Work Text:
It always starts the same way.
A clip from some variety show goes viral again. A fan edits it into a compilation — “Seokjin raising Jeon Jeongguk for 3 minutes straight.” The title is silly, playful, endearing. The thumbnail shows a 19-year-old Seokjin wrapping a towel around a boy half his size, grinning like a proud father. The comments overflow with affection.
> “Jin hyung really raised him omg 🥺”
> “He was the MOM of the group fr!!”
> “From baby Jungkook to sexy Jungkook 😳 Seokjin really made a man outta him”
And Seokjin always smiles when he sees them. Because it’s true, isn’t it?
He did raise him.
Back then, Jeongguk was barely fifteen, fresh from Busan and homesick enough to cry when no one was looking. The youngest one — scrawny and shy and terrified of doing anything wrong. He’d cling to Seokjin in hallways, eyes wide, asking how to tie a tie properly or if it was okay to wash whites and colors together. He followed him like a shadow during rehearsals, mimicking his footsteps, his inflections, even his laugh.
And Seokjin — well. Seokjin loved it. He loved being needed.
He'd sneak Jeongguk extra meat when they ate. He'd sit beside him at night and sing softly if the kid couldn’t sleep. He kept an extra packet of tissues in his bag just in case Jeongguk’s allergies flared up or his nerves spilled over in the form of tears he pretended didn’t exist.
He watched Jeongguk grow up, piece by piece. Voice cracking. Shoulders broadening. Baby fat dissolving into sharp cheekbones and a jaw that could cut glass. Tattoos started creeping along his arms like poetry inked in skin, bold and unapologetic. His eyes changed too — no longer wide and searching, but narrowed with something harder, something heavy. Manhood, maybe.
Seokjin told himself it was natural. That growing up meant growing apart. That independence was good, that Jeongguk not needing him was a success in its own right.
Still — the first time Jeongguk forgot to wish him happy birthday on time, something cracked deep in his chest. A thin, fragile sound only he could hear.
—
The ache isn’t constant. Not really. It comes in waves.
Like the moment Jeongguk buys a new car and doesn’t show it to him first.
Like when he comes back from a tattoo appointment, and the sleeve’s grown longer, but Seokjin never got to ask what it meant.
Or when the group goes out drinking together and Jeongguk laughs with the others — laughs with Jimin, laughs with Taehyung — but doesn’t sit next to him. Doesn’t look his way until Seokjin is halfway through his second drink, pretending not to notice.
Jeongguk isn’t cruel. He’s not distant on purpose. But there’s something unspoken hanging between them now. Something jagged.
Sometimes, Seokjin thinks it’s just time. The passing of it. The erosion of closeness in the face of adulthood and solo projects and media scrutiny.
Other times, he wonders if it’s punishment. For being too soft. Too doting. For loving a version of Jeongguk that doesn’t exist anymore.
—
He still remembers the last time Jeongguk held his hand.
It wasn’t staged. It wasn’t on camera. They were in Japan, post-concert, exhausted and drunk on adrenaline. Jeongguk had been quiet that day — eyes dim, smile forced. The others were asleep in the van. Seokjin was half-dozing when he felt fingers slide between his.
Warm. Shaky. Desperate.
He didn’t say anything. Just squeezed back, gentle, like reassurance could be passed through skin.
That was two years ago. Since then, there have been other kinds of touches — professional, fleeting, meaningless. But never that kind of closeness again. Not really.
Now, Jeongguk keeps his distance even when he’s beside him. And Seokjin tells himself he understands.
Because that’s what adults do. That’s what hyungs do. They let their babies grow up and walk away and pretend they’re not quietly bleeding from it.
—
Sometimes, late at night, Seokjin goes to the kitchen for water and finds himself staring at the group photos on the fridge.
One of them is from their first year — baby Jeongguk standing next to him, head tilted like he’s listening to something Seokjin just said. His eyes are full of light. Of wonder. Like he’d believe anything Seokjin told him.
You’ll be amazing.
You’ll do great.
I’ve got you, always.
Seokjin touches the corner of the photo with two fingers, just for a moment. Then he turns off the light and goes back to bed.
Alone.
—
The calls started six months ago.
At first, Seokjin thought they were emergencies. The phone buzzing violently at 2:14 AM, Jeongguk’s name lighting up the screen — it had his heart sprinting out of sleep like he was twenty again.
But it wasn’t emergencies. It was drunkenness.
