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“A pitch dark room
I shouldn’t get used to it
But I’m used to it again
The low-pitched sound of the air conditioner
If I don’t have this, I might just fall apart.”
-Jungkook, “Still With You”
Jungkook couldn’t give up music
He knew from birth that sound was something that would one day fade from him. Knew his condition meant that he should cherish every day he could even hear the sound of his parents’ voices. Knew he should accept the inevitable break in his relationship with all things audible.
But it chased him like nothing else. And soon he was six and singing clear as a summer day to a living room of adults, all applauding him even as pity weighed down their gazes. Then he was nine and carving songs out of nothing on a piano, the keys a blank canvas for him to breathe color into with the help of a hearing aid. The reminder that this was merely a childhood passion, a pipe dream he might talk about while laughing at a bar with friends decades in the future.
And when the inevitable day came that a whole part of him slipped through the cracks, every sound more foreign than he’d ever known it, he had to accept that music would forever be a stranger. He would turn up the radio louder and louder, hoping to hear anything . But instead there was just the dull vibration of the stereo and the shudders making their way through his body.
Soon enough he was sixteen and singing, feeling the breath flow through his trachea until it burned. Trying to remember anything about what music was, what sound was.
He was eighteen when he realized that sound became a stranger, but music was always a friend. He was lying on the floor of his mom’s bedroom as she packed a bag for her new job abroad, reading her lips–”You will be at university in Seoul anyway, Jungkook, you won’t even notice your parents are halfway around the world. Love crosses all distance, honey.”--when the form of music once again makes itself known to him. He had never realized music was something physical until he could feel it like another human being next to him, breathing unsteadily next to him. It sounded, in that moment, like it was dying. So full of trial and grief and–
“Mom, what song is playing now?” It’s weird how he can’t hear his voice, but always knows when his words are said at the right volume.
He watches her mouth pause its movements. She hasn’t learned much sign language, and neither has his dad, but that isn’t rare. It takes time and focus they just don’t have, and Jungkook can talk and read their lips just fine. When her lips move again, she’s saying, “I didn’t know you realized I was playing anything. I’m not sure what it is.”
He hums. “It feels nice. Tell me if they say what it is after the song ends.”
She goes back to packing and he closes his eyes, letting himself be absorbed in music again, for the first time in years. When it ends, he looks up to his mother. After a moment, her mouth opens again.
“They say it’s some young composer’s song. Min Yoongi. Apparently he’s only four years older than you.”
After that, sometimes Jungkook imagines music as the figure of a young boy, just four years older than himself. Imagines the human grief weighing down its shoulders. And then his parents are gone and Jungkook goes to university to study business and then a year goes by and now—
Now Jungkook, friend of music once again, is nineteen and the boy composer is everywhere. Perhaps not in the mainstream, but every article about classical music makes note of this twenty-three year old boy who takes an audience’s breath away and weaves it into a story. He’s traveled the world to do it, his music a language that transcends borders and cultural barriers and–Jungkook knows–even sound itself.
Now Jungkook is nineteen and Min Yoongi, boy genius, is looking for an apprentice.
It’s early January when the notice comes out, Jungkook mindlessly letting the hours pass as he scrolls the internet alone in his dorm during the winter break. The composer posted an ad looking for an apprentice pianist for the summer, with a chance at a longer apprenticeship or partnership after. Auditions are in late April, just a few months away. And it should be ridiculous, really, because Jungkook hasn’t played the piano in years . But as soon as he sees the notice, he knows he’s going to try out for the position.
Fifteen minutes later, Jungkook’s sitting on a piano bench. The piano is in the main common area of the dormitories, on the first floor. At least now, when almost all students have gone home, he can have this solitary practice room. He’ll worry about what to do after the break later.
Muscle memory is startlingly true, and Jungkook easily remembers the first notes to a few songs. It’s not a lot, but it’s something. He wonders if the notes are correct, or if he’s remembering them wrong entirely.
He thinks of his mother, miles and miles away, and pulls out his phone. He sends an audio file and the simple text: “does this sound right?”
Apparently it does sound right, as his mother tells him when she wakes up five hours later. Though she is both startled and concerned, she agrees to listen to whatever he sends her.
–
Jungkook does find time to practice, even when classes begin again and the dormitory is full. He plays hesitantly the first few days students are back, but soon he’s getting smiles and compliments, residents bringing their books to the tables and couches in the common room to listen as they study. And it’s not something Jungkook would usually be comfortable with, having an audience like this in such a casual everyday setting, but Jungkook is so determined.
He plays every single day until he steps onto the bus that will take him to the other side of Seoul.
The rehearsal hall where auditions are being held has a handful of potential candidates, all wearing suits surely more expensive than Jungkook’s own. They are also all older than him–the youngest at least twenty-five–and Jungkook would be worried if he had any expectation of being accepted to begin with. He isn’t here to get the part, per se, but rather because he was pulled so strongly to Min Yoongi’s music that he was unable to miss a chance–however impossibly slim–of getting closer to its origin.
