where.”

“That’s French, you idiot. Aragon.”

“What does it say, though? You marked this page.”

“You don’t need to know.”

“I bet you don’t know either.”

“Sure I do. There’s this handy thing called the internet and it can tell you almost everything you want to know.”

Kihyun laughs, shaking his head, and he throws the book on Yoongi’s bed as he bends over to pick up his clothes. Yoongi stares at the book on the sheets, its broken spine keeping it open at that one page he had marked. And he remembers the words, the way they sounded as Namjoon read them out to him, their laughter at their strange pronunciation and the struggle to find a translation, how they had ceased laughing when they had found it. Yoongi had asked to keep the book.

He doesn’t look up when Kihyun finishes dressing. Doesn’t look up either when he says his goodbyes and maybe his voice doesn’t sound the same but Yoongi doesn’t care, he’s seen this same scene often enough, he’s felt it often enough. And he doesn’t want to, not anymore. There is no happy love, the poem had said, and he looks at these black words he can’t understand, and yet their meaning is etched in on himself.

My beautiful love, my dear love, my torn heart

I carry you within me like a wounded bird

And unknowingly people watch us go by

Repeating after me these words I have spun

Who died as soon as they met your eyes

There is no happy love.

There’s the sound of the front door closing and Yoongi sighs, falling back onto the bed, bringing the blanket over his face. It may be time for something to end.

5.

“Namjoon, hey, Namjoon. Look at me.”

“I am.”

“You’re not, though.”

Namjoon snorts, looking up from his glass. They’re drunk again, in another bar in another place. It’s nice, too, noisier, on the second story of an old building and there’s fairy lights all over the ceiling, hidden in the fake ivy that adorns it. Yoongi likes it.

“Okay, I am now. What is it.”

“I’m. I’m dumping Kihyun.”

Namjoon snorts again, hunched over the table, cold fries and cheese sticks in-between them.

“You’re not even going out together.”

“Should I ask him out before dumping him?”

“Yes.”

They look at each other, bursting out laughing, before Namjoon is shoved to the side by Jin, back from the bathroom. He puts a new bottle of apple soju on the table, grabbing a cheese stick that he waves in the air like a pointer stick.

“You guys have flawless logic. Who’s Kihyun?”

“You know him.” Namjoon sprawls even more on the table, his sleeve drinking up spilled beer. He doesn’t seem to mind. “You met. Like, the other night.”

“Oh, mister tattoos and sour face.”

“Yeah. Yoongi’s seeing him. They’re like, fuck buddies. But not really buddies cause Yoongi loves him. But now he’s dumping him. But they’re not going out together so he can’t really do that, like, technically. You catch my drift?”

Jin levels Namjoon with an amused stare before looking back at Yoongi, whose been putting all his efforts into unscrewing the bottle. It’s not working. He understands why, when Jin takes it from him and twists the cap off the other way around.

“So you’re dumping your fuck buddy. Can we witness it?”

Namjoon laughs again, extending his soju glass and Jin serves him without spilling a drop. Yoongi watches Namjoon empty his drink before coming to a decision.

“Yes. Let’s do it. I’m calling him. Like, right now.”

“Oh damn,” Namjoon says, sitting up straighter and they all hunch over the table, looking as Yoongi takes his phone out. It’s funny, he thinks. He’s watching the scene unfold as if he’s not really there, the sober, rational part of his mind trying to scream something at him, but he isn’t listening. He watches himself put his phone down in the middle of the table, watches Jin and Namjoon huddling together under the fairy lights, watches his own fingers call up Kihyun’s number as he puts the speaker on.

Yoongi doesn’t think he will answer, so when his voice, tiny and fried, rises from the phone, he almost hangs up.

“Yoongi? What the hell? It’s like 1 a.m. Something’s wrong?”

“He’s worried,” he hears Namjoon whisper conspiratorially to Jin who nods wisely, their eyes glued to the phone.

“Where are you? I hear noises. Do you need me to pick you up? Yoongi? You there?”

“I am here,” Yoongi says, and it’s a bit too slurred and loud but at least he said something.

“Alright. What’s up? Are you drunk?”

“Yes.”

“Are you alone?”

“No. I’m with. Namjoon. And Jin. You know.”

“I do. Are they drunk as well?”