At first, it was just slurred giggles. Jeongguk saying nonsense — “Hyungggg, you were so funny today, remember? The thing you said to Yoongi-hyung about the soup. I laughed for like five minutes. You’re the funniest, hyung, really.”
Seokjin would smile, groggy, amused. He’d tell him to get water. To sleep. He’d wait on the line until he heard breathing even out.
Then it started getting heavier.
Crying. Whole sobbing breakdowns. Jeongguk whispering that he was tired, that he felt like a fraud, that he missed when things were simple. That he wished he could go back. That he didn’t know who he was anymore.
The first time Jeongguk said I love you, Seokjin froze.
It wasn’t romantic. It wasn’t not, either. It was raw. Shaky. Like a wound pressed open. And Seokjin knew better than to ask.
But he whispered it back. Because it felt like Jeongguk needed to hear it. Because he wanted to say it.
Even if Jeongguk never mentioned it the next morning.
Now, it’s become a pattern.
Silence by day. Distance in rehearsals. Then:
A voicemail at 1:49 AM.
A call at 2:27 AM.
Another drunken voice that slurs out his name like it’s a prayer: “Hyung… hyung, are you awake?”
Seokjin tells himself not to answer.
He answers anyway.
Because deep down, he craves it — the moment Jeongguk seeks him out, even if it’s only when he’s wrecked and vulnerable and no one else is listening.
Because he still wants to be the one Jeongguk calls when the dark gets too loud.
Even if he doesn’t remember it in the morning.
---
2:07 AM.
The phone buzzes on Seokjin’s nightstand, rattling against his keys. The screen flashes, bleeding cold white light into the room.
JEON JEONGGUK
Calling…
He answers before the second ring.
“Jeongguk?”
Nothing at first. Just breath. Ragged, shallow, too fast. Then a hiccup. And a whimper.
“Hyung…”
Seokjin sits up in bed. His chest tightens.
“Where are you?” he asks immediately, voice low, even. “Are you home?”
A sniffle. Then, “No…”
There’s the dull thud of something — maybe a door closing, maybe a fist hitting a steering wheel. A muffled curse. Jeongguk sounds wrecked. His words slur into each other, as if they’re melting.
“I miss you,” he murmurs, like it’s the worst thing in the world. “You don’t talk to me anymore.”
Seokjin swings his legs over the bed, already pulling on the hoodie that still smells faintly of detergent. “I talk to you every day,” he says, but it’s not a correction, not really. He knows what Jeongguk means.
“Not like before,” Jeongguk slurs. “Not—like when I was younger. You used to care. You used to… hold me.”
Seokjin stops short. His breath hitches.
“Where are you?” he asks again. His voice sharpens. “I need you to tell me, Gguk. Right now.”
Jeongguk hesitates. Then he mutters something about the Han River, a convenience store, a hotel down the road. There’s no coherence, but Seokjin knows the area. It’s where they used to go when they needed to disappear for a while.
Fifteen minutes later, Seokjin is in the car, one hand clenching the steering wheel, the other holding his phone like a lifeline.
The ache is back, throbbing behind his ribs.
---
He finds Jeongguk hunched beside his parked car in a dim lot behind the hotel, hoodie pulled low, knuckles red like he’s been hitting something that wouldn’t hit back.
He looks small.
“Jesus Christ,” Seokjin breathes.
When Jeongguk sees him, he immediately pushes off the wall and stumbles forward — not walking, falling. Seokjin catches him halfway, arms wrapping tight around him.
“You came,” Jeongguk whispers, face pressing into Seokjin’s shoulder. He smells like smoke and cheap soju.
“Of course I came,” Seokjin says, jaw clenched. “You called me crying at two in the morning, what the fuck else was I supposed to do?”
Jeongguk only sobs harder.
---
They sit in Seokjin’s car after that. The heater’s on, warm air fogging the windows. Jeongguk leans against the door, his eyes unfocused, his expression cracked open.
“I fucked everything up,” he says suddenly. “The shoot today. My lines. I kept messing them up. They were mad. I saw it. No one said anything but I saw it.”
Seokjin exhales slowly, trying to keep his hands from shaking.
“They weren’t mad, Gguk. They’re tired. You’re tired. You’ve been running yourself into the ground—”
“I can’t sleep,” Jeongguk interrupts. “If I sleep, I wake up and everything’s still wrong. I don’t even know who I am anymore, hyung. I don’t know who—who I’m supposed to be. Everyone thinks I’m fine but I’m not. I’m not.”