They all file into seats near the back of the hall, shifting with nerves in complete silence.
Jungkook sees Min Yoongi next to two others in the front row–recognizes him from posters–and can’t help but be struck by how different he seems. He looks, in articles, so professional and profound and superhuman in his blazers and ties and carefully-styled black locks. But, in person, Min Yoongi is slumped in his seat, hands shoved into a sweatshirt, with a frown on his lips as he glares through the bleached hair of his bangs. Jungkook hadn’t thought the Min Yoongi caught on camera could weave together such complex and heavy compositions, but this almost adolescent appearance doesn’t quite connect either. He wonders if, someday, he’ll understand who the boy behind the art really is.
As the position hopefuls begin, one by one, performing, Jungkook tries to measure his competition through the vibrations, through the confidence in their posture, through the reaction of Min Yoongi–the last of which proves to be unhelpful as the boy keeps an unimpressed expression throughout.
When Jungkook steps onto the stage himself, he makes sure not to look into the audience, walking straight to take his place on the piano bench. He takes a deep inhale, as he straightens his back and positions his fingers over the keys. He’s playing a Min Yoongi original for this audition, and it’s only now that he worries he might appear conceited under his judging gaze. But he can’t change anything now, so he lets his fingers press the first few keys, enjoys the feeling of himself sinking into the instrument. Limits his focus so he only exists in this piece of music.
–
Jungkook finishes his performance and looks out towards Min Yoongi and his fellows, only to realize he can’t see them. The stage lights are blinding, all the seats completely black, so Jungkook stands uncertainly and gives a slight bow. He tries to recall what the others did, if they were prompted off or just left on their own. But he doesn’t want to appear as though he has stage fright if he leaves immediately when he shouldn’t. He bites his lip nervously and stares at approximately where he supposes Min Yoongi must be.
After a tense minute, a woman who Jungkook remembers sitting beside the composer walks part way up the steps and motions him off the stage. Jungkook nods and scrambles off. They won’t be hearing about results until later, so he walks briskly out of the rehearsal hall and into the rest of the building, welcoming back the light of the open area.
–
Jungkook begins to think of the audition as a piece of the past. Since no one except the accepted apprentice will hear back, Jungkook files the whole experience into his memories and focuses back on his classes, on his essays and projects, on the occasional message from his parents from a foreign city with western architecture.
The acceptance notice doesn’t appear on textured paper with looping script as Jungkook had expected–not that he expected an acceptance at all–but rather is a very straightforward and concise email.
Jeon Jungkook-ssi,
Congratulations on your acceptance into Min Yoongi’s summer apprenticeship. Please arrange accommodations within reasonable commute distance to the following address–the location of Min Yoongi’s rehearsal hall.
MYG
Additionally, the email includes an address and a number defining the humble amount of wages Jungkook will earn. Jungkook honestly hadn’t expected to earn anything–had expected his payment was the composer’s name on his resumé. But since Jungkook hadn’t anticipated getting the position at all, he hadn’t considered where he would get the funding for accommodation and day-to-day living expenses in Daegu.
He can hardly contain his excitement, constantly rereading the email as though he is mistaken, somehow. As though he misread a rejection as an acceptance. But the simple words on his screen remain. He wants to call his parents, wants to see their faces on his phone screen as he breaks the news, but they’re both asleep after his mother’s very long day at work. Instead, he sends a quick text with many exclamation points, before pulling up the email again and rereading it once more.
–
Jungkook moves into his short-term apartment in Daegu only days after his semester ends. He rented it from some images online and a quick video tour, but he knew even then that it would be a modest place. The paint on the walls is chipped and the plaster is cracked in some places. The kitchen has one stovetop, a microwave, a simple sink, and a small fridge that Jungkook imagines to be very loud and very annoying. There’s no furniture, only a futon that he had to pay extra for, and there’s no air conditioner either. There’s two small windows that Jungkook immediately opens for circulation, only to find the outside air stagnant.
It hardly matters, though, because Jungkook is going to be spending almost all his time in Min Yoongi’s beautiful rehearsal hall, dedicating his time to Min Yoongi’s music, finally meeting the man himself.
He thinks he enjoys the struggle, in a way. Surely, there will be a balance. This dull apartment is a sign that his days will be filled with constant moments of success.
–
Jungkook stares at the door to Min Yoongi’s rehearsal hall far longer than necessary. He isn’t sure what, exactly, is keeping him from stepping inside immediately. Perhaps it’s the uncertainty cutting through the anticipation. Perhaps it’s the worries that come with hiding his deafness when obtaining a position as a musical intern. Perhaps it’s the memory of Min Yoongi’s irritated face as he watched the candidates for the position. But he chose Jungkook from all of those, after all, so perhaps Jungkook is simply staring at the ornate wooden door because he came a few minutes too early and wants to enter at an appropriate time.
