Work Text:
It was around five in the morning — maybe already past — and Yoongi was dragging himself home.
He tripped up the stairs to the dorm, head down and hair hanging in his eyes. Their building was the particular type of quiet most residential buildings get close to the sunrise: like everything was taking one last deep inhale before the day. The thin-plastic rustling of the convenience store bag slung around Yoongi’s wrist, his heavy footsteps, and the huffs of his own breath were the only sounds in the narrow stairwell. His phone had died on the way back from the agency’s rented office space (drained without the charger that Namjoon had accidentally taken back to the dorm), so his cheap earphones were stuffed into his back pocket and probably tangled so badly that they were useless. Without music Yoongi didn’t have the energy to stop himself counting his steps, or anything to distract him from his own body, and so the journey had seemed even more demanding than it usually did.
Sitting in front of their overheated computer desk and the walk home had made him sweat enough that his skin was sticky, and he was certain that it had trapped some of the city grit against his neck and throat. Every time his tongue darted out to poke at the wound on the side of his lips it tasted of salt and made him grimace. The August heat refused to leave completely, no matter the time of day, and the air was still and dead.
Usually, Yoongi liked this time of night. Or, day. Even as his opportunities for sleep were whittled down into nothing he thought there was something soothing about the changing sky, but not tonight. Tonight he was uncomfortable and hurting and he couldn’t get the memory of a nightmare he’d had two nights ago to leave him alone. He could feel the strain of every step on his ankles, and in the tight muscles he didn’t know the names of running up the insides of his legs — the same places Hoseok was always insisting he should stretch better. His shoulder was knotted and painful enough to knock the wind out of him when he gripped the cool metal banister and pulled himself up to the landing.
A hissed curse slipped through his gritted teeth. His hand trembled as he keyed in the door code, the bag around his wrist shaking as a result. Even Jeongguk would be asleep by now, but Yoongi didn’t try to soften the sound of the door closing behind him. It wasn't as though it would wake anyone. He couldn’t remember a time when any of the members were unable to stay asleep through shouting, or the bustle of busier people around them. It was just how things were, which was fine so long as it meant that Yoongi didn’t have to bother trying to be quiet tonight. At least he was getting home so late that the others wouldn’t question him.
It was still surprising how much he could hurt and how little control over it he had. At least when it came to dancing, pain was something that Yoongi could tell himself he was agreeing to. Like, if you dance this much then get ready for the kinesio tape and ice. Yoongi just felt like he was too young to mean that sitting still and working on a track left him like this.
But obviously he wasn't.
Namjoon had gone home early from their scheduled studio time, pale-faced and wincing against a headache. That was when he’d taken the charger, too. Fucker. The pain was genuine, at least. During dance practice Yoongi had made Taehyung apologise when his behaviour had tipped into obnoxiously loud; wary of how Namjoon looked like he might cry. Everything had gotten more quiet after that.
Yoongi didn’t mind working alone in the studio, either. He had stayed to push himself on a so-so track he knew could be reworked into something good, and somehow the night had disappeared into the early morning without him noticing. He yawned wide enough that his jaw popped, then squatted down to untie his shoelaces. The movement made him feel suddenly dizzy as the floor lurched up to meet his face, and he screwed his eyes shut in an attempt not to fall over.
“C’mon,” he grunted, not moving his shoes from where he’d stepped out of them.
His head wouldn’t stop spinning. Climbing the ladder to his top bunk seemed like something further and further out of his reach. Maybe he’d just sleep on the floor tonight. Or in the manager’s bed, if it was free. He shuffled down the entryway without opening his eyes, letting his sock soles slide against the fake wooden flooring. His shoulder was agony at his side.
Well. At least the kitchen was easy to get to. He dropped the plastic bag against the cupboards and shuffled toward where he knew their water dispenser was, the red light making the skin of his eyelids glow. Beside the dispenser their dishes were cluttered around the sink, as usual. Every scrap of food had been cleared from the precariously-stacked plates, but there was a half-full disposable cup on the counter next to the water dispenser and a blister sheet of painkillers that had just been opened that evening. Namjoon, just before he went to bed, probably. Yoongi picked up the waxed styrofoam cup and finished the water in a single mouthful, reaching out to refill it from the cold tap before he had even swallowed. He should have bought coffee at GS25. At least he didn’t have to hunt for something that would let him sleep through the pain biting at him.