Seokjin closes his eyes. The words don’t surprise him — not really. It’s not the first time Jeongguk’s said this.
But it still hurts.
Because tomorrow, Jeongguk won’t remember.
He never does.
---
Flashback, three weeks ago:
Jeongguk calls at 1:41 AM. He’s already crying when Seokjin picks up. “I can’t stop thinking. Everything’s so loud. Can I come over?”
He arrives twenty minutes later, reeking of whiskey and regret. He curls up on Seokjin’s couch like a child, then leans his head on Seokjin’s thigh and mumbles, “You’re the only place I feel safe.”
Seokjin strokes his hair until he falls asleep. He doesn’t say a word the next morning.
Jeongguk acts like it never happened.
---
Another time:
Jeongguk is giggly, loose-limbed, eyes shiny with drink. He calls from the studio, 2:53 AM. “Hyung, you’re so pretty. You know that? I used to have the biggest crush on you.”
Seokjin’s breath catches. He laughs, tries to keep it light. “Used to?”
Jeongguk hums. “Still do, maybe. Who knows?” Then he giggles and says he’s going to write a song about Seokjin’s shoulders.
The next day, he sends a photo of a protein shake and says nothing about the call.
---
Tonight, Jeongguk cries harder than usual. He leans into Seokjin’s shoulder, hot tears soaking through cotton.
“I just want to go back,” he whispers. “Back to when everything was simple. When you made me breakfast and told me I was doing okay. You don’t do that anymore.”
“Because you said you didn’t want me to,” Seokjin says before he can stop himself. His voice cracks. “You said I was hovering too much. You said I needed to let go.”
Jeongguk sniffles. “I didn’t mean it…”
“You don’t remember meaning anything,” Seokjin snaps. It’s sharp, bitter. “You never remember.”
That silences the car.
Seokjin sighs, rubs a hand over his face. “Fuck. Sorry. I didn’t mean—”
Jeongguk lifts his head, eyes bleary. “What don’t I remember?”
Seokjin looks at him.
At the boy who isn’t a boy anymore.
At the man he still loves like he’s fifteen and crying in his bed, asking if it’s okay to be scared.
Seokjin swallows. His voice is barely audible.
“You only say these things when you’re drunk, Gguk. That you miss me. That you care. That you…” he exhales sharply, blinking fast. “I only get to hold you when you don’t remember.”
That breaks something open.
Jeongguk stares at him — stunned, maybe. Or wounded. Or just confused, too fogged in to understand the weight of what was just said.
Then he does the only thing he ever does when he’s drunk and emotional and doesn’t have the words: he reaches for Seokjin.
Wraps his arms around him.
Clings like it’s all he knows how to do.
And Seokjin lets him. Because he’s never been strong enough not to.
---
After Jeongguk falls asleep in the passenger seat, cheek pressed to the window, Seokjin watches him for a long time.
In sleep, he looks young again.
Peaceful. Quiet. Not haunted.
Seokjin doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe too loudly. Just watches. The kind of watching that feels like prayer.
And when he finally starts the car again, the ache in his chest is worse than ever.
Because he knows, without a shadow of a doubt—
Come morning, none of this will exist.
---
The first time Seokjin lets Jeongguk’s call go to voicemail, he sits on the edge of his bed for a full five minutes, watching the phone buzz across the mattress like it’s burning a hole through the sheets.
He tells himself it’s not punishment.
He just… can’t do it anymore.
The way Jeongguk’s voice breaks. The way he begs — for what, Seokjin’s never quite sure. Forgiveness? Attention? Touch? The cruelest part is that none of it ever lasts. None of it means anything. Come morning, Jeongguk forgets, and Seokjin is left picking up pieces that were never his to begin with.
So he lets it ring.
Then again, the next night.
By the third call, he’s crying into his pillow, angry at the silence, angry at himself for needing any of it.
---
Jeongguk starts to notice.
It’s in the way he lingers less backstage, the way he doesn’t seek Seokjin’s gaze when the cameras stop rolling. They pass each other in the hallway like strangers now — too polite, too careful. At dinner, he speaks with Namjoon instead. Laughs too loud when Hoseok says something half-funny. Ignores the way Seokjin watches him with tight lips and restless fingers.
The rest of the group feels it. The shift in temperature. Jimin asks once, “You guys good?”, to which Seokjin only shrugs and says, “He’s busy. We’re all busy.”
But it’s a lie, and everyone knows it.
---
There’s a moment — brief, unremarkable — when they brush shoulders during rehearsal. It should mean nothing.