He does enter, finally, two minutes before the scheduled time. The lights are all on, making the rehearsal hall much less intimidating than it was two months ago. He makes his way down the steps, looking across the hall for any sign of the composer, when he steps onto the stage from one of the wings. He’s talking on his cellphone, and Jungkook can only gather him muttering “if this doesn’t work–” before his lips are in profile and unreadable. He doesn’t seem to have seen Jungkook, who quietly takes a seat in the front row as he waits for the call to end.
Min Yoongi turns around again and, this time, he sees him. He startles, clearly surprised at Jungkook’s presence, before muttering a quick goodbye and hanging up. His eyes narrow and his features twist as he asks, “How much of that, exactly, did you hear?”
Jungkook figures that the other boy will need to know before they begin work anyway, so he responds, “Actually none of it. I’m deaf. I needed to mention anyway, since you will have to face me when you speak to me so I can read your lips.”
“You’re deaf.” It’s not a question, merely an echo of Jungkook’s earlier statement.
Jungkook grins. “I am! Since my piano skills are entirely separate, I decided not to disclose my deafness during the auditions. I hope this is alright, Yoongi-ssi.”
Min Yoongi seems to process this. Then, “So that’s why you were standing on the stage way too long when we were calling you off?” Jungkook nods. “I thought you were just a self-important brat.”
“Yeah, I couldn’t see because of the stage lights.”
The older boy seems to hesitate. “Okay, not to be rude or inconsiderate,” he starts. “But what are you doing playing the piano? Do you even like music? Or are you not completely deaf?”
“Music is everything to me,” Jungkook replies easily. “I wasn’t always deaf–I wasn’t when I first learned piano–and now I just… I just feel the vibrations and appreciate it that way. I lost my hearing steadily, and I’m completely deaf now.”
Something flashes in his eyes that doesn’t look like pity. It looks like hurt, deep and true, but then it’s gone. “Jungkook, right?” he confirms, instead of continuing the conversation. “I’m Min Yoongi. You were the best of those who auditioned. I don’t really care about your circumstances—I won’t hold them against you. Don’t let me down.”
–
The experience of working with Yoongi proves to be both as expected and a bit surprising. The work is just as focused as Jungkook had thought, Yoongi a harsh but informative critic, yet Jungkook can’t help but notice the rarity with which Yoongi himself sits in front of the piano. Occasionally, he will demonstrate a technique or quickly play what Jungkook has been doing in a slightly different manner before noting it down. Otherwise, Yoongi sits to the side, notebook in hand, listening to Jungkook play through different iterations of whatever composition Yoongi is working on. Jungkook learns to tell the subtle difference between Yoongi’s jaw clenching in frustration at his own work and Yoongi’s teeth grinding in actual frustration at him. The former, luckily, is much more common, and–though he never says it aloud–Jungkook suspects from the lack of complaints that Yoongi is impressed, or at least satisfied, with Jungkook’s abilities on the whole.
Yoongi wonders if it’s the grief that comes out in his music sometimes that is now keeping him from the piano. Wonders if that’s what keeps him from playing himself, if that’s the reason he suddenly called for an apprentice. It’s not his place to ask, though, and Jungkook never finds himself in a casual conversation with the composer. He never asks Jungkook out for a meal or offers to buy him a drink after work. When enough hours go by, Yoongi simply lets Jungkook know the day’s work is done. Waits for Jungkook to gather his things and leave. Jungkook isn’t sure he expected to form some social bond with the other, but he finds himself surprised by the cold, straightforward way Yoongi interacts with him. It’s such a stark contrast to the warmth in his energy, the smell of pine that makes a home in his skin.
–
Jungkook is a bit nervous, and his room is hot and humid, and his fingers keep twitching with the urge to play. He looks at the time, an ungodly two in the morning, and decides he doesn’t care. What was the point of getting an apartment so close to the rehearsal time if he doesn’t go there whenever he needs to?
He quickly slips a shirt on, pulls his bag over his shoulder, and leaves his apartment. At least outside, there’s a slight breeze. He wonders if the performing arts building where Yoongi’s rehearsal hall is kept cool during the day, but then he sees the lights coming from the windows and realizes that it must be kept open all day.
Sure enough, he can enter the building just fine. He waves to the person at the front desk–someone unfamiliar working the night shift–and hurries down the path he always takes. Yoongi’s room is locked, unsurprisingly, and Jungkook looks around before taking out a paperclip from his bag and inserting it into the keyhole.
He realizes quickly that he doesn’t know how to pick a lock, but then he finds a subtitled Youtube tutorial on his phone and watches it cross-legged on the hallways floor. He manages to get in, eventually, cringing at the scratches left on the metal, and quickly slips into the hall. He flicks the lights on, watches the room take shape in the light, and realizes that he’s never been in here without Yoongi. Yoongi is always here before him, somehow, and always leaves later. It’s almost creepy, the silence here. And Jungkook can’t hear it, per se, but it’s a palpable lack of energy in the air.
It’s easy enough to fix, though, so he settles down at the piano and begins to play. It’s the first song of Yoongi’s that Jungkook had ever heard, and he can play it by heart. The way his hands stretch to reach the notes is familiar and comforting, and Jungkook is immediately soothed. He’s glad he decided to come here rather than waste away restlessly in his apartment through the night.
