Archive of Our Own

Taehyung sits at a café with a piping hot mocha in front of him. It’s been a good four months since the incident. His therapist says that healing takes time, and that trauma doesn’t go away with a flick of the wrist. 

He knows that. It’s not rocket science. What happened will stick to his mind like glue until it dries off in ugly clumps that he can pick and pull afterwards—but drying takes forever, so he’s stuck with residues of this hot mess that that will be a pain for him to peel.

At first, he didn't pay it any mind. Just curt nods and the usual retelling of what happened—but never what he feels. He thinks if he recites the incident enough time, the wound will close up by itself. Now after a few tough sessions with her, he finds himself scared to confront the last layer. It took them a gruelling few sessions just for Taehyung to want to talk. He thinks it’s a fucking waste of money to just come and talk to her about the weather, so might as well give her the whole damn truck. 

But now that they’ve made progress—that Taehyung has somehow confronted the fact that he’s one of the survivors of a horrible plane crash—he reclines back to where he starts. Skipping sessions, losing himself in work and letting himself fade with the heavy silence the apartment brings. 

Days like this, the only one he talks to is Jimin. He knows that it’s selfish to hoard his best friend’s time like this, but it’s necessary. Jimin is by no means a therapist nor does he have a degree in psychology. He’s a business accountant in a start up company who’s currently—yet again—lending an ear to Taehyung. 

He pushes the cup of mocha to Jimin, gesturing for him to take it instead of wasting time ordering. He takes the cup silently, eyes lingering on the reddened skin on Taehyung’s hand. The burn marks are still there. Going up to his shoulders and to his back. It’s a painful reminder of the last eleven minutes before he jumps the aircraft. 

Jimin’s five minutes late.And even though Taehyung usually doesn’t mind tardiness—knowing well that he is known for never being on time as well—he can’t help the irritation that creeps up his throat like spider legs. 

It’s frustrating to feel like a ticking time bomb. It’s even more frustrating when Jimin looks at him like he knows that being late would make Taehyung react like this. He’s not a child but the way Jimin gauges his reaction makes him feel like one. 

“You didn’t talk to her again.” 

There’s an accusatory tone that Jimin uses. The way the words curl at the end suggests that it wasn’t a question. To which Taehyung flickers his eyes across Jimin’s face in annoyance. 

“I’m not here for a consultation. I just wanted to talk to my best friend.” He rolls the edges of his sleeves neatly. Making sure each fold is equal on both arms. It’s funny when he sees it like this. The right side of his arm looks like a newborn baby’s skin that’s still raw to touch straight out of the womb and the other one unblemished. A cruel contrast and reminder of what he’s been through. “And you’re late,” he adds, “can I not be annoyed because you’re late?” 

Jimin reaches over to take the small spoon placed on top of the tissue in front of Taehyung. “This happens all the time, Tae. You don’t talk to your therapist, you don’t reach out to your parents, you bail on me and then suddenly make plans in the same damn café at the same damn table.” He sips the drink. Wincing a little at the drastic temperature. “Ordering the same damn drink that none of us likes!”

Taehyung laughs at Jimin’s remark. It’s true, both of them have equal dislike towards coffee, and more often than not, the other orders one for the latecomer out of just for kicks. Only this time, his laugh isn’t filled with mirth or amusement like it usually does. It comes out wet. As if Taehyung is choking on a sob he’s tried to contain all these months. 

He knows Jimin is talking in that exaggerated way to coax a laughter out of him, but all it does is remind him that he’s been quiet for so long. The cold air from the fan hits his back. It doesn’t help soothe the heat that settles on his eyes, sadly. 

Jimin notices the sudden change of mood, like he always does. He’s been friends with Taehyung ever since they were kids. More often than not, it takes another person to gently pat your shoulders to make everything feel bearable. 

“Oh, Taehyung,” he says quietly. “Come here.” 

This is what Jimin always does. He says come here but doesn’t let Taehyung move from where he sits. He drags the chair next to Taehyung, mindful to keep the noise minimal, and rests his head on Taehyung’s shoulder. It’s been so long since he’s felt the warmth of another person close to him. The little gestures remind him of a certain person whose name he last uttered in front of the said person. Keeping his name as a personal lifeline feels like there would be hope that he wakes. He doesn’t want to jinx anything. But God, Taehyung misses him.

“Jeongguk, he—” Taehyung swallows harshly. His throat feels like sandpaper, dry and chaffing the muscles as he forces himself to strain his voice. “He sometimes put his head on my shoulder too.” The name feels like a prayer to say. “Says it’s a safe place or something.” 

Jimin attempts to pull away, but sensing Taehyung tense under him, returns to his initial position. He doesn’t want Jimin to see him in a state like this, no matter the depth and how far back their friendship stretches back. 

“I feel like I’m in a perpetual state of grief and false hope.” Like a swinging pendulum that has no purpose. 

He feels Jimin hums, the vibration pleasant on his arm. “You never told me what’s going on with you and Jeongguk.” Jimin says, pulling back, still keeping his grip on Taehyung’s arm. “You always dismiss it but I know you were seeing each other.”

Taehyung wills the guilt to simmer down. They weren’t seeing each other—no, that would’ve made this an easier feeling to digest—they were casual fuck buddies. He has always felt a sense of competitiveness with the younger. It didn’t help that they were trying to get the same managerial role in the company. But under all the jabs and charged tension, he finds himself caring for Jeongguk, although a little too late.

“It’s complicated, honestly,” he said. Grinning at Jimin with unshed tears. “I’ll tell you.”

“Please,” Jimin said. 

And then Taehyung did. 

-

The office is devoid of employees at this time. It’s just Taehyung and a handful of creatives that are preparing their presentation for the next day. The client is a big tobacco brand that everyone is familiar with (it makes him buy another cigarette brand out of spite). He’s been filing his overtime forms diligently for the past three weeks that he’s ready to call it quits and drive his car to the nearest wall out of rage. 

The last time he got proper sleep was on Monday, and it was because he fell asleep in the office until the next day but at the cost of a raging back and sore muscles. He wasn’t able to look to the right without wincing. It’s significantly better now, after he finally made use of the massage coupon lying on top of his desk, untouched for weeks. 