“Namjoon yes. Jin not so much.”

Yoongi vaguely hears Namjoon mutter a slurred hello, Jin echoing him with his own more sober greeting.

“Okay. Why are you guys calling me?”

“We’re dumping you.”

“You’re what?”

Suddenly, Yoongi is less sure of himself. He glances nervously at Namjoon, who let his head fall on Jin’s shoulder and is smiling a dopey smile at him. Somehow it does nothing to give him back his confidence.

“Dumping you?”

“Was that a question?”

“No?”

“Okay. Where are you?”

“Why?”

“I’m gonna hang up and you’re gonna send me your location.”

“Why?”

“Yoongi, just do that for me, yeah?”

“Okay.”

And just like this, Kihyun hangs up. They silently stare at the phone, listening to the tonality before Jin raises a finger to cut it off. Yoongi is still staring, dread slowly creeping up his spine.

“Can someone tell me why I just did that?”

“Cause it’s funny?” Namjoon offers, an unsure smile on his lips.

“Is it?”

“I don’t know? A little bit?”

Yoongi only registers what Jin has done with his phone when he puts it back on the table. He stares, fear unfurling within him.

“What did you just do?”

“I sent him our location.”

“Why?”

“Cause you weren’t gonna.”

“For good reason!”

Jin shrugs, pouring himself another drink, and Yoongi just watches him, his wide hands and wider shoulders, silky hair and plump lips and all. He kind of wants to hit him, but the pit opening in his stomach glues him to his chair, so instead of throwing a tantrum he grabs the bottle by the neck and brings it to his lips. Jin and Namjoon watch him without saying anything, Namjoon picking at their platter of cold fries.

“I’m never drinking again.”

“You did just that though.”

“Shut up.”

“Okay.”

Yoongi grabs a fry, other hand still clutching the bottle and he catches Namjoon’s gaze, who’s trying to supress the smile growing on his face. They burst out laughing again, Jin looking between them, shaking his head.

“We’re so fucking dumb. I’m so doomed.”

“Yeah.”

“I have like, fifteen minutes to invent time-travel.”

“Good luck,” Namjoon says as he cheers him with a half empty glass and Yoongi clinks the bottle against it. Yoongi’s phone rings then, Kihyun’s name appearing on the screen, and it’s much earlier than he would have thought. Kihyun must have been out, too, not far from here, and the three of them stare at the screen, eyes wide. It takes Yoongi too long to answer.

“Yeah?”

“Can you come down? I’m here.”

“Already? Damn. I’m coming,” Yoongi says, and he hangs up. There’s a heavy silence as both Jin and Namjoon stare at him, and suddenly Yoongi doesn’t feel anything anymore. He shrugs, grabbing his coat on the empty chair next to him, and stands up.

“Wait for me, yeah?”

“Do you want me to come with you?”

“Nah, it’s fine.”

And it does, if feels fine. It feels fine until he reaches the top of the stairs and a heavy emptiness twists in his belly, something that hangs cobwebs in his lungs and thorns in his heart. But Kihyun’s waiting, Kihyun’s waiting and he could never escape him.

A cold wind hits Yoongi as soon as he gets out and he shivers, tightening his coat around him. Kihyun’s easy to find, standing smack across the door and Yoongi crosses the street to him, slightly sheepish. He’s more sober than he thought, mind clear and hands steady, and the smile he greets Kihyun with feels genuine enough. Kihyun isn’t smiling, though. He starts walking as soon as Yoongi joins him, talking to him above his shoulder about some park nearby where they can sit and talk.

“You didn’t need to come,” Yoongi tells him.

“I think I did,” Kihyun answers, and Yoongi falls silent. Kihyun walks fast, too fast for Yoongi who stumbles behind him. Yoongi stares at him as they go through the streets, stares at the back of his head, at the short, dark hair of his nape and his narrow shoulders, stares at the deep green of his coat and the shape of his hands at his sides and Yoongi wants to hold them, he wants Kihyun to stop and to turn and to tell him it’s fine, that he doesn’t mind Yoongi’s weirdness, doesn’t mind his misplaced feelings and his blatant lies.