It’s after about an hour that the doors suddenly crash open. Jungkook doesn’t know this until something hits the side of his shoulder. He turns, startled, as the pen that knocked against him falls onto the floor. Yoongi is a few yards away, heaving, his hand still outstretched from the throw.
Jungkook realizes quickly that the other boy is certainly drunk, his worn wooden smell replaced by an oppressive alcohol that makes Jungkook’s nose scrunch. He walks unsteadily past Jungkook as he talks–”I can’t even come to my own damn rehearsal room without…”--but his words are cut off when Jungkook can no longer see his mouth. He can tell by the movement of his head that he must still be talking, but Jungkook can’t understand a word. Just knows the energy radiating from him is toxic and destructive. Jungkook wants to be disgusted, but can’t help wondering if this is the Yoongi that could instill such grief into a song that a kid that sound couldn’t reach could feel it through the carpet of his mother’s living room.
Jungkook wants to at least be mad that the older boy is taking his frustration out on him, being so rude as to not even allow Jungkook to know whatever vile things might be leaving his mouth. Be angry that he’s taking advantage, even drunk, of Jungkook’s disability. But he can’t.
Jungkook knows what it feels like to slowly lose a part of himself. He’s never been able to stop that feeling of gradual loss. His desperate grasp for that thing is exactly what led him to be here, in Min Yoongi’s private rehearsal room at three in the morning.
Jungkook understands this. He’s not disgusted. He’s not angry. He is , however, going to refuse to allow Yoongi to continue to make him embarrassed of his deafness.
“Once you’ve figured out something to say with actual value,” Jungkooks speaks, loudly. “Then turn around so I can hear you.”
His jaw stills, then, and his posture shifts. Something more closed, aimed inward, and Jungkook doesn’t like that either. Wonders if that means Yoongi’s negativity is aimed inward, too. He gives him a moment until he turns around on his own, though, his gaze dropping to some point on the floor.
Jungkook lets out a long breath as he takes in his slunched form, his pink-stained face. “How did you get here? Is your place walking distance, or do you have a car…?”
He tilts his face up enough that Jungkook can read his lips. “I take the bus.” Which is, certainly, not running. And also begs the question of what Yoongi was intending to do if he hadn’t run into anyone. Yoongi seems to sense this as he adds, “Sometimes, I just sleep here.”
Jungkook nods like this makes sense, even though it really doesn’t when the other surely has a nice apartment that is much more conducive to a night’s rest that results in better work the next day, but Jungkook feels like he has to reassure the other. This is a strange Yoongi, uncertain in ways that Jungkook doesn’t know how to make sense of, He imagines the Yoongi he’s learned about so far who, even earlier today, confidently showed a new bit of composition to Jungkook and glared daggers at every missed note. “You shouldn’t be on your own right now, Yoongi-ssi. My place is tiny, but only two blocks away. I’ll take you there, okay?”
–
When they arrive at Jungkook’s apartment, Yoongi reacts with an immediate: “Well, this is a shithole.”
Jungkook manages an eye roll and turns away to fight with the lock while half of Yoongi’s body weight is resting against him. “Well, this is what I can afford on what you pay me,” he jabs. It’s meant to be playful, but the weight is immediately removed from his body. Jungkook looks up to find the other boy instead leaning against a wall, his gaze as heavy as always. He’s biting his lip as he considers him. Jungkook clarifies, “It was a joke. As you learned tonight, I don’t spend much time here anyway.”
Stepping into his apartment, Jungkook feels awkward for a very different reason than he had expected. Rather than fretting over the dirty plate from breakfast or the unpacked clothes bag next to his empty closet, he is struck with the worry that Yoongi will somehow blame himself for the lack of air conditioning or the crack in the wall next to the fridge. Jungkook doesn’t think most would pay him at all, honestly, and it never occurred to him to be bitter at Yoongi for his current apartment. It serves its purpose well enough.
He redirects his attention to more pressing matters, throwing an arm around Yoongi and helping him towards the futon. Jungkook can feel him grumbling something but doesn’t bother to try to find out what he’s saying.
It doesn’t take long for Yoongi to fall asleep, and Jungkook lets out a sigh. He worries about what Yoongi will be like in the morning. If he’ll be gruff and defensive. If he’ll still be pissed Jungkook was in his rehearsal hall without permission.
He ponders various potential conversations as he grabs one of his mugs and fills it with water. He places it next to the futon with a bottle of aspirin, humming lightly to himself. It’s then that he realizes Yoongi is taking up the only place Jungkook has to sleep. There’s no couch, so Jungkook pulls out an unused blanket and spreads it on the floor, trying to pillow his head on his arm.
Even with the discomfort, Jungkook thinks this might be nice under different circumstances. It’s been a while since Jungkook has shared a room with someone else. He can’t hear the other boy’s breaths, but feeling the presence of another person is soothing, almost, and Jungkook finds himself hiding a small smile in his arms as he drifts off to sleep.