He took a sip with each tablet — hoping the bungeoppang he’d eaten on the walk was enough to line his stomach, or whatever food was supposed to do — then drank the rest, smacking his lips when it was done and leaving the cup where he’d found it.
A sudden thud made him peer back into the living area, curious about what it could be. The television was on, one of the sport anime DVDs the maknaes kept lying around playing with the muted symbol in the corner. A few mosquitos were hitting the screen, over and over. Taehyung was sitting on the floor in front of it, his long coltish legs crossed over one another. Looking at him, dressed in his boxers and stretched out undershirt, Yoongi wondered if he had already been in bed and given up on sleeping. All the flyaways in Taehyung’s hair and the bare skin on his arms were backlit. It made him seem only half-there, and as Yoongi watched he swayed from side to side like he was too tired to keep himself sitting upright.
Yoongi sighed. “Kim Taehyung-ah. Shouldn’t you be asleep?”
Taehyung shrugged without bothering to turn and face Yoongi first. The last time they’d spoken had been during the break in dance practice, when Yoongi had scolded Taehyung for getting too loud. Taehyung had sounded like he was spitting the words of his apology out, and he’d been silently sulking ever since. Yoongi had let him be. If he wanted to act like a child then Yoongi wasn't going to stop him.
He didn’t make a sound as Yoongi got closer. It was obvious from watching him that he’d done something like slap his hand down on the floor in an attempt to stop himself from overbalancing, and that was the sound that Yoongi had heard. He glanced at their bedroom door. Maybe he should just sleep in Taehyung’s bed if the kid wasn't going to use it. It would save his shoulder the pain of trying to hoist himself up the short ladder. As he moved, still only half-decided, Taehyung turned quickly to look; maybe wary of Yoongi cornering him for another scolding. His big eyes were red and puffy, and the skin under was dark enough that it looked bruised. Though he could be a crybaby, it always somehow surprised Yoongi when he saw Taehyung let himself get really upset — it felt like usually he would just shake any serious emotion off and wander away to find something entertaining.
“You look terrible,” he said. “Go sleep.”
Taehyung’s breathing was the uncomfortable sort of wet that meant he was trying not to cry again. “I can’t.”
Maybe Yoongi had been too sharp earlier. Sleep had been difficult to come by for him as well. Their comeback was in just over two weeks. Fear and irritation had settled in Yoongi’s stomach like twin snakes the second Bang PD had confirmed the date; hissing and spitting poison at every other emotion. Yoongi was trying so hard to keep himself together, fighting against endless nightmares and anxieties that clawed up his spine and slipped into his throat the second his attention on them wavered. And then there was the pain, wearing him down. He felt alone with it; determined not to let anyone (the members, their staff, the fans, his family) realise how bad it had gotten.
He didn’t want Taehyung to feel alone like that. With some difficulty he lowered himself to sit on the floor, feeling his spine curl vertebra by vertebra. After a couple of uncomfortable seconds he let himself lie back, too exhausted to stop the back of his head hitting the floor with more force than he’d like. Whatever. He could take it. He sprawled out gracelessly, looking up at their ceiling with half-lidded eyes. All his pain and fatigue settled in his body and mixed together like paint, so heavy that it felt he was getting pulled through the floor.
“What are you doing out here?” he asked.
Taehyung sniffed beside him. When he spoke his words all bled into the next, but Yoongi could pick out what he was trying to say with practiced ease. “My family, hyung, my — I miss them.”
Yoongi could hear the plea in the words. He let the misery of it all wash over him like seawater, the salt stinging in his own wounds. There was a distance that the seven of them mourned. Yoongi, for example, had already been living in Seoul for three years now. He could never really go back to the same family he had left. He understood the exchange he had made. But he worried often about how closely they might pay attention to fan-facing content and what kind of distance that could put between himself and the rest of them. It was an unequal exchange, and he spent the majority of his phone calls home asking for news from the family, or the neighbours, or new development projects near their apartment building. His bemused mother answered all his questions without fuss, and always reminded him to eat before they said goodbye.
The seven of them rarely spoke about missing their families. It was too easy to cry, thinking about how long it would be until they could visit home again, and nobody wanted to be an easy target for teasing. Yoongi considered what Taehyung might want to hear as he tried to find the loose strings of his accent, which usually proved difficult to gather on purpose. I know sounded patronising. I miss mine too wasn't really something he wanted to say.
“They’ll be proud of you for working so hard,” he offered, diplomatically.