Yoongi exhales and watches the cloud of his breath dissipate against the night sky, and this time when he looks up, the moon seems far and indifferent; the neon lights a poor imitation of the stars hidden above. It feels like an end, but it isn’t the one he wanted, and when they reach the secluded park Yoongi doesn’t want to talk anymore.

But he started this, and so when Kihyun sits on a bench, he sits next to him, not too close that they would touch but not too far, either, fixating his gaze on Kihyun’s tattooed hand resting on his own knee. He stares at the thorns etched on his skin and wonders what more they will take from him.

“So, mind telling me what this was all about?”

Yoongi shrugs and the words are there, pushing at the back of his mind but he won’t let them, he won’t let them tell his truth.

“I’m sorry. We were drunk. It was stupid.”

“Yoongi.”

“Yeah?”

“You said you were dumping me.”

“I can’t dump you, we’re not dating.”

Kihyun sighs, sitting back against the bench and Yoongi watches him work his jaw, cross his arms against his chest as he changes strategies.

“That poem, in Namjoon’s book. I found it.”

“You did?”

“Yeah. It wasn’t that hard. You’re right, internet is really handy.”

Yoongi laughs but it feels hollow, sounds swallowed by the night and the quietness falling over them. He hears Kihyun shift next to him, turning slightly to see him better and Yoongi stares resolutely ahead, knowing what will come.

“Yoongi. I need you to be honest. Are you in love with me?”

Yes, he wants to say; but now isn’t the right time. Kihyun is still young and beautiful and too close and they won’t be able to laugh about it, they won’t be able to remember that one time when, and you never noticed anything at the time, and I didn’t mind it, I moved on quick. So Yoongi does the only think he can, he swallows back the words on his lips, closes his hands into fists deep in his pockets, and doesn’t look Kihyun in the eyes when he answers.

“No, I’m not.”

There’s a beat of silence, Kihyun staring as Yoongi drops his head and Yoongi knows Kihyun’s waiting, waiting for him to turn around and tell him that he lied, but Yoongi won’t. He stares at the ground, at the dirty cuffs of his pants, at his muddy shoes. And then the window closes, and Kihyun slowly gets up.

“Okay. I think we should take a break, yeah? I don’t think this is good for either of us anymore. So, yeah.”

Yoongi slowly nods, still not looking, and his fingers are cold, so cold inside his coat.

“Will you look at me?”

No, I won’t, Yoongi thinks, but he does, forcing his head up and Kihyun looks tired and sad, standing there in the empty park, streetlights drawing shadows on his perfect face and Yoongi wants to kiss him, he does, he wants to reach out and touch because he knows this is the last time and he wasn’t prepared for how much it hurt.

“Will you find your way back?”

“Sure.”

“Okay. Let’s keep in touch, yeah?”

Yoongi nods again and there’s an aborted gesture from Kihyun, something small and miserable and Yoongi wants to disappear completely, dissolve in the cold and the wind and forget how to feel.

“I’ll, I’ll see you around.”

“Yeah. Goodnight.”

Kihyun leaves, then. He turns back with a last look but there’s nothing to salvage and Yoongi watches him go until he can’t see him anymore.

6.

It may be hours or minutes, Yoongi isn’t too sure, he just knows he’s cold, that there’s the sound of gravel crushing underfoot and that when he lifts his head, Namjoon is there, Jin trailing after him.

“How did you find me?”

“Kihyun texted me where you were.”

“Well, that’s nice.”

Namjoon nods, sitting quietly next to him and Yoongi settles against his side, head on his shoulder. Jin crouches before them, looking up at Yoongi, and it’s him who asks, in a gentle, low voice.

“What happened?”

Yoongi shrugs, closing his eyes for a beat, and everything’s still there when he opens them, everything’s still there and everything still hurts and he’s tired, suddenly, so very tired.

“I disappointed him.”

“What do you mean?”

“He knows, and he wanted me to tell him, and I couldn’t.”

“Why not?”

Because it wasn’t supposed to happen like this, because it wasn’t the right time, because Kihyun doesn’t feel the same and Yoongi doesn’t want to hear it, doesn’t want to say it, doesn’t want it to exist outside of his own mind.

“I don’t know,” he says, sitting up, rubbing his face in his hands. “It doesn’t matter now anyway. It’s done, we’re done, there’s nothing more to it.”

“You were friends, though, I mean, before all this,” Namjoon says, and his gaze is sad.