–
Unsurprisingly, Jungkook wakes up first. He’s terribly sore. He stretches, and it feels like every bone in his body has cracked. He can’t hold in a soft groan as he stands, taking the two steps to his cabinet to pull out his second mug to get some water for himself.
There’s nowhere to sit other than the floor or futon, either, but that hadn’t been relevant until now. So Jungkook stands leaning against the counter and microwave, scrolling through his phone to catch up on what his parents did while he was asleep. They went out for a dinner date in a cute cafe. It brings a smile to his face, knowing his parents are out in the world, together and still in love.
Jungkook spends some time like this, spacing out and waking up slowly. He doesn’t even realize that Yoongi is awake until he feels a light, hesitant tap to his shoulder. He looks up, and a messy-haired Yoongi is fidgeting with his sleeves. Jungkook smiles, hopes it’s reassuring, and hands him a fresh shirt. “Can’t be comfortable in that, but you weren’t exactly up for a wardrobe change last night.”
When Yoongi returns in Jungkook’s clothes, something shifts even more. It feels like more and more of Yoongi is being revealed to him in these odd hours.
“Thanks for the water and aspirin,” he says. The movements of his lips are smaller, and Jungkook thinks he must be speaking softly.
Yoongi is so much softer, like this, with golden light slipping through the blinds and reflecting in his half-open eyes. A little more awkward here, hungover in an unfamiliar place, the lack of light washing out his colors until he is defined in only faded pastels. It’s the first time they’ve been on even ground–though, perhaps Jungkook has the power in this apartment–and he’s never before seen Yoongi without control. He’s usually a king, his recital hall his kingdom, knowing that he will perform before an audience that will all but bow to him in his crown.
But Yoongi is nothing, here, in this hot, humid, hole-in-the-wall apartment. He’s still technically Jungkook’s mentor, but he’s also hungover in Jungkook’s torn up shirt he got from winning a school race in high school. Jungkook feels a bit lighter. He’s upset that Yoongi is obviously troubled, but for once the weight of expectation has been lifted from his shoulders.
They make small talk as Jungkook prepares simple scrambled eggs. He offers tea, but Yoongi just mutters something under his breath about coffee. Jungkook laughs, bright, and promises to take him to a nearby coffee shop on the way to the rehearsal hall, finally pulling a smile from the other boy.
Eventually, the conversation trails off and Yoongi’s expression sombers. “It’s a type of muscular dystrophy,” he says. Then, “I’m not sure if this is rude to say, but it’s also difficult as hell that I have to say this while facing you. I’d rather look somewhere else.” Jungkook isn’t about to apologize for being deaf, but he also doesn’t think Yoongi wants that. He gives the other boy whatever time he needs, though. “Basically, a genetic mutation is keeping my body from forming healthy muscle in my arms. So, with time, my arms are going to weaken until I can’t play piano at all. Or do many normal tasks. It affects my thighs, too, so it’s hard for me to run these days. Hard to say how much worse that will get, though.” He pauses. “I think I would give up walking if I could keep my arms, though.”
Jungkook isn’t sure what to say to that, so he stays silent. Keeps watching his mouth, making it clear that he’s listening.
“Do you ever get used to it?”
Jungkook turns away to look through the window. It’s raining, just a small cloud, the water reflecting the sun’s rays. He watches the rain splash into puddles on the asphalt and knows his answer. Because he can’t help but wish he could hear the sound, something so easy and simple until it’s gone entirely. Can’t help but try to recall the music the sky makes when it cries, something so vivid and beautiful. Something he hadn’t thought much of until thoughts were all he had left of it.
“I don’t want to.” He turns back and meets Yoongi’s piercing gaze, measuring, looking for a lie. “If I get used to it, I might forget what it was like. I don’t want to forget music.”
Yoongi’s eyes narrow, not unkindly, merely inquisitive. “You said you enjoy music just as much.”
“I do, but it’s different. I used to imagine music flowing through my veins. Now it’s outside of me, it’s own independent creature that stays close but is separate nonetheless.”
Yoongi must not be sure what to say to this, because he turns away.
–
Work is… nice . With a coffee in him, Yoongi’s eyes focus a bit more, but he isn’t nearly as cold as Jungkook has gotten used to. He’s still strict throughout Jungkook’s playing, but his eyes are warmer. Jungkook feels as though he’s been given something, something close to trust or acceptance, and he wonders what he looks like through Yoongi’s eyes.
When they finish up, Yoongi tells Jungkook to wait up for him. He wonders if he will finally be treated to a drink, but instead they head to the composer’s apartment. “Your place was hot as hell,” he says, like it’s truly so simple. “We’ll stop by your apartment too andto and you can pack what you like. Everything, even, if you want. My couch must be nicer than that futon. And don’t argue–I slept on it last night.”
And Jungkook, lacking any real objection, goes along with it. “Thanks, Yoongi-ssi.”
The older boy shakes his head, though, and tells him to call him “Hyung”.
