Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Jungkook hadn’t planned on staying long.

It was just a gallery opening, a favor to Namjoon, who helped organize it. He was supposed to drop in, nod politely at the art, smile for a few photos, and leave before anyone tried to start a conversation deeper than “what are you working on next?”

But then he saw his name.

Kim Taehyung
“Between Silence and Light” – A solo exhibit.

And suddenly, Jungkook couldn't breathe.

Three years.
It had been three years since he last saw Taehyung.

Since the night they ended things with too many unsaid words and not enough closure. No fights. No accusations. Just distance. Work. Missed calls. And finally, silence.

Jungkook stared at the name on the wall until someone nudged past him, murmuring an apology. He blinked, realizing he’d been standing still for too long.

He should leave.
He knew he should leave.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he walked deeper into the room, surrounded by frames of soft light and shadow… Taehyung’s signature. The photos felt like poems he wasn’t ready to read. A couple lingered near a piece titled “Stillness,” whispering something about how intimate it looked.

Jungkook looked.

It was a photo of a man’s back, tattoos half-hidden by the soft morning light, hair tousled, a hand barely visible at the edge of the frame.

His hand.

His breath caught.

He almost turned to leave… almost, but then he heard it.

That voice.

Low. Gentle. Like a song he used to fall asleep to.

“Jungkook?”

He turned around.

And there he was.

Taehyung stood just a few steps away, dressed in black with a simple silver ring on his hand, his hair pushed back like it used to be when he got nervous. He looked taller somehow. Sharper. But his eyes were still soft.

Jungkook swallowed. “Hey.”

Taehyung smiled. “I didn’t know you’d be here.”

“Didn’t know you’d be showing,” Jungkook replied, voice tighter than he intended.

A pause.

“You look good,” Taehyung said, quiet but warm.

Jungkook smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “You too.”

And he meant it. Taehyung looked stunning. Peaceful. Like he belonged here, among beauty and quiet and slow conversations.

Not with someone like Jungkook, rushed, restless, never knowing how to stay.

They made small talk. Safe, distant. Taehyung asked about his music. Jungkook asked about the exhibit. Neither mentioned the nights they fell asleep tangled in each other. Neither said the word sorry. Or still. Or missed.

Eventually, Taehyung’s assistant pulled him away to meet someone.

“Congrats, Taehyung,” Jungkook said, forcing a smile. “You really made it.”

Taehyung smiled back, smaller this time. “Thanks. I’m glad you came.”

And then he walked away.

—

That night, Jungkook didn’t sleep.

He thought about Taehyung’s smile. About the way he said I’m glad you came, like Jungkook hadn’t once shattered him. Like the past didn’t still sit between them.

He hated it.

He hated that Taehyung looked okay.
He hated that he didn’t know if he actually was.

So he wrote something.

Folded it into a note.

And the next morning, he sent a single flower to the gallery.

No sender name.

Just a piece of paper tucked into the stem.

“Don’t you smile at me and act like nothing’s wrong.
Don’t you say you’ve missed me if you don’t mean it.”

—

Jungkook didn’t expect a reply.

He sent the flower on impulse. Folded the note like a confession he was too cowardly to say out loud. Part of him hoped Taehyung would ignore it. The other part… the selfish one… wanted him to understand. To feel it too.

A week passed.

Then another.

No text. No call. Nothing.

Jungkook tried to drown himself in work, but everything felt off. The melodies sounded hollow. Lyrics felt fake. Even his voice, usually his safe place, sounded too thin. Like it didn’t belong to him anymore.

He stopped opening social media. Every time he saw a glimpse of Taehyung, at an event, smiling in someone else’s post… it felt like pressing on a bruise that wouldn’t fade.

Then, one rainy Tuesday, he found it.

A small box sitting on the floor of his studio lobby. No label. No sender.

Just his name.

Inside:
An old camera roll. One they’d shot years ago on a trip to Busan, when everything still felt easy. There were probably hundreds of photos from that day, most of them blurred, silly, filled with laughter and sun.

Beneath it, a second roll.

Unused.

Labeled in Taehyung’s handwriting:

“What if we try again?”

—

Chapter Text

“What if we try again?”

Jungkook stared at the film for a long time. His heart stuttered once, then again. He held the roll like it might disappear if he breathed too hard.

He didn’t text.

He didn’t call.

He just showed up.

—

The Han River. Midnight.

The city slept under a curtain of fog. Jungkook sat on their old bench. The one near the tall reeds, hands tucked into the sleeves of his hoodie, heart threatening to knock itself loose.

He almost thought Taehyung wouldn’t come.

Then he saw him.

Taehyung moved through the mist like a memory, all in beige, soft and slow. No umbrella. Drops of rain in his hair. His camera bag slung over one shoulder, just like always.

He sat beside Jungkook without saying a word.

Minutes passed.
Only the sound of water and silence.