He’s usually cool-headed about the whole ordeal, knowing that work in an agency is just a never ending repetition of pitching ideas and using 30% more of his brain to generate disruptive ideas that will sell. And what else sells other than sex? 

Then came the revisions. After it was done, the feedback didn't stop. Until the initial idea gets buried underneath the pile of revisions and the campaign ceases to look like, well, their original campaign. Sure, the sex is still there, but what the fuck is a tongue-in-the-cheek language to keep it more subtle. It doesn’t help that Jeongguk seems to be on the verge of giving up as well, if his purple under eyes are any indication. 

“Don’t give up on me, Jeongguk. Tell your team to take five and then we’ll practice from the top again.” 

Jeongguk is the strategist involved in this project, working alongside Taehyung. They’re the ones that oversee the creative aspect of the pitch, and right now, it’s not up to their standards yet. Taehyung is the art director that is one sleepless night away from succumbing to madness. 

“Watch your tone. It’s fucking nine pm, Taehyung. I’m giving them half an hour to cool their heads.” Jeongguk sighs into his palms. A frustrated groan escapes his lips as he tips his head back to the reclining seat. 

It’s not a surprise that things are growing even more tense between them, with the entire agency hooking their hopes on their team like a clothing rack, Taehyung wonders bitterly if he’ll just let them hang indefinitely and get his good night's sleep. 

He lets out a chuckle. “Easy for you to say. You go home at six pm on the dot every single day.” Taehyung searches his pocket for a piece of candy. He’s been doing a great job at cutting down his smoking habits. “Not everyone has the same luxury as you, Jeongguk.” 

“And what makes you think that I go home and sleep? If your graphic designer does his job properly then I wouldn’t have stayed up till late only to let him know the miniscule detail he missed.” 

“That’s a whole lot of bullshit coming from you. I asked for the final revised ones ages ago,” He fires back. Him and Jeongguk always produce the best work. Their respective team is made up of good, hardworking and talented individuals—but combined together and it’ll just be a loud, messy process that gruels them to death. “Yet your team looks at me, gaping like a fish. I’ve been asking you to compile the deck together. What the fuck have you been doing?” 

Jeongguk scoffs. “Been too busy fucking you, perhaps.” 

Taehyung whips his head at the co-worker in front of him. It’s already a public secret that they’re somehow involved with the other, but to have Jeongguk outwardly say it like it doesn’t matter makes Taehyung do a double take.

That, he knows, isn’t true. Because Taehyung hasn’t been sleeping with Jeongguk as often as he usually does this week. It’s pathetic to say this out loud but Taehyung walked out of the office a few days ago with the sun shyly peeking from the clouds—like it’s physically wary of letting Taehyung know its presence—which means he stayed in the office for more than 13 hours.

A group of people pass him by, taking their sweet morning jog as they start the day while Taehyung has just ended yesterday’s. Do I really want to live like this or do I want to be a farmer? He remembered wondering. So, Jeongguk’s remark didn’t hit the right target but it did have some sort of truth in it. 

It’s not as if they are exclusive. The thing about their arrangement is that it’s supposed to be a secret. No one outside of their bedroom needs to know. And maybe Taehyung has done a bad job at hiding it—some nights taking the cab straight to Jeongguk’s place when everyone knows his place is walking distance. 

What they have is merely beneficial for each party. A transactional base relationship of give and take equally. 

Other employees may know Jeongguk as a stoic man who very rarely jokes around other than with his small team of writers, but Taehyung knows how he laughs at the cringiest joke they find on the internet or even the weirdest plant-centric pick up lines. It’s something Taehyung oddly doesn’t want to share with the others in the office. 

They’re not overly affectionate with each other outside of bed either. It’s already a running gag in their floor to never let Taehyung and Jeongguk be in the same room or it’ll turn eerily quiet. As if the tension between them continues to stretch further and further the closer they get. When they’re in near proximity, the rest hold their silence as they wait (and anticipate) the tension to finally tip over and break. 

“Quiet,” Taehyung reprimands. The room suddenly feels warmer than usual. The jacket he has on feels too thick. He needs to strip off some layers. Preferably soon and not here. Even if it’s technically not office hours, he won’t cause a scene in the office. 

Jeongguk bursts out a laugh, as if Taehyung's reply is a funny skit. “That’s not what you said a few nights ago, Tae.”

He picks up the nearest stack of paper next to him and wacks Jeongguk’s arm. “I said be quiet.” There’s the familiar glint in Jeongguk’s eyes that Taehyung secretly relishes in. It’s the kind that makes him anticipate whatever Jeongguk does. 

There’s no point in lying whatsoever. Not when it’s obvious that work is shit and they both desperately need an outlet to vent all that negative energy. Today, especially, has again drained Taehyung’s social battery even more. 

“Admit it. You look stressed, I’m definitely stressed, so let’s just distress,” Jeongguk suggests, raising both his hands behind his head as he leans back on his chair. The way he could slip in lighthearted conversation after a tense one makes him charming. One of the qualities that Taehyung has only just started to realize. 

His watch hasn’t beeped yet, which means they still have a little bit more time to engage in mindless conversation until the others get back and they start the run through from the top again. 

“Together,” he adds, which prompts Taehyung to raise his eyebrows. 

There’s a slight itch in his throat that desperately wants to express a rebuttal. Perhaps threaten him with a bad time instead of a good one, but whether he likes it or not, both of them know that Taehyung would melt like honey when tended properly and they have never left each other’s side unsatisfied, after all. 

Taehyung shakes his head, unable to completely stop the smile from making its way to his lips. Maybe he does need a good lay after this. 

“I’m not discussing our bedroom activities in the office.” 

Before Taehyung could add more, the side door swung open. Jeongguk wheels his office chair to settle next to Taehyung as their teammates come in with a few chips at hand and the faint smell of cigarettes pressed on their clothes. Wordlessly, he offers Mingyu some mint. 

A glance at the clock shows that it’s close to midnight. His stomach groans, suddenly craving the taste of his mother’s homemade kimchi jjigae. With his craving comes the thought of home—how he’s been away and far for too long. The last time he talked to his mother was weeks ago, he realized. The days slip by his hands like crumbling sandcastles. Sometimes when he’s in the office on days like this, there’s a sense of disconnection—a suspended feeling—that he’s there but not truly there. Blame it on capitalism, sure, but he can’t help but think that it’s his way of finding some place to belong. 