Yoongi’s apartment is nice, but not too nice. The short front hall opens to the living area, lit with a warm ceiling light. There’s nothing intimidating about the clean but clearly second-hand couch or the box for the tv, slipped behind a shelf, with a clearance sticker. The kitchen to the left has a regular sized fridge, a stove, an oven, and a microwave. There’s a bar with comfortable-looking stools, but no dining room. To the right, there’s a small bathroom and a stairway, its railing a bit chipped, which must lead to the bedroom and presumably a larger bathroom. Jungkook would even appreciate the muted, carefully-matched decor if he wasn’t busy appreciating the air conditioning.
The only intimidating part of the apartment is the piano. It’s a brown piano, and it looks perhaps antique. At the very least, it’s much older than the one in the rehearsal hall. Jungkook wonders if Yoongi sits there in the middle of the night with unanswered questions in his mind, fearing an unknown future where he may be unable to play another note.
Jungkook toes off his shoes and approaches the couch, already knowing that Yoongi was right–this is a lot better than the mattress he was sleeping on before.
Yoongi is a courteous host, and Jungkook thinks this must be how Yoongi treats his friends. He isn’t especially talkative, but he tells Jungkook an anecdote about him and a close friend named Namjoon. He slips in that this was the friend he was talking to when Jungkook first met Yoongi. He had been venting to him about his concerns taking an apprentice.
“I’ve never done anything like this before,” Yoongi says. “I don’t know how to mentor, and I don’t know what you were expecting.”
“That’s fine,” Jungkook responds honestly. “I don’t know what I was expecting either.”
They talk more about some music pieces they worked on during the day, and then Yoongi excuses himself and goes up to his room for the night. Jungkook curls into the couch under a quilt and imagines more days, like this, every hour filled with the other boy.
–
When morning light slips through the blinds to wake Jungkook, Yoongi is already awake and making coffee in the kitchen. He turns to greet him, holding out a mug for him as well.
He cooks up rice omelets that smell incredible. Jungkook hopes he isn’t drooling as Yoongi brings two plates over to the table. When he confirms that it tastes as good as it smells, he asks Yoongi how he slept.
Jungkook is glad to have an excuse to stare at the other boys’ lips as he speaks, soft and petal pink, moist from licking them during the meal. He’s always staring at lips, watching them form words, but he’s come to like watching how Yoongi’s round out vowels and huff out air and pout at unfinished sheets of music. They’re moving now and– oh –Jungkook likes them the most now . When they are wrapping themselves around Jungkook’s name. He used to be able to hear when someone’s name was said with complete affection. Remembers being awed when his father spoke of his mother. Remembers how different it was from the flat syllables of any other name that left his lips.
Jungkook wishes he could read that affection from the shapes Yoongi’s lips form, but he can’t. But it hopes it’s there. Swears he’ll wish for it the next time he sees a shooting star.
–
After they’ve crossed the distance and become something Jungkook thinks might be close to friends, Yoongi plays the piano more often. He wonders if the older boy had been playing it all those weeks, late at night in his apartment where no one could overhear. Gritting his teeth as it became more and more difficult. But whatever the case, Jungkook is glad for it. Glad to finally experience this Yoongi, whose music had resonated with him when nothing else could, playing the songs he has carefully threaded together. Sometimes Jungkook will sit in Yoongi’s chair while he takes the bench, sometimes he will sit beside him or lean against the side of the grand piano, and sometimes–like now–he will lay on the stage floor.
There’s something haunting about Yoongi playing the piano that Jungkook never gets used to.
The more the pads of his fingers string together notes, the more the keys seem to be bones. Moving carefully, pulling at the tendons within the instrument. The vibrations feel less like the reverberation of an object’s sound and more like the constant fidgeting thoughts of an uneasy creature. When Jungkook lays against the floor like this, eyes closed, he’s struck with the certainty that the instrument (or Yoongi? both?) is bleeding. There is a gaping wound in it’s skin. Rather than the lid being held open, it seems that the wood has been torn apart–the sound gushing through the air like the gods’ ichor. The piano is organic when Yoongi touches it, another organ he calls his own.
Jungkook realizes that it’s this organ, really, that Yoongi will be losing. The use of his arm pales in comparison to the tissue and tendons and blood and bone that it allows him to reach.
–
Jungkook worshiped Min Yoongi the composer, but Yoongi the person is a completely different entity. He’s harsh and defensive, drinks sometimes even when he shouldn’t, and is far too particular about the organization of his kitchen. Yoongi doesn’t go out much, so Jungkook is rarely at the apartment alone, and he eventually realizes that the older boy’s only friend might be Namjoon. Yoongi met him almost a decade ago and apparently hasn’t seeked out more company ever since, though the other is currently traveling for his own music. There’s no pictures of family in the apartment at all, either, and Jungkook wonders at the isolation of the other.