“Were we? I don’t know. I always liked him. You’re not supposed to like your friends that way. It’s just. It was always a mess, and I’m a dumbass, and I’m tired of talking about it.”

Namjoon looks at Yoongi until he feels uncomfortable, searching in his face for something he doesn’t seem to find and he sighs, standing up with too much purpose.

“Alright. Let’s bring you home, yeah? It’s getting late anyway.”

Yoongi smiles, grateful, Jin standing up with a groan as his knees pop and Namjoon makes the obvious joke about his ancient age. It’s strange, how everything is still so normal. The people they pass still look the same, the buildings spew the same songs and the same lights and the wind on Yoongi’s skin is no different than it was. It’s like nothing happened, and yet the ache within him is new, the emptiness he feels didn’t use to be there. It shouldn’t be like this, he thinks, letting Namjoon stir him through emptying streets. He watches the kids still hanging about, laughing boys holding onto each other, girls sharing cabs, old men having a last drink at the convenient store.

It shouldn’t be like this, and yet it is. Misery doesn’t bleed out to taint the world, it makes a home in your bones, Yoongi thinks, and he kicks an empty can into the gutter, watching it bounce off the sidewalk. It’s a night for rain and yet the skies remain desperately empty, Yoongi looking up at the moon hanging there, still cold, still indifferent, and he barely registers Namjoon grabbing his arm, dragging him towards an empty cab.

Namjoon sits with him on the backseat, a comforting hand on his knee and Yoongi watches the scenery pass them by, listens to the sound of tires on the wet asphalt, to the sirens in the distance, to the muffled music coming from the radio. And nothing’s loud enough, nothing’s fast enough, a sharp unrest slithering under his skin and Yoongi needs something to drown in, something louder than his thoughts, something sharp and violent. He needs a little annihilation. But there’s nothing, though. Nothing but Namjoon’s warm hand on his knee and Yoongi looks at his naked skin and it’s wrong, so wrong. The wrong hand and the wrong warmth and the wrong feelings inside him.

7.

It’s a strange thing to get used to. Yoongi wakes to an empty space but when he looks there is no one sitting on the edge of his bed, no warm flesh to reach and touch, no swirls of ink to trace with the tip of his tongue. So he rolls on his back, looking up at the ceiling and when it rains he thinks of the ghosts tapping at his window, and he wonders if Kihyun will become one of them, if he’ll fade, too, another unremembered lad. So he sits up, grabbing the pen laying on his bedside table amongst half-read books and empty mugs, and he draws thorns on the back of his hand, the way he remembers them.

They’re wrong, he knows, slightly askew, and he splays his fingers in the air, against the white of his ceiling and he wonders where those hands are, now, who are they holding; if they draw gasps from someone else, if they miss him, too, maybe. But there’s no answer to get and Yoongi rolls on his side, checks his phone for the third time and sighs at the empty display. It’s hard, to let Kihyun go. He’s in the folds of his sheets, in the morning light painting shadows on his walls, in the songs on the radio. And there’s nothing to do but wait, let the days fizzle out until time numbs the feelings inside him and it’s strange, Yoongi thinks, they’ve been there so long.

“Yoongi, are you listening?”

“Sorry, what?”

Yoongi lifts his eyes just in time to see Namjoon rolling his, face half-hidden by the tall mug he brings to his lips. They found a secluded corner in the coffee shop, far from the counter and the noise of the coffee maker.

“You’re a delight to talk to, you know that?”

Yoongi laughs as Namjoon shakes his head, putting his mug back on the table. He asked for some ungodly thing, too much cream and too much syrup, maybe three different flavours mixed in. Yoongi looks down at his own black coffee and thinks that maybe Namjoon’s the one to have it right, maybe he could live it up a little and at least get some cream next time. He takes a sip, and the bitter coffee burns his tongue.

“Look, we’ve been moping for way too long.”

“No one asked you to mope with me.”

“It’s called solidarity, brother. But enough is enough. I’m taking you out tonight and you’re gonna have a good time or I’m kicking your ass.”

The cup clinks on the saucer as Yoongi puts it back, narrowing his eyes at Namjoon, who’s swirling his liquid sugar with a tall spoon.

“You ever notice how every time you’re taking me out, it never ends well?”