The presentation flows smoothly in the beginning, with a few hiccups from Jina in the brand campaign section, but an overall satisfactory one that Taehyung deems enough for the day. There’s still some slides he’d like to work on, sharpening each point like a knife, ready to pierce through the cloud of doubt in the client’s mind. He needs to revise this with Jeongguk sometime soon. 

While he thinks, a hand creeps to his right knee. Settling like a warm reminder that he’s not alone. Jeongguk taps his thumb rhythmically as he gives a few commentary on which parts would need the client’s feedback before they progress further into the script. He stares ahead, eyes sharp on the last ‘thank you’ slide as their team clears the room one by one. 

Taehyung stays silent as the touch turns into a firm grip and then easing into a smooth caress up and down his thigh. He doesn’t have it in him to deny Jeongguk of this indulgence, even when he knows it’s highly unprofessional to be touching your colleague’s inner thigh in the meeting room. 

“Slide 39 still needs some revising—” Taehyung stops when Jeongguk’s hand threads lightly on his crotch. “Listen to me.” He swats Jeongguk’s hand away as he reaches for his laptop. 

“It’s fucking eleven, Tae.” Jeongguk stretches his hands. A satisfied groan on his lips as he feels the tired bones popping. “Discuss this with me during working hours, yeah? I need to sleep.” 

Taehyung scoffs. The dark circles under his own eyes are screaming at him to get some rest as well. The built up tension in him feels like a soda bottle shaken vigorously and waiting to burst when someone unscrews the cap. “You’re not special, snowflake. I need sleep too.” 

“Perfect then.” Jeongguk claps his hands and sits back down. “I need it, you need it,” he lays his head on Taehyung’s shoulder. Jeongguk, Taehyung finds, is rarely clingy unless he’s delirious on fatigue or in need of a quick fuck urgently. So for him to seek physical touch before they’re in private makes Taehyung feel smug. “So the only solution to this equation is for us to sleep together.” 

If there’s a timeline he could conjure up in thin air, he’d want to see it now. To pinpoint the exact moment he stopped denying Jeongguk of the things he wanted. When he started seeing Jeongguk as a nuisance and someone he tolerates rather fondly. Maybe this is why Jimin said he’s unfit to have a ‘no strings attached’ relationship with anyone. 

There’s not an emotion strong enough to describe what he feels. It’s not like yet nor is it anything as devastating as a crush. It’s simply comfort. Like buying your favorite carton of soy milk because this one tastes just the way you like it, even though it’s the only brand you’ve ever tried. But Taehyung’s fine with it. He’s perfectly content with the situation between him and Jeongguk. 

With Jeongguk clinging to his side like this, it’s hard to think that this is the same person he argued with a few hours ago. It’s funny when he remembers that the office thinks Jeongguk looks cold. One look at him on his first day and Taehyung knows he’d be seeing more of Jeongguk just from a brief introduction. 

Taehyung lets out a laugh, closing his laptop shut and leaning his head on top of Jeongguk. It's strange how this all—the flirting, the gestures, the domesticity—would amount to nothing in the end. Just a fleeting memory shared between two people who are used to warming a bed together. Yet he feels safe. Like Jeongguk tracing his fingers gives him the same feeling of his mother tucking him to bed and turning on the night light when he was a child. 

Jeongguk reminds him of something too. Something Taehyung used to enjoy but forgets as he grows. Will he one day outgrew this phase of his life? Until Jeongguk is nothing but a discarded sweater he’s grown out of and will forever stay in the corner of his cupboard? 

“You talk shit when you’re tired.” He leans back to his seat, letting Jeongguk recharge on his shoulder until it’s time they go back to Jeongguk’s place. “Can we grab some takeouts first?”

“Taehyung, I’ll fucking cook you a three course meal if we go now.” 

“Now we’re talking.” Taehyung quickly stands, chuckling as Jeongguk rubs his forehead at the impact. “Well come on,” he urges Jeongguk to stand up. “We don’t have all day.” 

-

Something Taehyung promised himself in the beginning of the arrangement was to never mix work and pleasure. Meaning, all things work-related are forbidden for them to speak about outside of the office and their secret stays a, well, secret.

And somewhere along the line—he blames it on the stress and overthinking—he starts to confide during the night. Under the sheets with their feet still tangled and Jeongguk’s arms wrapped loosely around his waist, Taehyung starts to talk. 

Jeongguk freezes when he does, because Taehyung has made it perfectly clear multiple times that he’s keeping these two versions of them as separate as it gets. Yet that night, Taehyung swallows his doubts and peels a layer of his fortress. Not significant enough for Jeongguk to see inside but it’s a start. 

He swallows the doubt, the rising voice in the back of his head that says ‘this is a mistake’ and continues talking, voice slowly lowering into a mumble when Jeongguk shows no signs of listening. Maybe this is a step too far. Maybe Taehyung should’ve listened to his intuition and stopped speaking as soon as he froze in his hold. So he slowly comes to a pause. Not quite done with the concerns and fears and frustrations bottled up in him yet, but he does so out of respect. Because Jeongguk didn’t sign up for this and neither did he. 

Jeongguk raises his head from his chest. He tries to avert his eyes to the ceiling, fixing his gaze on the white paint that has a few cracks here and there. He could feel Jeongguk’s eyes bored to his jaw, up his nose, searching his eyes. He keeps them trained on the yellowing spot he found up there, feigning interest. 

“And then?” Jeongguk prompts, palm splayed on Taehyung’s chest to brace himself to a sitting position. 

Taehyung closes his eyes. “And then what?” 

“You don’t start something and stop midway,” Jeongguk says. It gets the gears in Taehyung’s head running. Turning like the hands on the clock. Someone once told him to stay away from things that aren’t his. To never start something he can’t finish.

It all adds up to this moment now, when he knows that he’s pushed open the faucet into a deeper territory into their relationship. And everything else will come leaking out until the water runs out. He knows that talking about mundane things in their days is different from talking about work—a big part of their life. And now that Taehyung has done it, there’s no take backs. 

Jeongguk’s eyes are an endless pool of melted chocolate, drawing him in until he’s rendered helpless and pliant under him. It makes Taehyung feel out of control and yet, safe. It’s a contrast to his usual weary gaze that he uses to face the world. To face Taehyung outside the comfort of this room. 