But Yoongi, the person, is also heartbreakingly determined. Jungkook watches him in the mornings as he works his arm through a plethora of stretches he learned after visiting a physical therapist. Every morning, no exceptions, with the news on in the background. Yoongi always puts closed captions on, now, and he must think Jungkook spends those mornings reading the headlines and keeping up with current affairs. Instead, Jungkook imagines the weakening muscles moving underneath Yoongi’s skin as he fights for more time. Imagines what Yoongi’s expression must be like on mornings where he’s curled in on himself, messy bedhead in his eyes as he goes through this morning routine, like he doesn’t want Jungkook to see the pain there.
Jungkook imagines a lot about Yoongi. Thinks that the terribly and tragically human Yoongi is much stronger than the mysterious genius boy composer Jungkook had read about for years. Jungkook thinks Yoongi is brave in even showing this part of himself to Jungkook, is awed that he ever invited him into his home. And he keeps allowing Jungkook to see this part of him daily, even knowing that he’s letting the other watch him fall apart and piece himself back together like it’s a ritual.
And really, what it amounts to is this: Jungkook thinks a lot about Yoongi.
–
Jungkook’s been living with Yoongi for a week when it happens. They are hard at work, but for now Yoongi is playing while Jungkook sits beside him. He’s been resting his head on Yoongi’s shoulder, the vibrations of the music mixing with the thrum of life coming from the other boy. When the playing stops, Jungkook lifts his head to face Yoongi to watch for any words.
But Yoongi doesn’t say a word. Instead, Jungkook notices that his eyes are also flickering to Jungkook’s lips, his gaze dark. And Jungkook doesn’t want to be in this limbo, so he asks, “Can I kiss you, Hyung?” before he can overthink it.
Pretty pink lips form the word “yes”.
Jungkook thinks he could become addicted to kissing Min Yoongi.
He can feel so much by that single point of contact. His chapped lips against Yoongi’s satin-soft ones. The increase in his own heartbeat, the adrenaline flooding his veins all the way to the tips of his fingers, where they grasp at the other boy’s shirt. The hitch of Yoongi’s breath, the way his whole body trembles, just a bit–because of him, Jeon Jungkook.
And then Yoongi is kissing back and everything is better. Because even if Jungkook had read his lips saying yes, only reciprocation could truly dissipate his worries. His worries that Yoongi would think Jungkook’s genuine affection was only idol-worship. His worries that Yoongi would take Jungkook’s actions as presumptuous, think of Jungkook as some kid still in university and wearing jeans he bought with his parents’ money. His worries that Yoongi, quite simply, would not be interested in Jungkook at all.
So when Yoongi bites at his bottom lip, Jungkook opens his mouth. He’s never kissed another boy like this, only had closed-mouth kisses with some boy in high school who Jungkook hadn’t realized was with him out of unneeded pity. Jungkook isn’t nervous, though, so he smiles into it and swings a leg over to straddle Yoongi and settle into his lap, balancing carefully on the piano bench. Jungkook wraps his arms around the older boy’s shoulders as his fingers play under the hem of Jungkook’s shirt. He whines softly and feels himself heat in embarrassment as he breaks the kiss to burrow into Yoongi’s shoulder. He can feel the older boy laughing, which isn’t very helpful, so he sits back on Yoongi’s thighs and glares at him.
His eyes narrow on the other boy’s grin. “It’s not fair that you hear all my embarrassing noises and then laugh at them. For all I know, you’re making just as embarrassing of noises. I can feel when your breath hitches and I know you groaned at some point.”
Yoongi’s grin softens into a fond smile. “I’m laughing because you’re cute, Jungkook-ah.”
Jungkook’s reminded of the Yoongi he only sees in the morning, sleepy and soft, when it’s too early in the morning for worries. But he’s something a bit brighter, now. Awake and happier for it. And Jungkook wants to hold this part of Yoongi forever, thinks he could if the other boy would let him.
–
Yoongi is quiet on the way back to his apartment, but Jungkook doesn’t question it. Knows that change can take time to process, that moving forward into something so delicate and new needs to be considered carefully. He calms himself this way, believing in the true connection between them. Jungkook thinks of fate, thinks of strings connecting every person in the world together–some closer than others. Things of those strings wrapping his hand tightly to Yoongi’s.
But then Yoongi opens his mouth. “This can’t become complicated.”
“What do you mean?” He keeps his voice level, somehow, tries not to overthink these first words when surely Yoongi will explain more. There doesn’t have to be anything complicated, after all.
“Our relationship needs to be professional for this to work,” Yoongi’s words are careful, measured, and his eyes are a bit distant. “The music I mean. It’s the important thing, at the end of this all. It’s what we both care about most.”
Jungkook thinks this is right, actually. It’s music that Yoongi has chased all his life, and it’s music that tethered Jungkook to Yoongi before they ever met. But he also can’t imagine a world where they would let something keep them from music. Any struggle would be written as notes on a page, pressed into ivory keys to be heard by a breathless audience. Jungkook doesn’t imagine a worry-free, completely peaceful relationship. Doesn’t want that. It was grief and struggle that Jungkook first heard in Yoongi’s music, but that didn’t make it less hopeful to Jungkook. Every emotion felt is important, and surely they can find a way to process everything they experience through a melody.
