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Summary
“Hyung,” Jungkook whispers, “is this how it feels to make it?”
Yoongi snorts, thinking about the crumbling van, their dwindling bank accounts, and the puke orange walls of the motel they’re in. “I hope not, Kook-ah,” he whispers. “But I think we’ll get there.”
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Every song Yoongi writes, scribbled in his notebook or on tattered napkins, feels like a piece of his heart set down on paper. Sometimes Yoongi wonders if Jungkook knows every word is about him.