Then he feels, rather than sees, Jeongguk’s palm cupping the side of his face. Silently urging Taehyung to continue talking about the things that scare and disappoint him. His thumb reached to the lower part of his cheek, stroking back and forth. It feels like reassurance—that this is a door both of them chose to open and whatever it entails is a problem for tomorrow. 

Then he continues telling Jeongguk—how hard the week has been, on missing home and missing his mother’s homemade cooking. Of him surviving solely on take outs and, very rarely, home cooked food that tastes like sandpaper. He lets Jeongguk in on his weekend schedule, on going to his and Jimin’s usual cafe to catch up and take a stroll in the park like old men’s routine. Jeongguk listens and laughs, eyes crinkling with the promise of reciprocated interest. He butts in during random parts to tell Taehyung of his own anecdotes. Little snippets of his life that Taehyung never knew nor was interested until now. 

The line, he finds, is starting to blur together. And he doesn’t know whether he likes it or not.

-

Work has always been a priority in Taehyung's life. He feels a strange sense of disconnection when he falls behind on work or isn’t doing enough. Taehyung is ambitious. This is a fact he’s learned since he was in sixth grade when he finds out that getting first place in every subject gives him a sense of satisfaction that nothing else can. It means he’ll do anything to get acknowledgement. 

So when the time comes for the agency to send their representatives to the client’s HQ in Hong Kong to deliver the final presentation and secure the deal, he jumps at the first chance. He doesn’t need to try hard to convince the boss to send him, rationalizing it as a great opportunity to convince the client that their pitch would work for the brand perfectly well. He’d be there as the voice of reason behind the key visuals, selling the idea with all he has. 

“Fine.” Kyungsoo takes a long drag of his cigarette. He has a habit of holding it in for as long as he can as he finalizes a decision. It makes Taehyung frown in sympathy for his lungs. “I was reluctant to go there in person anyway. But may I ask why though? Why the persistence?” 

Taehyung takes a moment to think, humming deep in thought. “To tell you the truth, I don’t trust anyone to present this. I mean—the team did great, excellent even. But presenting to the higher ups is different from presenting to the client side.” The past few weeks have been gruelling. And now that they’ve succeeded in moving forward with the idea, Taehyung wants nothing less than perfection. He wants—needs—to get the campaign message across. “It’s a project I put my heart into. It’d be a shame to see someone else do it.” 

They’re in the smoking lounge outside the cafeteria. High up on level 56 with the view of the city painted in front of their eyes. The sun is setting soon, and it’ll place the whole world in a trance of warm colors. Golden and timeless, covering the city with the warmest hug to say see you tomorrow. It’s a view he’ll never get enough of. What makes him feel safe in one of the tallest buildings in the city. 

Kyungsoo still looks like he’s contemplating, but Taehyung has worked and talked with him often enough to know that it’s his default expression. It’s easy to convince him if you have all the cards supporting you. So it doesn’t bring him joy like he’s just won a lottery when Kyungsoo simply nods. 

He presses the bud of his cigarette hard on the ashtray. Twisting the poor thing until the flame turns to a burnt, lifeless paper that crumbles at the slightest of touch. When he rises from his seat, Taehyung does the same, bowing slightly to show respect until he’s out of sight. 

“Take Jeongguk-ssi with you,” he says and Taehyung straightens his back. “I trust you’ll work well together and win.” 

Taehyung keeps looking at the door even after Kyungsoo has pulled it close. He wonders how Jeongguk will react to this. It’s been  weeks after Taehyung has stepped on the line they’ve drawn with a bold marker. Weeks after they started really talking outside of the office. 

He finds out that Jeongguk absolutely loves pickles and doesn’t mind it when Taehyung wiggles his leg in between Jeongguk’s in the middle of the night. He learns that Jeongguk hasn’t slept with anyone other than him, even though they’ve never really talked about it. That Jeongguk would prefer if Taehyung stays over instead of bolting out of his place as soon as they’re done because he feels lonely when Taehyung chooses to leave. Feels a little desperate when he asks Taehyung to stay over and over again. 

It becomes an unspoken routine for them to head back together. Alternating between his or Jeongguk’s place every other day until their laundry has started to get mixed up and Taehyung’s favorite tie has taken residency in Jeongguk’s drawer. 

Taehyung’s phone vibrates in his pocket. An insistent vibration, signalling an incoming phone call. The sun feels warm on his skin and there’s a weird sensation in his chest when he sees the ringer’s caller ID. He pays it no mind, shoves it deep into the compartment he made in his head, into a drawer classified as ‘deal with it later’. 

He picks up on the second ring. “Hello?” 

“Taehyung-ah, ” the caller breathes. It’s a voice he’s grown familiar with all these months. “Are you in the pantry?” 

“No,” he answers. Turning to treat himself with the nice view in front of him. “Smoking area.”

He hears some shuffling in the background, Jeongguk must’ve gotten up and is heading here. The thought makes him momentarily pause, not knowing how to feel that he’s so in tune with Jeongguk now. 

“Ditching work? That’s not very professional of you.” 

Jeongguk scoffs at the receiver. “I just finished three days worth of work. Can’t say the same for you though. Didn’t Mingyu get shit on for tampering with the logo? Didn’t expect that to get a green light from you.”

“Oh fuck off.” Taehyung rolls his eyes. It was an embarrassing slip up that he’d rather not live through again. “I’m hanging up.” 

“Sure you are.” Taehyung could feel the smile in Jeongguk’s voice. What does it mean if he wants to see it in person? “Oh and boss just told me something about going to Hong Kong. What’s that all about?”

Taehyung sighs and closes his eyes. He thinks he’s too old to be in this state of confusion. “Come here first. I’ll tell you about it.” 

- 

Jeongguk is restless tonight. It shows in the finger-shaped mark blooming red on Taehyung’s hips and the ones on his inner thigh. He could still feel the phantom weight of Jeongguk on top of him as his head clears from the strenuous activity. He’s still panting at the end of it, fingers aching at the force he uses to fist the sheets. His muscles sing as he relaxes his hold and lays down, waiting for Jeongguk to come back from the bathroom with a warm towel and a glass of water. If he’s lucky, Jeongguk will come back with a chocolate bar from Taehyung’s own fridge to spoil him. 

