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Jungkook
Jungkook has good hands. But that is a given because Jungkook has a good everything. But for Yoongi, Jungkook's hands are simply special. They aren't as big as Taehyung's or his own, nor as delicate as Jimin's or Hoseok's. Jungkook's hands are square with long fingers and delicate nails that are always a little chipped. They are full of calluses from lifting weights and always feel warm to the touch.
Yoongi sits on a high stool at the kitchen island, his arms crossed and his head resting between them. He wears Lakers shorts and a hoodie that could belong to anyone but Yoongi himself. From where he sits, he can hear Jimin humming in the living room and Taehyung explaining how the turnip economy works to a very confused Hoseok. He knows that neither his one and only Hyung nor Namjoon are in the flat, as they are needed at the company for something something that Namjoon surely explained to him yesterday and left in a flurry of hugs and kisses earlier than his brain could process.
Jungkook stands in front of him, reading the instructions on the new espresso machine Yoongi received for his birthday. His tattooed finger traces each character on the paper as if he's been personally challenged, his eyebrows furrowed as he plays with his lip piercing.
"You know I know how to use it myself, don't you?" Yoongi whispers, and Jungkook's big, dark, round eyes pierce right through him. Yoongi can feel the blood rushing to his temples.
"It doesn't make sense that you always have to wait for your coffee to be ready in the mornings, when we all know you hate re heated coffee and always leave in hurry. I could just leave it on before I go to the gym."
"That's not the way these machines work, Bunny."
"I would know if I could understand these instructions."
Yoongi's hand twists from where it was crossed to the middle of the island, his little finger colliding with Jungkook's. His tanned hand contrasts with his own porcelain skin. Jungkook sighs and rests his head on his arms, his hand moving away.
Yoongi's hand twists, about to follow, but he doesn't. He isn't that desperate. He isn't. He feels the youngest's eyes on him for a second, and when he looks up again, Jungkook's eyes are on the sheet of paper, but his tattooed hand is extended towards him, palm facing up.
Without saying a thing, Yoongi starts playing with the other's hand.
Jimin
If you tell someone, "My boyfriend is a dancer," they'll probably raise their eyebrows and smile at you like they know something you don't. If you add that said boyfriend also gives you massages, they'll likely give you a dirty look and say something like, "I don't want to know about your sex life." Yoongi can understand the reaction to some extent, but it is also a clear sign that the person has never received a massage from a dancer.
"Hyung, I told you to stay still," Jimin instructs.
Namjoon responds with a tearful "Okay" from under Jimin. He is face down on a mat on the floor, wearing low-riding sweatpants. His hands are squeezing a stress ball in each, as if his life depends on it. Jimin is sitting on top of him, putting all his weight into making slow circles on the rise of his ribs with his elbow, leaving a red trail behind. Yoongi, who is next, gulps.
During their trainee days, Hoseok and Jimin used to give massages only to each other, which always ended with the dancers happy and relaxed, sleepy leaning into each other’s space. They even took courses in physical therapy and massages to help with chronic pain when they started to feel the aftereffects of their extensive training. Naturally, it was only a matter of time before one of the others asked one of them for a massage. Yoongi still remembers Taehyung's screams from that day.
Yoongi must admit that having two boyfriends who know how to help with the pain in his shoulder during recovery is nice. He doesn’t like people he doesn’t know touching him, including the new doctor working for Hybe. So, he went to two or three appointments flanked by Jimin and Hoseok so they could learn what to do. It was useful.
But it is also painful. Neither Jimin nor Hoseok are used to holding back when they give massages. They are used to other dancers telling them to go stronger, deeper, slower. They are used to muscles ripping under their hands and holding others immobile under them. Hoseok learns how to hold back eventually. He starts using oils and nice-smelling creams, ditching the mats and cold floors for his own bed. Is it painful? Of course, but it is a bearable amount of pain, and they are often rewarded by a very happy Hoseok and some days without pain.
Jimin, on the other hand, never understands why he should hold back. They are professional dancers, after all. Holding back is a hindrance more than a benefit. He uses his whole body, from his knees to his elbows, and his hands.
If there is really a god, maybe they knew better than to give Jimin Taehyung/Yoongi-esque hands. Maybe they decided to give him small, pudgy hands as a way to protect others. Not that it helps a lot, but Yoongi is sure no one, not even Hoseok, would survive a Jimin massage if he had bigger hands.
He never hurts them of course, Jimin would probably jump off a bridge before actually hurt them, and no one ever refuses a massage from him, they are just as dramatic as they come.
Don’t misinterpret Yoongi though, he loves Jimin's hands a lot. They are always soft and small enough that he can cup them on his own. His nails are always done with clear nail polish, and they aren’t as small as people like to comment. They are just small in comparison; he uses nice smelling creams and oil on them, so they always smell like lavender.
“What do you say now?” the smaller one says, eyes disappearing as he smiles, climbing down from Namjoon's back and landing a last slap into the other's thigh.
“Thank you, Jimin,” grunts Namjoon and then painfully rolls over to Yoongi's feet, extending the stress balls towards him.
“Come on, hyung, your turn.”
Yoongi goes happily.