“I think you’re wrong. I think we have to be so strung together that the line between Min Yoongi and Jeon Jungkook blurs.” Jungkook isn’t sure if Yoongi holds the same beliefs as him, though, so he adds, “It would help you, at least.”
“And how is that?” Yoongi asks, and his features twist into something vicious. Something with vitriol that Jungkook assesses and recognizes as the simulated defense it is.
So Jungkook just continues. “If this is just a business relationship, I can walk away from it. But you need someone who can’t–won’t–leave.”
The animosity leaves his gaze, and Jungkook knows he’s won.
–
His hand, outlined in the light of the setting sun, slips from Yoongi’s shoulder to his chest.
“I don’t think this was much different,” he says, finally.
“What wasn’t?”
Jungkook moves, closes his eyes, and leans against the older boy. Rests his ear right against Yoongi’s heart. “I think this is just as full of life without the sound.” He wonders how the other boy reacts. Can’t hear his voice, can’t see his expression. But he hears a hitch in his heartbeat, the acceleration in its pace, and he breathes in the smell of him. The smell of wood and paper and ink.
After a long moment, he feels fingers slide into his hair, twisting lightly in the strands, and a barely-there pressure. A kiss, maybe, or perhaps just the side of his hand. He’ll ask Yoongi, one day, but not now. Not when Jungkook is giving all of the senses he can to him.
Jungkook realizes, as he listens to Yoongi’s heart pumping blood, that this was never a call for an apprentice or a musical partner. What Yoongi was calling for was a replacement for his arm. Someone he can connect to so much that they might as well be a part of him. A new part of him that can grasp at the notes his arm will someday no longer reach.
–
When summer is coming to an end, Yoongi nervously leans against his kitchen counter across from where Jungkook was sending a message to his mother. When Jungkook looks up, Yoongi lifts his hand in a series of motions.
The gestures are awkward and stilted, and Jungkook looks on in bewilderment as Yoongi repeats them with fumbling fingers. After a minute, Jungkook realizes that he must be trying to sign, and he can’t help the grin that pulls at his features.
“For me?” Jungkook asks. He’s somehow worried he’s wrong, misunderstanding, even though there’s nothing else it could be.
Yoongi nods. Then stops himself suddenly and tries to sign again. Jungkook can recognize this easily enough, the simple sign for “yes” getting through just fine. And Jungkook thinks of Yoongi, after a long day of composing, watching videos and reading manuals on sign language after Jungkook’s fallen asleep next to him. Trying to learn something that purely benefits Jungkook. Trying to learn a language Yoongi’s never before known that he will lose with the use of his arm anyway. A show of care and love that Jungkook hadn’t even received from his family.
Jungkook laughs in delight, and his cheeks hurt from smiling so much. “I love you so much, Yoongi, but I have no idea what you were trying to say.”
As soon as Yoongi pouts, Jungkook is grabbing at his hands, rubbing his thumbs soothingly into his palms. “It means the world to me, Yoongi, really.”
The older boy sighs, an exaggerated thing. His mouth opens way too wide for way too long, and now Jungkook is hiding his grin in his collar. Then, “I just… I was letting you know. I’m moving to Seoul. Close to your university.”
Jungkook feels the grin as it drops from his features. He knows he must look ridiculous, eyes wide as saucers, but he can’t dwell on that when he’s imagining an actual future with Yoongi. He had planned on it, but was avoiding thinking about if there would be distance. If they would be texting and video chatting between Jungkook’s classes. If Jungkook would have to drop out of school to pursue music with Yoongi. Yoongi ,who seems so, so anxious about Jungkook’s expression, explaining, “You should stay in school and study–your efforts so far shouldn’t go to waste. We can schedule it together, but only if you want. If this is too much, or too fast it’s fine–I’m not going to move there if it will trouble you–”
Jungkook shakes his head quickly, missing any other words Yoongi says. “Nope, nope. I definitely want you, Hyung. Always want you. You’re my person. Gonna have the best love story ever and leave wonderful music behind that’ll make us immortal.”
Relief floods Yoongi’s features, his expression shifting into something soft and amused. “I should’ve known you were a romantic,” he says. “Our story hardly makes the cut. I was so rude when we met.”
Jungkook hums. “But that wasn’t the first time we met.”
Yoongi’s brow furrows. “We didn’t really meet at the audition itself.”
Jungkook shakes his head. “Did I ever tell you that I gave up music completely, didn’t even listen to it, when I first lost the last of my hearing?”
And so Jungkook tells him. Tells him of the eighteen year old with hair strewn across the carpet as his mother packed her things to leave for good. Every familiar comfort being pulled from under him as he fell headfirst into adulthood–no transition period, not really. How his focus faded until all he could feel was a steady vibration that resonated through the floorboards like sorrow. Tells him that one moment, there was no music at all. Then, suddenly, there was this:
Min Yoongi, boy composer, who gave music back to Jeon Jungkook.