The room is starting to get a little cold if the goosebumps rising on his skin are any indication. He makes the mistake of moving to his side, exposing his naked back to the air conditioner, but makes no effort to move. When he peeks around the room, he still finds no Jeongguk in sight. He feels wet and sticky, a combination that makes him scrunch his nose and attempt to walk himself to the bathroom, but he’s too lazy to move an inch. 

Jeongguk’s slacks hang halfway off the chair. His work bag is situated on top of Taehyung’s bedside table. If Taehyung closes his eyes and thinks hard enough, he could pretend that Jeongguk is his. That this is how his apartment would look everyday, with traces of Jeongguk found in each corner. The spare toothbrush Taehyung has in his bathroom would still be damp the next night. Their laundries would continue mixing up until Jeongguk gives in and keeps a stash of his own clothes in the space Taehyung purposely keeps empty. 

But then he remembers how Jeongguk is always the first one to untangle himself from Taehyung in the morning, even when it was him that asked Taehyung to stay. Jeongguk doesn’t indulge in the moment, unlike Taehyung. He knows that at the end of the day, when the time comes, this will just be a phase in his life. This isn’t something he’ll end up celebrating a year later. It’s a secret best kept under wraps, only appearing when the moon is high up above. 

It’s beginning to feel a little scary. The telltale of fear creeping up on him when he notices how comfortable he has become with Jeongguk. The man who was only supposed to help him relieve his stress and make him feel good. Is it his fault for wanting to feel good even when they aren’t tangled together? 

This thing that he’s feeling, a monstrous craving that can’t be quenched, is taking a toll on him. He stops telling Jimin about him and Jeongguk, afraid that his best friend would see it in his face that this isn’t just a temporary fix he seeks almost every night. It’s a half-hearted attempt to satisfy a part of him that likes to be in Jeongguk’s company, whether he likes it or not. 

He hears the drip, drip, drip from somewhere outside of the room, presumably from his leaky faucet. No matter how hard he twists it, the water leaks. Taehyung makes a mental note to text his landlord tomorrow. 

The door is left slightly ajar, and with a little strain, he could hear Jeongguk humming softly. You don’t start something and stop midway, Jeongguk had said. 

Tomorrow they board the plane to Hong Kong. He’s never been to that part of the world before—or any part, even. Maybe he’s a little too caught up in himself, but he wonders if Jeongguk would like to go sightseeing with him. Just a few hours of each day spent together, pretending that they’re a couple on a vacation somewhere instead of a work trip between colleagues. And then they’ll return back to Seoul, pretending again that they’re nothing more than someone who’s far too familiar with each other, but never lovers. 

“I hope you don’t mind, I took some stuff from your fridge.” Jeongguk kicked the door shut suddenly, making Taehyung startle awake. “Oh shit—sorry! You fell asleep? I haven’t cleaned you yet.” 

Taehyung sleepily hums, pulling the blanket that pools on one corner of the bed closer to him with his toes. He feels the bed dip next to him, Jeongguk’s hands gently prying the blankets off his legs and a warm cloth pressed to his skin. He cleans Taehyung’s thighs, soothing the areas that feel tender to touch, gently swiping his intimate spot. When Taehyung jolts a little out of sensitivity, Jeongguk murmurs reassurances, lips tickling his ear with each movement. 

“I made you a sandwich,” Jeongguk says softly. He presses a kiss on his forehead, fleeting and tender, like Taehyung is a fragile thing to keep safe. He wishes it was true. “With extra pickles.” he adds. 

Taehyung playfully smacks his arm, chuckling. The lethargy slowly drains out of his system when his eyes focus on Jeongguk’s face, looking down on him with a soft smile. His eyes look tired in the dark room, only illuminated by the soft glow from the window. He remembers Jeongguk telling him that he doesn’t believe in happy endings. Has seen too many sad ones to hope for one in his life. 

“I’m surprised you have some. I thought you hated pickles.” He brushes Taehyung’s hair out of his forehead, pats the sweat away with the back of his hand, gentle in each one. It makes his heart squeezes painfully.

Taehyung doesn’t tell him that he keeps a jar just in case Jeongguk wants them. Instead, he says, “It was on sale. I wanted to see how it tastes.” 

Jeongguk pulls back, making way for Taehyung to sit back up. “And? How was it?” 

“Disgusting.” 

Taehyung reaches for the plate on the table. Jeongguk beats him to it. One of his hands is firmly around his waist, as he takes the plate and brings it in front of Taehyung. He lets Jeongguk do what he wants, turning around slightly to see him. Then, he feels the pointy end of the bread poking his cheek. 

He chuckles, settling his head to Jeongguk’s shoulder, leaning back entirely on him. “What a gentleman,” he says and opens his mouth, letting Jeongguk feed him the sandwich. He hopes there’s no pickles inside. 

“It’s an apology for going too hard.” 

“Hmm, that’s fine.” He’s mid-swallow when Jeongguk feeds him the sandwich again. He tugs at his wrist, “Stop it—quit it! I’m not even done chewing,” Taehyung scolds. He feels Jeongguk’s chest rumble pleasantly as the man laughs, forcing the sandwich into his closed mouth. 

“Eat it, Taehyung-ah or else you’ll be in a sour mood tomorrow morning.”

Taehyung complies. Letting Jeongguk feed him mouthfuls each time, even with his own hand loosely wrapped around Jeoungguk’s wrist. 

They stay in comfortable silence, the drowsiness tugging Taehyung’s mind again. He pushes the blanket off and pulls Jeongguk to the bathroom where they brush their teeth together. He pulls his jumper on before he settles back on the bed. Waiting for Jeongguk to finish flossing his teeth and turn off the lights. 

Sleeping in the dark used to be a problem for him, but he learns that Jeongguk sleeps better without the lights on. And with his arms tight around Jeongguk, the dark doesn’t concern him anymore. 

Taehyung asks him the moment he tucks in, “Nervous?” 

“A little,” Jeongguk says. He positions himself to face Taehyung. Hand tucked under the pillow as he returns Taehyung’s gaze. “Have I told you I don’t like flying?” 

Taehyung makes an ‘ah’ noise, understanding his previous aggression. They’ve talked about being rough in bed before, consenting to the things they like or would like to try each time before they have sex. It doesn’t matter that Jeongguk was rough tonight, he likes it too. It’s just that they've always settled with slow and intense instead of hard and fast. 