Namjoon
Yoongi is almost falling asleep on Namjoon’s chest. They have been cuddling for the better part of the afternoon, rain hitting harshly against the penthouse window. Namjoon’s hand moves up and down his back, tracing the knobs of his spine.
“You’ve lost weight,” Namjoon’s voice is soft, his full lips brushing the shell of Yoongi’s ear. Yoongi burrows deeper into his boyfriend’s plush chest, inhaling his masculine scent and rubbing his cheek against the soft fabric of his sweater.
He feels a hand cup the side of his face, big and warm and square, with a faint smell of ashes—Namjoon has been smoking it seems. The longer fingers trace his cheekbone, and the thumb teases the seam of his lips. Namjoon moves Yoongi’s face from where it is hidden deep in his arms, making him look at him. The eye contact is overwhelming, making the hair on his arms stand up.
Namjoon seems to find what he is looking for in Yoongi's eyes and smiles softly at him. Yoongi takes Namjoon’s hand in his and hugs it to his chest, wishing he could talk right now. He wants to tell Namjoon about the numbness in his brain, how he likes Namjoon's new cologne, the new music he has been working on, the dinner he had with Jimin the other day, and the new suit he bought with Taehyung.
But he can’t seem to move at all. His arms feel too heavy, his eyes are unfocused, and everything that touches his skin feels as if it were touching deeper, under his skin. He feels like he is floating in Namjoon’s arms.
His hand is still tangled with Namjoon’s. He rubs his cheek against the back of it, and Namjoon adjusts his position until Yoongi is hiding from everything in his chest. All he feels is Namjoon.
Taehyung
They are on the street. This might seem a weird thing to focus on, but when you are as famous as they are, being on the street is not something they just do casually.
They walk in pairs, separated from each other just enough to feel like they are together but still cautious of being recognized. It is around 10 pm, but the streets of Seoul are as active as always. Restaurants and bars are bustling with people, and the aroma of street food wafts toward them like a calling. People walk huddled together in their expensive winter coats, covering them from head to toe.
Yoongi can see Jungkook and Hoseok in front of him, Jungkook’s hand firmly planted on his hyung’s shoulder while Hoseok seems to be trying to tell Jungkook something, pressing his mask-clad mouth into the other’s neck while he walks. He knows Namjoon, Jimin, and Jin are behind them, checking out some street vendors’ stalls looking for something to eat before going home. Meanwhile, he is walking side by side with Taehyung, who looks handsome even covered head to toe. The warm streetlights reflect on his curly hair and long lashes.
Yoongi bets that if someone looks at them for longer than a second, they will know who they are.
He didn´t want to go out to start with; he’s not a fan of going out and getting into dangerous situations. The most he does is when he is in his hometown, one call away from his parents, where he still remembers each alley and which shops have the nice ajummas who don’t know who he is. Seoul is a monster. The city is alive, and the little provincial child that lives inside of him still gets scared by the sheer amount of people. He knows, deep down, that it's kind of dumb. He has been all over the world, he has been the center of attention everywhere he goes since they started getting big. He should be used to it by now.
But he doesn´t
He feels his hands start to get sweaty inside his leather gloves. He kind of wants to call an Uber or one of their drivers and pack it in for home. Maybe he can convince the others to go with him, he knows that Jungkook can´t say no to him, and that none can say no to Jungkook.
He doesn’t let himself get like that. He knows this is an important night for the others, that Jimin has been in his apartment without going out for three months straight, that Hoseok has been so busy management is trying to convince him to install a bed in his studio, that the date is almost there for Seokjin, and no matter how much he laughs it off, he knows that he is stressed, that he doesn’t want to leave.
He knows that he has been living kind of like a hermit since he started the final touches of D-Day.
They all needed a day out.
They watched a movie, had lunch in a park random park where a group of teens were playing a Random dance with some 2gen songs and Jimin debated how damaging to their afternoon it would be if he joined them, Jungkook was all for it and Hoseok had stopped them before they could even stand up from their bench, they had dinner in an expensive restaurant chosen by Namjoon decorated with art from top to bottom were Taehyung spent the whole time taking photos of them with his film camera. They ate meat until they couldn´t anymore and drank a little too much. They turned down their phones’ volumes and then start walking the streets of Seoul. They have been at it for the last hour, and so far, the only person who has done a double take at them is the kind man driving them downtown who told Jin he should try modeling.
Yoongi puffs his chest out and lets out a sigh.
“Some say that you lose a bit of happiness every time you sigh heavily,” Taehyung’s voice is low and a bit raspy, his knuckles soft against his.”
The younger looks at him with song kind eyes, his longs lashes brushing against his cheeks
“I don’t think we’ll be doing this much longer. Joonie hyung is basically in auto mode, and Jungkook is doing most of the walking for Hobi. We can go home soon.”
“I—I am enjoying it!”
Taehyung laughs cheerily at him, as if Yoongi has just told the best joke of his whole career.
“You can’t lie to me, hyung. I can see your eyes trembling from here.”
“I am very happy right now.”
“I never said you weren’t.”
Yoongi stops walking and turns to look at him. The younger takes his hand and peels his glove off, doing the same with his own red mitten.