Taehyung spluttered a sound that Yoongi took a second to identify as self-deprecating laughter, and made a questioning noise in the back of his throat.
The noise stopped. “Mm?” replied Taehyung. “Ah, nothing.”
Yoongi rolled onto his side to look at him. The light from the television was shining on half of his face, but his long fringe was keeping most of his eyes in shadow, like a painting or something. He looked young, but some part of Yoongi could see the adult he was starting to grow into, despite the occasional lapse into childish mannerisms like earlier that day — well. Like the day before.
“You do work hard, Taehyung-ah,” Yoongi repeated. He tried to make his voice sound more genuine. He didn’t say things if he didn’t mean them, after all.
Taehyung dropped his chin to his chest, shy under the praise. Yoongi watched him without comment. He was aware that it meant a lot to his dongsaengs when he offered praise unsolicited but he hoped, at least, that they knew he was always proud of how hard they worked and that he respected how much they’d offered to let Yoongi live this version of his greatest dream — where people could hear his music. Maybe he had given Taehyung the wrong impression as a result of scolding, although his blunt corrections sometimes felt as useful to him as friendship. Probably even more so.
He thought about apologising, but that didn’t seem quite right. He didn’t want Taehyung to think that he wouldn’t correct him in the future. He just needed Taehyung to know that it was coming from a place of … care? Finding the words to explain himself had always been an intimidating experience for Yoongi, even in his own head, where his emotions felt out of control. But he hoped that if anyone was willing to listen and let him figure it out it would be Taehyung, who so often got his own words twisted and turned around.
“You know,” he started and then settled on what he was going to say next with a nod. “Hyung doesn’t say those things to be mean to you.”
Taehyung looked surprised. Yoongi felt a strike of embarrassment course through his body like lightning, his toes curling. It was difficult not to let situations in which he came across poorly rattle him. There was a desire to get up and leave, but he stayed where he was and counted his breath through it.
“I know I can seem tough on you. You’re young.” This wasn't getting anywhere. Taehyung wasn't the youngest, but he felt the most immature with alarming regularity. It was something he was working on. Yoongi knew that. “And I wonder if sometimes you -- I think it might seem like I’m picking on you.”
“Yoongi-hyung,” said Taehyung. “Are you trying to apologise?”
“I’m not trying anything!” Yoongi insisted. “I just don’t want you to have the wrong idea of why I … I just want to help you, Taehyung. I didn’t realise I was making you think you don’t work hard.”
He watched Taehyung smile. “Sweet hyung.”
“Don’t call me that.” He felt himself blush. Reflexively, his body tensed, his shoulders jumping up to his ears. Fucking ouch. He forced his body to relax against the floor. It hurt. It hurt. Why hadn’t he just washed up and gone to bed?
Taehyung leaned forward to see better in the low light. Every time the scene changed on the television the new colours flashed against his skin. It made him look like he was moving, although he was perfectly still as he examined Yoongi. “Are you alright?” he asked.
Yoongi nodded and then mentally made a list of quick ways to change the subject. He didn’t want to talk about this with Taehyung, of all people. Taehyung would get worried and tell and then Yoongi would have no control over it at all. Even this level, shitty as it was, was something.
“Stop calling me names and then I’ll be fine,” he said.
Taehyung laughed — too loud for the quiet apartment. It was a nicer laugh than the one he had coughed out earlier; closer to his real one, although still sad at the edges to anyone who was listening well. Yoongi smiled back, not pointing out that he had heard it. Taehyung leaned back from Yoongi, turning his head to watch the anime. It didn’t seem like he believed Yoongi, but it didn’t seem like he was willing to push it.
“It’s not a name if you are sweet. It’s a descriptor,” he lifted his hands and began to tick points off on his fingers, like he was listing evidence. “You came in and sat with me even though you obviously need a shower. Your name is Sugar. You feel bad because I was crying. And so forth and on.”
“Feeling bad because someone is crying does not — don’t think I forgot that shower comment, brat. And my name is Suga.”
“If you say so, Suga-hyung.”
“I do say so.”
A beat. “So you did feel bad because I was crying?”
Yoongi hummed without confirming anything. He knew Taehyung would hear the yes anyway. “You can talk to me,” he offered, though he was relatively certain that Taehyung would do no such thing. They weren’t close, and Taehyung had Jimin. And Seokjin. And Jeongguk. Hoseok, probably. Namjoon would never turn him away. Ah … of course. Yoongi, no matter how hard he tried, was obviously unapproachable to Taehyung.