“Details, details,” says Namjoon with a wave of his hand. “It’s not like you have a choice anyway. I already called everyone.”

“By everyone do you mean just Jin?”

“Not my fault he’s the only one always available.”

“What does he do with his life anyway?”

“You know what? I never even asked. He was just there one day, and no one questioned it.”

They stare at each other until they start giggling and it had always been this way with Namjoon, easy and light, a warmth Yoongi shared with no one else, a familiarity stemming from years of knowing each other. And he felt better for it, somehow. Whatever happened he will always have this and maybe it can be enough, someone to exist with, a place to go back to.

“Anyway, we’re meeting him in three hours.”

“How did you know I’d say yes.”

“I wasn’t planning on letting no be an option.”

Yoongi shows his teeth and Namjoon laughs, burying his face in his mug again. And maybe he’s still high on sugar when they meet at nightfall, loud words and louder laughs, but Yoongi doesn’t mind, he lets himself fall into it, matches both Jin and Namjoon drink for drink until he’s blurring at the edges and it’s fine, it is, he sinks into the moment and the only things that exist are the lights of the pub, the food on the table, Namjoon’s dimples, Jin’s smile, and the taste of soju on his lips.

They find themselves seated on a low wall again, hours later, happily drunk and they were waiting for a taxi at some point but this too has faded at the back of their mind, huddling together under Jin’s big umbrella. There’s a blue sky printed on the lining, fluffy white clouds and the hint of summer and Yoongi stares, Namjoon warm and half asleep against his side, Jin trying his best to stay upright. It’s not raining this time, only a light snow falling that won’t last until the morning. Yoongi watches it melt as soon as it touches the ground and they should go, he knows, go home and wash up and sleep but it sounds like too much effort and this is nice, too, just enjoying each other’s existence, huddled together under a fake sky.

But Yoongi can never catch a break, it’s written somewhere in the stars. It feels like déjà-vu, when a pair of scuffed shoes stops before them, and this time the hand holding the umbrella is gloved, and it’s not a petite woman but a tall guy, squeezing with Kihyun under his too-small umbrella.

“Do you guys make this a habit?”

There’s a laugh in Kihyun’s voice and Yoongi is instantly petrified, Namjoon stirring at his side, Jin throwing a peace sign almost on reflex.

“We’re being Victorian,” he says, and Yoongi laughs, something short-lived that escapes him before he can swallow it back.

“I never understand what comes out of your mouth,” Kihyun says, and his friend laughs, shuffling his feet to stay warm.

“These your friends?” he asks, voice slightly husky and he’s pretty, Yoongi realizes, pearly white smile and silky blond hair, eyes crinkling at the corner. It’s always been like this with Kihyun, his sharp edges unceasingly surrounded by pretty things. Pretty friends and pretty pictures, pretty eyes and pretty words, and Yoongi isn’t sure where he fits in all this, messy hair and ink-stained hands, a perpetual pout on his awkward face.

“That’s, uh, Yoongi. And Namjoon. Him I don’t really know.”

The awkward wave from Namjoon and Jin’s self-introduction go entirely ignored as the guy’s eyes widen, his smile growing with a vaguely predatory edge.

“Oh, you’re Yoongi. In-ter-esh-ting.”

“Shut up, Minhyuk,” Kihyun elbows him and the guy, Minhyuk, looks at him in mock-offense, rubbing his ribs.

“I didn’t even say anything yet.”

“Yet.”

Minhyuk rolls his eyes, falling a step behind but he’s still staring at Yoongi with a smile on his lips, something knowing that has Yoongi feeling on edge and he shifts on the cold wall, trying to half-hide behind Namjoon’s slumped form.

“How have you been doing?” Kihyun asks, and Yoongi almost wants to laugh at his formal tone, as if they were reuniting after ten years apart. The guy behind Kihyun mimes gagging and Yoongi decides he sort of likes him, something playful in his manners that draws him in.

“’been good. How about you?”

“Yeah, same.”

Yoongi wonders if Kihyun knows he’s lying, wonders if Kihyun is lying himself. They stare at each other and his skin grows too tight, his chest too narrow for his beating heart. He must know, Yoongi thinks, he must know, it’s written all over my face. So he hides, breaks his gaze to look at Jin instead, who’s having a silent conversation with Kihyun’s friend and it seems dangerous, judging by the amount of nodding, eyebrows wiggle and helpless shrugs. Minhyuk notices him staring and breaks it off, too, pushing Kihyun aside.