“Yeah.” Jeongguk shrugs, tugging the blanket closer. 

Taehyung pulls it back. “Blanket thief.” 

Jeongguk chuckles, moving closer to Taehyung, leaving a big space untouched. This way, they won’t risk pulling the blanket off the other (or at least, that’s the reason each time one of them nestles closer). “Sleep, Taehyung. It’s gonna be a long day tomorrow.” 

Taehyung hums in response. It never takes him long to sleep with Jeongguk next to him. 

-

The airport is generally quieter in the morning. There’s less chances of bumping into someone frantically trying to reach the assigned gate as the announcement reminds passengers that haven’t boarded the plane for the last call. 

Taehyung packs light this time, knowing he’s only going to be in Hong Kong for a few days. It takes them fifteen minutes to board the plane, courtesy of the company that gives them business class tickets. The plane is due to take off in a few minutes. It’s only 06:53. They have seven minutes to waste—some pray for safety, some have started to close their eyes to return back to their state of comfort while others like him and Jeongguk open their laptop to do some last minute work. 

The flight attendant approaches them soon after, as he finishes typing the last of his messages to his team and a short ‘i’m heading off’. He gives her a quick smile and keeps his gadgets inside his bag. Jeongguk does the same beside him. 

They say the first three minutes after take-off and eight minutes before the landing are the most crucial moments during a flight—they call it plus three minus eight or critical eleven. He used to laugh it off, telling his mom that it’s not something people like them should concern themselves with. There’s higher chances of a crash happening on the way to the airport than the plane falling. 

Yet he finds Jeongguk’s nerves affecting him. So he holds Jeongguk’s shaky hands as the plane goes faster and faster in its path, defying gravity moments after. 

He doesn’t tell Jeongguk about the term, afraid that it’ll affect him even more. But he doesn’t stop himself from counting down to three minutes. Closing his eyes to focus on the plane’s movement for a few heart-thumping minutes, and then relaxing when the familiar ding is heard. The symbol for the seatbelt is turned off. He hears the clicking sounds of seatbelts being unfastened. This time, he keeps it steady and secured around him. 

Using his thumb to soothe Jeongguk’s cold hands, he feels the man slowly relaxing. The hand gripping his slowly falling pliant in his hold. He looks to the side, watches the sun begin to rise as Jeongguk opens his eyes and breathes deeply. 

Taehyung gives him a reassuring smile. “We’re okay. You can catch up on sleep if you want. I’ll wake you up when breakfast comes.” 

Jeongguk doesn’t give him a reply. Just nods and closes his eyes. His hand is still holding on to Taehyung. And the sight of their fingers entangled together makes Taehyung swallow his doubt. Makes him want to try something new and rare between them. 

“I want to tell you something,” Taehyung says. His voice is low, like a whisper, but it’s loud enough for Jeongguk to hear. 

“What is it?” 

Taehyung sees his sleepy eyes blinking back at him. He’ll ask later. “I’ll tell you when we get back.” 

“Okay.” 

-

It’s around the first hour that the captain’s voice resonates around the plane cabin. The plane is shaking, like it just went head first into a thunderstorm that swerves it out of trajectory. He assures us that it’s just a slight turbulence, and that the crew will be handing them some water soon as a token of apology. 

His first instinct is to look at Jeongguk, thankful that he’s still in deep sleep even as the plane suddenly drops a little, gravity taking back control momentarily. Someone screams from behind him, but instead of him feeling scared, he’s annoyed at the loud decibels surrounding them. He doesn’t want Jeongguk to wake up feeling afraid. He wishes Jeongguk would stay asleep. 

His eyes land on the plane’s right wing, way behind them, flaring and leaving a trail of heavy smoke in it’s way, and all Taehyung could think of is—

He has to tell him. 

But as he finds the courage to use his voice, there’s a deafening noise as he feels the entire world crash down. The feeling of free falling takes him by surprise. He’s not afraid of dying. Never has. But in this moment, he chokes on a sob as he scrambles to hold Jeongguk who is slowly waking up. The sun is starting to feel further and further away as the plane fails to stabilize itself. 

Jeongguk is screaming. He sees the fear overshadowing his face but he can’t hear a thing. Can’t force himself to look away from the window and Jeongguk—Jeongguk—who’s reaching out to him and repeating words that sound so far away from Taehyung. 

He thinks Jeongguk is telling him he’s scared. Or they’re dying, as they fall. 

30,000 feet.

His mother told him the most critical moments during a flight are the first three minutes and the last eight before the landing.

21,000 feet. 

There’s a baby on board. He remembers passing by a small family in the waiting gate. Oh god, there’s a baby. 

15,000 feet.

Taehyung likes flying, but he hates roller coasters. He hates falling. Falling means losing control. Falling means you’ll get hurt. Jeongguk is crying hard. This was supposed to be a happy trip.

6,000 feet.

It feels like they’re falling forever. The oxygen masks tumbles down as everyone struggles to put it on. But there’s nothing wrong with the oxygen. 

1,000 feet.

He breathes in the terrified noises of the passengers. Jeongguk’s grip on his arm is relentless. 

In the last moments as he sees the earth approaching, he feels apologetic for his boss. For the company. They’ll never be able to present their pitch. He never told Jimin the truth. He wouldn’t be able to tell Jeongguk he loves him. 

He loves him. 

And then he feels the crash. 

-

There’s the taste of metal in his mouth—all over his tongue. He must’ve bitten his tongue. His throat feels parched, like he had eaten sand and salt in one go. He recalls a conversation he once had with a friend, about dying. It sounds a world away now, the thought of eating a hot bowl of odeng soup after work. 

His eyes are heavy, burning with grief as he takes in the wreckage laid in front of him. Next to him. All around him. 

The air is quiet, lest for the few heavy breathings and someone in the distant, softly crying. There’s a sense of dread, and loss, taking over him. In all his life, it was always about him. Putting himself first until he’s satisfied. 

In his mind, he apologizes for the person he was. For the things he keeps to himself. For the love he never lets himself feel. Is this what it feels like to mourn for one’s self?

His left arm feels sore to touch. Each breath of air stings his skin. He’s sure there’s a big open wound somewhere, but his eyes refuse to look down. Half of his face is in pain, like his body is screaming for help because his own mouth refuses to. 