It was just how he was. It was the snakes in his stomach, and whatever lived in his head that tried to push people away as a reflexive reaction. Taehyung didn’t say anything else; focus entirely on the television now.
Yoongi fell into a doze without meaning to. His mind tried to run through the steps of the title track but it felt as though he was reaching through smoke, leaving him with only the impression of moving his body while being unable to pull a single movement out to study. Muscle memory, and all that. He shifted the weight on his back a little and then again in an attempt to find a position that didn’t ache quite so much, grimacing when he felt how his shirt had stuck to the sweat on his clammy back. He should get up and wash. And then sleep somewhere that wasn't the floor.
Taehyung, who had started whispering something under his breath, must have mistaken Yoongi’s movements as a sign that he was still awake. “Can I tell you something?” he asked.
Yoongi grunted, still sounding half-asleep although his heart had picked up speed. Taehyung understood that as an affirmative and moved slightly closer, breathing in a steadying pattern Yoongi recognised from warmups. For a suspended second Yoongi wondered over the beating of his heart what Taehyung was about to tell him, and how this moment was going to change every moment after it. He couldn’t find it within him to say anything before Taehyung did. What if he really was unapproachable? Or what if —
Then, “I want to go home even more now than I did when — as a trainee,” Taehyung admitted.
Oh.
Yoongi thought about the saying that someone was showing you their heart through their honesty. He imagined it literally, which seemed to be a habit he had with sayings. For a still moment he saw Taehyung’s heart on the floor between them; easily crushed. He had to do well here. For a second, he considered telling Taehyung that it would be worth it someday, but it was too easy to imagine Taehyung asking what if it never was. At least when they were trainees they only had one immediate worry: debut. Now that they were preparing for a comeback the worries seemed to keep stacking up.
“That’s ok,” Yoongi said. He didn’t want the silence to stretch out between them for much longer, in case Taehyung misinterpreted and thought that Yoongi was disappointed.
Taehyung whispered so softly that Yoongi almost missed what he said.
“Thank you for letting me tell you that,” his head was hanging down. “You won’t tell manager-nim that I’m going to run away?”
Yoongi had run away before. Twice. Namjoon, too. If Taehyung wanted to leave, nobody was going to stop him.
“Well, are you?””
“No.”
Unsurprising. Alongside everything else, Taehyung was fiercely loyal. Yoongi knew about how he had helped Jimin make friends at school, and how proud he was of his place in the band. It was natural to worry sometimes.
Yoongi yawned hard enough to make his jaw crack. “Thank goodness. You’d miss your hair appointment to get it bleached.”
“Ah, no.” He could hear the relief in Taehyung’s voice. That was good. “They have hairdressers in Daegu, you know.”
Yoongi hummed.
“Outplayed, hyung.”
“You know, having you around doesn’t really help,” Taehyung said. He was speaking slowly, as though he was still working to string the words he wanted together.
Yoongi looked over at him in surprise. Had he let Taehyung down with his response? All he could hear was a whining drone in his head and, under that, Taehyung’s quiet admission that he trusted Yoongi because he always seemed to know what to say. The floor was hard beneath him, and the strip of sky he could see through the window behind Taehyung was starting to lighten in preparation for the sunrise. Taehyung was staring down at him, waiting on a response, but Yoongi didn’t know what to say.
He was angry with himself that sharp retorts were sitting on his tongue like bile. He didn’t make friends with anywhere near the same ease Taehyung seemed to endear himself to people with. He had never even promised to help in the first place.
“I’m … I’m sorry, Taehyung-ah. I don’t know what you want me to say,” he fought his body to sit up and then took the opportunity to lean his body away from Taehyung. Not so much that Taehyung would notice the increasing distance, but enough that Yoongi felt somehow protected. He was vulnerable, despite the fact it was Taehyung sharing his secret and Yoongi … making a mess of it all. Taehyung had trusted him to know what to say, and then had to admit that having him here didn’t help.
Taehyung rushed to say something, spluttering a lot of half-words before anything of use came out. “I just meant, when I moved here and I heard you were from Daegu too, I just meant that I thought that would mean. Never mind.”
Then, like it was an afterthought even despite all of that. “I’m sorry. I just-”
“Hey. Taehyung-ah. It’s ok.”