“You guys wanna share a cab?”

“There’s four of us. We won’t all fit,” Namjoon says wisely, half laying in Yoongi’s lap.

“Five, but okay. How about noodles then? The subway opens in like one hour anyway and you guys look like you could use something to like, sponge up all that alcohol.”

Namjoon perks up at the mention of food, struggling to get to his feet as Minhyuk takes the lead, Kihyun at his side. Yoongi hangs back, looking up at the sky as it lightens up, looking more like the lining of Jin’s umbrella. The snow falls harder now, clinging to their hair and clothes and when they reach the restaurant an old woman ushers them inside, pushing them towards a table near the back. They’re not the only ones here and Yoongi looks around at the other survivors of the night, drunken students slurping noodles like their lives depend on it, tired couples sitting on the same side of the table, groups of friends still merry enough to laugh loudly.

It’s a bit strange, to be awake at this time, this suspended moment where the city sleeps and there’s little else to do but wait, wait until you can go home, until you can ease back into your everyday life. Yoongi feels slightly removed, seated there with a bowl of steaming noodles in front of him. He only half listens to the others’ banter and Kihyun’s quiet, too, seated there on the other side of the table. Yoongi sneaks glances from time to time, and Kihyun catches them all. Yoongi doesn’t mind, though, too tired to care maybe, so he keeps looking, smiles a secret smile and Kihyun catches it too, offering one of his own. It’s okay, this all will be erased in the morning, but for now, it’s fine, he can steal the moment.

The walk back to the subway station is full of yawns and bleary eyes. Yoongi walks with Namjoon, hanging onto his arm, and watches their breaths cloud in the cold air. When he looks, Kihyun and Minhyuk are hanging back, talking animatedly between themselves and when Minhyuk catches his gaze, he winks, causing Yoongi to immediately turn back, staring straight ahead. It feels like something’s brewing, Minhyuk joining them as they commandeer the empty seats on the train, but Kihyun stays standing, the farthest from Yoongi, seemingly deep in thought. It’s okay, though, Namjoon’s falling asleep at his side and Jin’s sharing terrible jokes with Minhyuk, who answers in kind. It’s simple and nice, the stations passing them by both too slow and too fast, and Yoongi’s almost asleep when it’s time to get off.

He’s the only one getting off at his stop, Namjoon offering to walk him but it’s fine, it’s light out and he’s not as drunk as he looks, hair messy and eyes unfocused. He doesn’t look at Kihyun as he gets off, though, something about goodbyes not sitting well, and he walks fast, skirting around the early risers going to work, yearning for the embrace of his bed and the nice oblivion of sleep. He doesn’t get it, though, not for a while. There’s an insistent knocking at his door just as he puts toothpaste on his brush and Yoongi considers ignoring it, but it just keeps going. He sighs, taking a long hard look at himself in the mirror before trudging to the door, still clutching his toothbrush, ready to yell at whomever is behind.

He doesn’t, though. When he opens it, it’s Kihyun standing there, looking as mad as Yoongi feels. They stare at each other for a split second, Yoongi’s eyes wide, Kihyun frowning. And then, Kihyun brushes his hair back in a nervous gesture, voice too sharp when he speaks.

“Damnit Yoongi, do you know how frustrating you are?”

“What? What are you talking about?” Yoongi asks as he takes a step back and Kihyun just stares, stares at the toothbrush in his hand, at his dishevelled hair and too big hoodie and Yoongi suddenly feels self-conscious; he knows what he must look like, tired and unwashed and messy.

“Can I come in?”

“Erm, yeah, sure.”

Yoongi opens the door wide, stepping aside to let Kihyun in and he barrels towards the living room, planting himself on the couch. Yoongi follows, awkwardly standing there, barefoot on the cold floor. He realizes he still has his toothbrush in hand and he shifts, uneasy, until Kihyun waves exasperatedly without even looking at him.

“Go brush your teeth, I can wait.”