“There, let’s catch up with the others.”
Yoongi feels his heart grow twice its size inside his chest when Taehyung takes his pale hand into his tanned one and starts chasing after Jungkook and Hoseok, and apparently Namjoon, Jin, and Jimin, who have walked past them sometime during their talk.
Taehyung hand is bigger than his, not by much, but enough to make a difference, when Taehyung holds hands, he likes to tangle his elegant fingers with the other person and swing it around, he never lets go until you do, Yoongi doesn’t either, so once one of them makes the first move they know they will stay like that for a while.
They don’t talk about it
Yoongi is happy
SeokJin
Do you know the feeling you get when you feel the air? Not in a wind-against-your-face situation but when you suddenly feel the pressure of the atmosphere hitting against your skin and squeezing as if you were made of gum? When you feel the air get inside your nose and burn its way down your throat? When your lungs expand more than they should, displacing your heart so it collides with your sternum, and you can feel it through the skin of your chest as your fingers trace the collar of your shirt that feels too high up? When the tendons stop being easy to ignore, and suddenly you want to take your thumb and pointer finger and try to remove them from their rightful place?
Yoongi feels too big for his skin and too small for the black van he is riding in. The air outside is cold, and soft rain is hitting the window he is using to brace himself.
And he feels the air.
“Yoongi-ssi, Seokjin-ssi, we are 10 minutes to the base,” the driver says.
Seokjin, who is beside him but hundreds of kilometers away at the same time, hums in acknowledgment. Seokjin has his hair buzzed down, and there is a small black bag resting between them.
There are a lot of ironies in Yoongi’s life. Every time his life seems to be at its lowest, he finds a way to make it better, to resurface in a way he never thought possible. But then, at the height of his life, of his mental health, something happens that sends him packing straight to his psychologist, to the pills, to the takeout, to the sleepless nights.
When he was at the height of his depression, when music wasn’t enough for his aching heart, when he couldn’t imagine a life where Min Yoongi wasn’t synonymous with music for so long that he couldn’t even process life the moment he started hating music for the same reason he started loving it, he met Kim Namjoon and Jung Hoseok, his soulmates, the fire under his ass when he thought his dreams were just dreams and nothing else.
Then he got hit by a truck.
Then things started looking up, so high he saw the tops of the skyscrapers in Seoul from a tiny cozy cloud he shared with the people he loved the most in the world. Then he was in space, and he could listen to music as there was no sound. He couldn’t breathe as he had no oxygen. It was gelid cold, so high in the universe.
But it was okay. It didn’t matter how cold he was, how afraid he was of the fall, of the landing, of the years passing. It was okay because he wasn’t alone.
Kim Seokjin is enlisting in 5 minutes.
Kim Seokjin, with his bright eyes and full lips and beautiful laugh that he accuses of being karma for being so handsome. The only person who is older than him, his only hyung who cooks for him no matter the hour, who lets him sit beside him when he is playing games until 4 a.m. and Yoongi can’t sleep, who sings whatever Yoongi tells him to sing even if he thinks he never could, who runs crooked fingers through his jaw and kisses his eyelids every morning when he gets up earlier than him.
His hyung who is going away, the first of seven, who loves so fiercely and unashamedly, unlike Yoongi who hides away from love as if it were one of the monsters his mother used to tell him about when he insisted on going downtown alone.
Maybe if love didn’t hurt as much when it goes away, it wouldn’t be such a feat to declare devotion.
It hurts because Yoongi loves Seokjin, and everything he represents in this tiny van, and the hours they spent together in the middle of the sea, or in their shared room in their teens, or in their shared bedroom in their 20s, or in the hundreds of songs they have recorded together.
“Guys, we are three minutes away. Get ready.”
Seokjin hums again and looks towards Yoongi with one of his pretty smiles, with his pretty eyes, and his pretty everything. Yoongi can’t hold it in anymore. He feels like a volcano, and his tears are like lava that pour out of his eyes and burn everything in their wake.
Seokjin makes a concerned sound from the back of his throat. He reaches towards him, alarmed, crooked fingers trying to catch the other’s tears as if they were precious in any way.
Yoongi tries to control his breathing, but nothing seems to work. His eyes burn, his lungs burn, his heart burns.
He takes Seokjin’s hand in his and moves it against his forehead, crying into the older palm.
Jin launches towards him and covers him with his whole frame. It is cramped inside the van, and the air isn’t enough, but Jin is warm and big.
Yoongi cries, and he breathes.
“I love you,” his hyung says it without any doubt, strong, clear. It pierces through Yoongi.
“It’s not fair.”
“I know.”
“They lied.” Yoongi sinks more into his hyung’s arms.
“I will be back.”
“And we will be gone by then, all of us will be.”
“Everything is going to be okay.”
“Liar.”
“Maybe I am, maybe I am not, but you are no wizard to say I am wrong or right. And besides, we always make it work, don’t we?”
“We do.”
“Yoongi, I love you.”
“I love you too.”
Love would be less scary if it were easier to let go, but it would stop being as grand as it is if it didn’t take every part of you and consume you.