He didn’t say anything else. Of course Taehyung would have expected a connection with him. It was stupid of him not to hear that the first time around. He knew how much Taehyung liked to speak about home. But Yoongi hated to think about his past, in the same way he hated to think about the future. It scared him to think that any happiness he had experienced no longer existed, and the concept of growing up terrified him. The fact he had already grown away from his family made him feel as though he’d been gutted. He looked away from Taehyung and down at his dirty socks. It wasn't like he could say any of that. He didn’t even know how.
“I’m sorry we can’t visit home more,” he mumbled instead, reaching down to pick at some fluff that had caught his eye, despite the protest from his shoulder.
Taehyung sniffed and swallowed. Yoongi could hear his teeth click against one another.
“I just wish they told me how much I was going to miss everything.”
Yoongi considered asking him who they meant, but he supposed that part didn’t really matter. He looked back up and fixed his gaze to the window again. Their clothes horse was standing in front of it, laundry hanging on the tiers haphazardly. Carefully he kept his attention from Taehyung as he spoke.
“You’d never believe them anyway,” he said. Oh, there was the shirt he’d been missing. Someone must have worn it without him realising. “I don’t think there’s any way to know the outcome of a decision without making it.”
Taehyung sighed like a child. “Why does it all have to be so … permanent? I just feel bad all the time now.”
Yoongi thought about the force of a car, hitting him from his bike. He thought about how he had made himself believe that every other pain in his life was a pain that he had asked for, and so he couldn’t complain about it. He thought about how nothing would change even if he did complain. He would still hate dancing. He would still miss his parents. He would still have nightmares about their song not doing well. He thought about Taehyung, this far from home and crying on the floor of their tiny apartment.
“It’s growing up,” he said, keeping his voice as gentle as possible. He couldn’t offer anything else. “Eventually choices where both outcomes are difficult would always come.”
“Do you think I should have chosen differently?”
Honestly, how was Yoongi supposed to tell? Taehyung struggled but to Yoongi it seemed like he had a lot of fun too. He knew that music didn’t weigh the same for most people as it did for Yoongi, or take up as much space in their chests, but Taehyung did genuinely appreciate it. He appreciated the time they all got to spend together as well. Maybe Taehyung just wanted to hear that he hadn’t chosen against the chance of any future happiness.
“It’s ok that it’s still difficult, Taehyung-ah. I miss my parents too, you know?”
Taehyung looked at the television, where whatever episode he’d been watching had finally ended and the DVD menu screen was looping an endless animation. The movement of his head drew Yoongi’s attention away from the window and he checked on him, braver now that Taehyung wasn't looking back. He hadn’t realised that Taehyung had been biting on his own lip in an attempt not to cry.
“You do?”
It hurt to talk about this, but Yoongi ignored the pain. “Yeah. But we have to give things up. And we have to want things so we can keep going. Even though we can’t have everything the way we want.”
His words caught in his throat and died out. Taehyung noticed and moved closer to him, scooting across the short distance.
“Thank you, Yoongi-hyung,” he said. Then, hesitantly, “I think I’ll feel better after I sleep.”
Yoongi nodded. His vision was blurred with tears now and he didn’t want to blink and make them fall. In the background he could hear the hum of their box television and snoring from their bedroom. Namjoon, without a doubt. Taehyung reached out, his movements easy and unselfconscious, and nudged Yoongi into lying back down. Fuck, his shoulder hurt. His heart, too. Taehyung’s long limbs moved like liquid next to Yoongi’s own stiff and aching body.
“Can I hug you?” Taehyung whispered. “I’m sorry for making you cry.”
Yoongi sighed, picking up the act of put-upon hyung with eace. “Just this once,” he allowed. “Then you have to get up and turn that television off. Who do you think is paying for it?”
Taehyung pressed his face into Yoongi’s neck. His hot breath hit the skin there, making Yoongi flinch in surprise. It was a different sort of heat than what he had sat through in the studio space, or in the dead air of their stairwell. Taehyung never had any problems touching other people, not even people like Yoongi, who must have been uncomfortable to hug.
He mumbled into Yoongi’s skin. “I don’t know who pays the electric bill, hyung. The company? I’ll turn it off later. I promise.”
“Good.” Exhaustion was hitting him again. Yoongi knew his body would hate him if he fell asleep like this, but he couldn’t find it in himself to care. “I’ll take you back to Daegu someday, Taehyung-ah.”