Yoongi nods, disappears without being asked twice. Alone in the bathroom, his heart hammers against his ribs and he tries to salvage what he can, smoothing down his hair, his hoodie, looking for socks to wear. He steps back in the living room, sheepish, and he wonders why he’s almost scared, Kihyun glowering on the couch. There’s no place else to sit, so he sinks to the floor, cross-legged on his ratty carpet. Kihyun stares and sighs, jaw working but no words spill, so Yoongi gives him a nudge.

“I’m frustrating?”

“You fucking are!”

“Why?”

“You never ask for anything, do you? Stuff just happens to you and you never do anything about it. You just let people take whatever they want from you. You never say what you want. Everyone just walks all over you.”

It hurts, it does, something sinking deep in his belly and Yoongi drops his head, looking at the stained fingers in his lap.

“I’m not sure how to take that.”

Kihyun doesn’t seem to hear him, the words bursting from him as if he’d kept them inside for too long, boiling there with a strange kind of rage.

“It’s the same with me. I know you couldn’t possibly be alright with what happened and yet you just let it happen.”

Yoongi looks up then, and there’s a kind of distress in Kihyun’s face that didn’t use to be there, something that hurts, too, more so now that he knows he’s the one who put it there.

“I wasn’t. I wasn’t gonna force you to stay.”

Kihyun leans forward, elbows on his knees and his voice is quieter when he speaks. It’s dangerous territory, Yoongi knows, a bit too close, too close to the secret buried under his heart.

“Why not, though? Why not even try? Is nothing worth it to you?”

“Kihyun, seriously–”

“How do you feel about me?”

“What?”

Yoongi freezes, staring at Kihyun with wide eyes. He feels cornered, eyes darting nervously to the door but there’s nowhere to run, not this time.

“How do you feel about me? Like, really feel about me.”

I need you to be honest, for once, please; Kihyun means, and it is left unsaid but Yoongi understands it all the same. He knows, then, Yoongi thinks. He knows I’ve been lying. He looks at Kihyun, really looks at him, lets his features sink in his mind, his dark eyes, the shaved side of his hair, the slope of his nose and the bow of his mouth. He knows the lines of his chest under his clothes, the dip of his waist and the pictures inked there, on his skin, over his shoulders, down his sides, over his thighs. He knows his taste and the grace of his gestures, knows his laugh and each nuance of his voice. He knows him, and he loves him, and Kihyun’s staring back, something painful in his face. And Yoongi can’t lie anymore.

“I love you.”

Kihyun doesn’t react, and Yoongi gazes down, wrings his hands in his lap, his messy, stained hands, bitten nails and rough skin and it’s too heavy, it is, the silence stretching, smothering him in its grasp.

“I know I shouldn’t, but it just happened, and I wasn’t going to let it interfere but then it did and I know I’m not your–”

And Kihyun’s in his space then, close, too close, and he’s kissing him and he tastes just like Yoongi knew he would, and his hands frame his face, thorns and all; Yoongi parts his lips, sighs into the kiss, Kihyun slipping his tongue between his teeth and he loves him, he does, there was no way these feelings would ever subside.

“You love me.”

They part and Yoongi feels a little light headed, laughing despite himself, a weight off his chest.

“Yeah, I do, I really do.”

Kihyun kisses him again, feather-like kisses over his lips, his cheeks, his brow, over each of his eyelids and his lips again, lingering, this time, and Yoongi’s laughing, something exhausted but there all the same.

“I wasn’t sure, I wanted you to tell me, I wanted you to say something true.”

Yoongi crumbles then, sinks into Kihyun, head buried against his chest and he’d missed him, missed his body under his hands and his voice in his ears.

“I couldn’t. You’re too much. Too far from what I am.”

“What’s this bullshit now?”

Kihyun pushes him back, frames his face in his hands, brushes back his messy hair and Yoongi closes his eyes under his touch, lips slightly parted. Kihyun kisses them again, just because.

“I don’t know, I just. When we started, it wasn’t supposed to be something more and then it changed for me, but I didn’t see it change for you. I didn’t see why it would. Don’t see. Didn’t?”

“Damnit, Yoongi, that’s what I meant by you being frustrating.”

A kiss, Yoongi licking his lips.

“Stop assuming what people think. Speak your mind sometimes.”

Another kiss, deeper, softer, too, lingering.

“You taste like mint.”