Then…

“I wasn’t okay,” Taehyung whispered.

Jungkook turned to him.

“You looked…”
“I wasn’t,” he said again, more firmly. “I smiled because I didn’t know what else to do. You were right in front of me and it felt like if I blinked, I’d fall apart.”

Jungkook blinked now. And he did fall apart, just a little.

“I missed you,” he said, voice low. “Every day.”

Taehyung didn’t respond right away.

Instead, he reached into his pocket, pulled out a small black-and-white photo. It was one Jungkook didn’t remember being taken. Him asleep, curled into the corner of a couch, Taehyung’s sweater draped over him.

“You looked peaceful,” Taehyung said. “That night, I think I realized I loved you more than I could handle.”

Jungkook’s throat tightened. “Then why’d we stop?”

Taehyung finally looked at him, really looked.

“Because we got tired. Of waiting. Of pretending timing didn’t matter. But I never stopped loving you.”

Something broke open inside Jungkook then.

He didn’t say anything.

Just reached out and touched Taehyung’s hand. Their fingers linked automatically, like they remembered the path back before their hearts did.

And for the first time in years, Jungkook felt like he could breathe again.

—

Three months later.

Taehyung stood behind the camera, headphones slung around his neck, hands adjusting the lens like he was sculpting light itself.

“Ready?” he asked softly.

Jungkook nodded, already under the spotlight, hair tousled, black tee clinging to his frame. There was something different in his eyes now lighter, freer. Not fully healed, but healing. And maybe that was enough.

The song was personal. Too personal.

He hadn’t even planned to release it.

But Taehyung had heard the demo by accident, left playing on his laptop one rainy night when Jungkook had stepped away to take a call. By the time he returned, Taehyung was just sitting there, headphones on, eyes glassy.

“You wrote this… about us?”

Jungkook didn’t lie. “Yeah.”

And Taehyung had only said five words: “Then let me film it.”

So here they were.

The studio was stripped bare… no extras, no big production. Just natural light. Shadows. Honesty. The way Taehyung saw the world through his lens.

As the track played, Jungkook sang live. No playback. Just raw vocals and heart.

“I don't have to pretend I’m over it,
When you’re standing right there and I’m losing it…”

The camera rolled.

Taehyung didn’t give him direction. Didn’t need to.

Because every glance, every half-smile, every crack in Jungkook’s voice, it was real.

It was the direction.

Midway through the shoot, Jungkook’s voice caught.

A beat of silence.

He laughed softly, shook his head. “Sorry.”

Taehyung lowered the camera slowly. “You okay?”

Jungkook looked at him.

Eyes tired, but soft. “I just… it’s hard to sing about missing you when you’re finally here.”

Taehyung walked over, the camera still running.

He stood close… closer than he had in years.

“You’re not gonna lose me again,” he said, voice low.

Jungkook reached out, fingertips brushing Taehyung’s wrist.

“Promise?”

Taehyung leaned in, pressed his forehead to Jungkook’s. “Cross my heart.”

—

A week later.

The video dropped at midnight.

No promo. No teasers.

Just a caption:

“Some things find their way back.” – JK

The final frame?

Jungkook mid-laugh, eyes crinkled, looking off-camera.
And just barely, you can hear a voice… warm, familiar… say:

"Don’t you dare leave again.”

And Jungkook smiles. Soft. Certain. Home.

“Never.”

—

The first thing Jungkook registers is the weight beside him.

A steady warmth. A soft exhale. A hand tangled in his own.

He blinks against the early morning light spilling through half-closed blinds and turns his head slightly.

Taehyung.

Still asleep, hair a mess, lips slightly parted, one arm draped across Jungkook’s chest like he never wants to let go. He’s wearing Jungkook’s shirt, too big, slouching off one shoulder and his skin is warm where it touches.

Jungkook doesn’t move.

Doesn’t want to.

He just lies there, watching the sun dance across Taehyung’s cheekbones, thinking that nothing… not awards, not tours, not even the perfect take has ever felt this right.

Eventually, Taehyung stirs.

Eyes blink open, slow and lazy. “Morning.”

Jungkook hums. “Barely.”

Taehyung stretches, groans softly, then snuggles back into his side. “I had a dream we lived in the woods and raised ducks.”

Jungkook laughs, his voice still scratchy. “Was I any good with the ducks?”

“You kept naming them after your favorite anime characters.”

“…sounds right.”

A beat of silence. Then Taehyung whispers, more awake now:

“Thanks for coming back to me.”

Jungkook looks down at him. At the boy he let go, and the man he got back.

He presses a kiss to Taehyung’s forehead. “Thanks for waiting.”

They stay there, limbs tangled, phones ignored, the world outside irrelevant. The coffee can wait. The deadlines can wait. The only thing that matters is this moment… quiet, slow, golden.

And the fact that this time, they’re not going anywhere.