“Jeongguk-ah,” he croaks out. The metal shards are everywhere. His eyes are a blur at the commotion. There’s not a single person that could give him a clue on where his Jeongguk is. 

Please, he thinks. Please let me tell him before I go. 

Taehyung closes his eyes, spits out the copper taste in his mouth. The ground is harsh on his arm, dragging his body closer to someone wearing a similar outfit to Jeongguk. The rise and fall of the man’s back tells him that he’s alive. He’s still alive.

Skin breaks under pressure, just like a soft clay that's been rolled too many times. He lets out a sob, the ground feels safe now. It’s funny now that his mind is slowly catching up to the commotion. The first thing he does when he opens his eyes is to feel his limbs. Feel the absence of sensation in some areas and pants. Chest heavy with uncertainty and shock. 

The man is on his side, facing away from Taehyung. There’s a heavy, sinking feeling in his chest that threatens to pull him under the weight of it’s fear. But even so, he tries:

“Jeongguk-ah.”

The world is quiet. Taehyung thinks it’s unfair, that it never shuts up whenever they have the chance to be together, it’s always under the weight of pressure and stress from work. Never about indulgence, never about personal satisfaction. 

He never calls for Jeongguk. Too scared that the man will turn him down. Too prideful to ask for time alone on his accord. It’s a bone-crushing regret that he feels, when the man turns around and his face is covered with grime and unshed tears. The same tired eyes that Taehyung has grown fond of. The ones he looks for each chance he gets. 

“Jeongguk-ah,” he sobs, careful not to jostle him or Jeongguk too much. Just stays pressed against his back, barely touching. There’s so much pain that it rings in his ears like an unending crescendo, a reminder of the disaster that falls on them. It brings forth a side of him he never thought he has. 

His chest aches with every cry that rattles his bones, heart a miraculous state of despair at seeing Jeongguk barely holding on. He can’t say much. There’s not much room for words even though words are his only saving grace right now. 

“Hey,” he says again, not caring that his throat is screaming at him to stop exerting pressure. “Hey Jeongguk,” he tries again, hoping Jeongguk is conscious enough to listen to him. “I want to tell you a secret.”

Taehyung smiles, feeling a little silly and sad. 

I love you. I hope you make it out alive. 

“I—” 

“You said,'' Jeongguk croaks out. His voice is nothing but a whisper. “You’ll tell me when we get back, right?” There’s a pause in each word. Like each vowel hurt for him to say. Like he’s speaking for the sake of speaking, so there’s a small spark of hope that they can cling on to. A tiny speck in comparison to the storm that surrounds them. 

Taehyung winces, takes a deep breath. There’s still so much he’s yet to say. So much more that the waves feel harder for him to fight. The world is a place he has never understood.  “I did, didn’t I?” He attempts to laugh it off. It comes out wet. 

“Jeongguk-ah,” he repeats again. His name feels like it’s the only thing that can keep him afloat in this silence. It’s getting dark. There’s a space he keeps empty in his drawer back home. Taehyung is good at making space. Compartmentalizing everything so all his scattered thoughts have its own place, its own home. There’s a home he has prepared for Jeongguk as well. Because Jeongguk is not a momentary phase in his life, nor is he someone he wants to keep a secret. He wants to love, he wants to learn how to love this man. He wants to tell Jimin that he’s right—that Taehyung isn’t made for no strings attached relationships, and that’s okay. 

In all the nights they’ve spent together, Taehyung has never asked him. This time, even when his voice feels like it’s clogged with thick cotton in his throat and the sounds are clashing in his ears, he voices them out. He gives his feelings a form.

“Please stay.” His head is pounding. There is nothing left in him except for this plea.  “Please stay with me.” 

There’s a slight jerk from Jeongguk. It fills him with dread. 

Please.

“Taehyung-ah,” he hears Jeongguk say. The words are slurred together and it sounds like harsh whispers. “I’m feeling a little sleepy..” Jeongguk swallows, takes a second to continue his speech. “Can we.. Can we talk later? When we get home?” 

We might not make it home, Taehyung wants to say. But there’s not any trace of fight left in him as well. 

In life, it’s either you live or survive. Taehyung has felt the weight of living all his life, ever since he finds out the meaning of burden. He has never had to survive, doesn’t know that there will come a time where the adrenaline stops pumping, the thing people rely on—fight or flight response—slowly flickers off, and you’re left with weariness. 

Taehyung hopes that this will end well for Jeongguk. Out of all the people he’s met, Jeongguk deserves a good chance of a happy ending. Maybe one day he’ll be able to see his warm, brown, tired eyes again. Staring back at him with an infinite amount of words unspoken between them. They’ve let their bodies talk enough, next time, it’s time for their feelings to do the same.

He wants to tell Jeongguk that he’s right here. Wants Jeongguk to hold his hands without having to wait until they clock out from the office. One day, he promises.

For now, he lets his eyes close. It’s been a long day. It’s probably only 8 a.m., he jokes in his head—yet he’s never felt so tired.

-

Taehyung reaches out to wipe the tears falling from Jimin’s face. His left hand no longer shakes when he talks about the incident. In fact, this time, he feels a quiet sense of liberation as the words fight their way out of his locked chest. It’s a story he has only told in bits and pieces to the people that need to hear it—never letting himself truly relive the things he finds hard to say until now. 

Hours have passed, and they’re still sitting in the same position that they were in. Jimin paid all his attention to everything that came out of Taehyung’s lips, no matter how hard the last parts were—Taehyung knows. Jimin’s eyes held the compassion and sympathy he needed to get through another day. He has always hated sympathy, but he finds now that sympathy isn’t a sign of pity, it’s merely a sign that there is enough care and love in the other person to feel for you. 

“Don’t cry, Jimin-ah. It has already passed.” He pats Jimin’s wet cheeks with the back of his palm. 

Jimin makes a noise of protest, as if saying, let me feel the sadness you felt on your own. 

“I’m sorry you had to go through that.” Jimin sobs out, the sound muffled by the hand he uses to cover his mouth. Taehyung hugs him. He’s had enough hugs after he wakes up on the hospital bed to last a whole lifetime. He has more than enough to give now. 