Yoongi laughs, gripping Kihyun’s shirt to bring him closer.

“It’s the toothpaste.”

Kihyun traces the edges of his mouth with the tip of his tongue, teasing, laughing.

“I know. I want you to tell me things from now on.”

A peck.

“Yeah, okay.”

Another, at the corner of Yoongi’s lips.

“Ask for things, too.”

Yoongi nods, eyes still closed, feeling, touching.

“What do you want?”

“You. I want you.”

8.

Yoongi wakes to an empty space next to him. The sheets are already cold but when he turns on his side, Kihyun is there, seated at the edge of the bed. Yoongi doesn’t call out to him, doesn’t make a noise. Instead, he burrows deeper under the covers and he watches him, watches his naked back, the tanned skin over the knots of his spine. Kihyun is looking down at something in his hands, his phone, most likely, and if Yoongi slightly scoots back the dip of his neck makes him look like he doesn’t have a head. And Yoongi keeps staring, at the volutes of dark ink curling over Kihyun’s shoulder blades and trickling down his sides, at the dimples on his lower back, at the light scratches on his hips and Yoongi knows his own fingers left them there.

It must be early afternoon, judging by the light streaming in from the window, a cold, white light speaking of snow. Yoongi rolls over, closer to Kihyun, splaying a hand over his lower back. Kihyun detaches his eyes from his phone, ruffling Yoongi’s hair as he leaves it on the bedside table, falling back into bed.

“How are you always awake before me?” Yoongi asks, curling his body against Kihyun.

“You’re the heaviest sleeper I know. Sometimes I check your breathing just to make sure you’re still alive.”

Yoongi laughs, and Kihyun kisses it out of him. It’s strange, to have him here, entirely here.

“Don’t you have anywhere to be?”

“No. Unless you want me to go.”

“I don’t.”

“What do you want?”

Yoongi pretends to think about it as Kihyun draws nonsense patterns on his skin with cold fingertips.

“To have breakfast.”

“Isn’t it a little late for breakfast?”

“It’s never too late for breakfast.”

“Alright.”

They end up eating in bed, Kihyun complaining about crumbs, Yoongi making more on purpose. It’s his bed, after all, he can have it as crumby as he likes. Kihyun calls him a slob and Yoongi straddles him, wanting to touch his face with his sticky hands, Kihyun caging his wrists, shrieking. It’s light like it hasn’t been in months, and Yoongi lets himself sink against Kihyun’s chest, Kihyun who embraces him, kissing the top of his head.

Hours later and they still haven’t left the bedroom, Kihyun lounging on the bed with nothing but his briefs on, staring at Yoongi who’s sitting on the floor, a bottle of black nail polish next to him, diligently painting Kihyun’s left hand.

“If it cramps my style I’m returning you to the store.”

Yoongi doesn’t even look up, too focused on not making a mess.

“Shut up, it will just make you look even more edgy. Isn’t that your entire goal in life? Being the edgiest.”

“You like it.”

“Mayhaps. Now stop moving or I’m gonna fuck up.”

Kihyun laughs, pillowing his face on his own free arm, left hand dangling over the edge of the bed. He watches Yoongi, his perpetually messy hair, his focused pout, his ink-stained fingers cradling his own.

“Yoongi?”

“Yeah?”

“I love you too. I love you.”

There’s a pause, Yoongi’s hand hovering over Kihyun’s nails as he glances upwards, just once, before going back to sinking the brush back into the bottle.

“Shut it.”

Kihyun laughs, wriggling until he’s half off the bed, caging Yoongi’s face in his hands to kiss him, earning a slap on the forehead.

“It’s not fucking dry yet! You’re gonna ruin it!”

“I won’t, now shut up.”

“If I’d known you’d be like this I would have never said anything.”

“And miss out on all this?”

Kihyun tries for a sweepy gesture that makes him lose his balance and he scrambles for purchase on the sheets, only to fall to the floor anyway, Yoongi looking on in disappointment.

“Now you’ve ruined it.”

“Can I still get a kiss?”

A shrug, Yoongi failing to mask the smile tugging at his lips as he bends to kiss Kihyun and he knows, then, that the rain may be full of ghosts but this one he will remember, always, and he lets himself fall, fall into Kihyun, into his depths, into the love that lays there.