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And Yoongi…shouldn’t. He really shouldn’t. But the alcohol he’d drunk tonight thrums beneath his veins, and that, together with the memory of his and Seokjin’s first meeting makes him impulsive. Just a tad bit. Just enough to fluster him some more, to slowly drag his eyes down the length of Seokjin’s body, making sure to rest a little longer on the hollow of his throat, the slight vee of his chest visible underneath his shirt.
Then he looks back up to catch Seokjin’s eyes once more, his tongue darting out to wet his lips.
Yoongi smirks. “Hyung can hold whatever opinion he wants about sex,” he says. “But I think he shouldn’t knock it until he’s tried it with me.”
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And fuck, this is exactly why Yoongi didn’t want to confess, didn’t want to just tell Seokjin and have no way to take them back. It hurts more to be rejected like this than it is for his intentions to be misunderstood and taken platonically. Somehow, in all his wildest dreams—in every best-case scenario and worst-case scenario he dreamt up—he never thought of this one, where Seokjin laughs in his face and thinks that this is all one elaborate joke.