There are places in him that he can’t reach yet, but he’s slowly learning to unravel the tangled ends with his own two hands the more he talks. 

“It’s okay. Thank you for listening to me.” 

Jimin curls himself to Taehyung’s side. For another person, it would seem like he’s seeking comfort from Taehyung, but Taehyung knows better—he’s offering Taehyung his warmth as comfort. “You’re my best friend, Taehyung-ah. Of course I’d listen to you. Anyday.”

The ice cubes in their drinks have melted. The condensation that was once plastered on the cooled glass has evaporated, leaving no trails of water behind except for the now damp tissue under each glass. If he were to drink it, it’ll taste nasty on his tongue—just like a wound that’s left untreated. It’ll slowly grow infected and rot away, leaving nothing but prolonged hurt and guilt that eats away the soul. 

Taehyung closes his eyes and allows himself to breathe. There’s a lot of things in the world that are unfair, but with time, he learns that there’s always some things he can take away from a tragedy. Like this one, when his phone beeps with a text from the nurse in the hospital.

He has visited frequently enough to befriend the nurse that tends to Jeongguk. Leaving the resting man with flowers that he knows will grow spoiled in a few days time—it becomes his excuse to continue visiting. Until the nurse, a kind-hearted man named Hoseok, promises to tell him when Jeongguk wakes from his long, long rest. 

When, not if.

Taehyung stares at the two words staring at him from the notification screen. Long enough until the screen goes dark and Jimin shakes his arm to break him out of his thoughts.

“Taehyung-ah,” he starts. His voice is a little wobbly from all the crying, and it’s either he will cry again or scream in joy—both reactions that Taehyung doesn’t know how to deal with after the news. It makes his chest beat frantically. “Shouldn’t you go?” he asks softly.

Taehyung nods. He’d like to go. He promised himself that he would—maybe after a few hours, to give time for Jeongguk’s family to finish visiting him. 

“Yeah,” Taehyung swallows down. “Yeah, I’m going.”

-

The hospital reeks of chemicals. It used to bother him even after weeks of being bedridden here. After numerous visits, he finds himself minding it less. 

Taehyung braces himself as he walks in. The door creaking open slowly to not disrupt the quietness of the room. He doesn’t know what to expect. Doesn’t have proper talking points prepared beforehand like he always does for important presentations. 

His thoughts are jumbled up. Only a series of “I’m sorry” and “I love you” racing past each other until it all blurs into something incomprehensible. 

Then, he sees him.

Jeongguk lies just across from where he stands. Pale and obvious, from the way his bones are more prominent, that he’s lost significant weight. The sight lengthens the crack in Taehyung’s heart. And he’s again filled with the longing to hold Jeongguk. It’s been so, so long.

Nothing else. Nothing too forward that he is yet allowed to, nor nothing as casual as just a brief squeeze on his arm. He just needs to hold Jeongguk and feel the warmth of his body. Just needs the assurance that this is real. Jeongguk is alive. I love him. 

When their eyes meet, it’s nothing as grand as sparks flying or butterflies fluttering in his stomach. It seems, as if, the moment is fleeting. Like sand in an hourglass that will always slip from the small opening until it runs out. It makes Taehyung desperate, and yet, at ease. 

The juxtaposition confuses him, but seeing Jeongguk with his eyes wide—as if he’s more surprised at the notion of Taehyung approaching him than the fact that Taehyung is alive—makes something akin to endearment slip through his chest. 

Then, he remembers the question—the desperate plea and the fragile pieces of his confession right before Jeongguk loses consciousness. Taehyung had asked him, “You’ll stay right?” 

He has waited months for an answer. Of keeping up his end of the promise that he’ll ask again when they return back home. 

Then he sees it. 

Looking at him with watery eyes quickly filling up with tears. A barely held sob. Hands reaching out to gesture Taehyung to come closer. And as if Taehyung is in a trance, he lets his feet guide him to where he belongs.

Taehyung has never been a big fan of status. Of being someone’s significant other—it means a level of belonging. Some kind of devotion that he never gets. But now, the fingers that touch him are warm. And he’s got a penchant for warm things. 

He thinks, Jeongguk's Taehyung sounds like everything he’s ever wanted to be associated with. 

Jeongguk’s hands lack the usual moisture he has (courtesy of his pocket-sized hand lotion). Taehyung makes a mental note to always give him what he wants. He’ll make sure Jeongguk won’t run out of his cocoa scented lotions if it’ll make him happy. 

Even when he has only just woken up after a long rest, Jeongguk looks handsome. There’s a scar on his cheekbone, blooming bruises on his neck and one fading one on the side of his forehead—yet Taehyung thinks he looks good. Fine, even. 

He has so much to say. So, so much that he doesn’t know where to begin. Doesn’t know whether the scope of his affection reached Jeongguk during their last moments together or not. 

But then Jeongguk gives him a long sigh. Breath trembling, as if the slightest exertion will have him shaking like a leaf. Taehyung’s chest tightens. 

He looks at Taehyung. Eyes glimmering with fresh tears that pushes the welled ones out. It drips down his face like cascading waterfalls and Taehyung feels faint. He knows that his current expression mirrors the crestfallen yet hopeful one in Jeongguk’s. 

As if none of them could ever think they’ll be in this position—with permanent scars and more than a handful of regrets. It fills him with a heaviness in his chest that he could’ve mistaken as a burden. But deep down, he’s aware that it’s grief. As soon as they woke up, they have laid their old selves at rest. 

It’s sad, Taehyung thinks. Of how he was unable to say goodbye to the foolish man he once was. Pieces of him crash and burn like the plane that crumbles into the sea. 

Jeongguk’s eyes still have the same weary gaze in them. Like he’s tired of the world, but also letting himself be driven by plain old curiosity to fuel his days. There’s a glint of something else in them that Taehyung recognizes, but can’t find the words to describe. 

“Taehyung-ah,” he says. 

His voice is uneven, and it’s more of a hesitant croak than a call of name. 

“Taehyung,” he tries again, more surely this time. “Taehyung.” The vowels are stretched and tightened like a cord that falls pliant according to Jeongguk's wishes. 

“Yes, Jeongguk-ah?” 

Jeongguk pulls one of his hands out from Taehyung’s hold. He wipes the tears from Taehyung’s face. Gentle fingers. “I’ll stay.”