But Jeongguk flinches.
Like being close to Seokjin hurts now.
That’s when Seokjin knows: the silence has started to rot between them.
And it’s only getting worse.
---
The gathering is Namjoon’s idea.
A quiet celebration post-concert. Just the seven of them. Beer, late takeout, low music, limbs heavy with exhaustion but spirits still buzzing. For a while, it feels almost normal.
Jeongguk sits across the room, sprawled on the floor, beer dangling from two fingers, tattoos gleaming under the soft light.
He’s flushed. Smiling too much. Talking too loud. Tipsy already.
Seokjin keeps his distance.
But his eyes stray.
Always, always to Jeongguk.
---
Halfway through the night, Jeongguk drifts closer.
“Hyung,” he says, suddenly at Seokjin’s side, voice thick with drink and something sharper.
Seokjin stiffens. “Yeah?”
Jeongguk crouches beside him, sets his beer on the coffee table. His hand finds Seokjin’s wrist — fingers brushing lightly, then lingering. Too long to be casual.
“You never call me anymore,” Jeongguk murmurs. It’s almost a pout, almost a threat. “You don’t care, do you?”
Seokjin blinks. His heart doesn’t just race — it drops. Like gravity reversed.
He pulls his hand away, too fast.
“Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“That,” Seokjin snaps, gesturing vaguely between them. “Whatever you think this is. You only touch me when there’s alcohol in your system. You only see me when you’re gone.”
Jeongguk frowns, sits back on his heels. “That’s not true.”
“Isn’t it?”
Silence folds between them. No one else notices — the others are busy arguing about who should do dishes. But here, in this corner of the room, it’s just them. Just jagged edges and tension like wire pulled too tight.
Jeongguk leans in again, voice lower now. “Don’t act like you don’t know what you’re doing.”
That does it.
Seokjin stands, chair legs scraping against the floor. “I’m going to get some air.”
He walks out before he can say anything he’ll regret. Before the heat in his chest boils over and scalds them both.
---
Later that night, Jeongguk knocks on Seokjin’s door.
He doesn’t wait for permission — just walks in, hair a mess, hoodie half-zipped.
“You mad?”
Seokjin doesn’t look up from the blanket he’s folding. “I’m tired.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
“Then don’t ask questions you don’t want honest answers to.”
Jeongguk pauses. Then: “I just don’t get why you’re suddenly cold. You used to drop everything for me. One call, and you’d be there. What changed?”
Seokjin meets his eyes.
His voice is quiet. Flat.
“You did.”
Jeongguk scoffs, turns toward the door. “Forget it.”
Seokjin’s voice follows him out.
“Don’t you dare put this on me, Jeongguk.”
And the door clicks shut before it turns into something worse.
---
The worst part isn’t the anger. Or the silence.
It’s that Seokjin still checks his phone every hour.
Still waits for that call.
Still aches when it doesn’t come.
Because this was never about punishment.
It was about survival.
And right now, neither of them is doing a very good job at it.
---
The knock is quiet. Hesitant.
It comes long after the others have gone to bed — sometime past 2AM. Seokjin is sitting at the edge of his bed, still in the hoodie he never changed out of after the gathering. He doesn’t answer right away.
Another knock. Then the creak of the door easing open.
Jeongguk stands there, face half-shadowed, hoodie sleeves pulled over his hands like he’s younger again — like he's still that fifteen-year-old who used to sleep curled at Seokjin’s feet during cold practice nights.
But he’s not fifteen anymore.
He’s inked, tired, drunk — and Seokjin feels the ache pulse in his ribs the second their eyes meet.
“Hyung,” Jeongguk whispers. “Can I come in?”
Seokjin nods, but doesn’t speak.
Jeongguk closes the door behind him and stands awkwardly, swaying just a little. There’s a fresh scratch on his knuckle. A bandage half-hanging off one hand. His eyes are red-rimmed.
“You drunk again?” Seokjin finally says.
“Little bit,” Jeongguk mutters, sitting down at the far edge of the bed. “Not bad. Just enough to say shit I shouldn’t.”
“Like always,” Seokjin murmurs.
Jeongguk doesn’t argue.
There’s a stretch of silence so taut it hums.
Then Seokjin sighs, “Why are you drinking so much, Gguk?”
Jeongguk doesn’t answer.
“What are you trying to forget?”
Still nothing.
Seokjin turns toward him, jaw tight. “Is it me?”
That lands.
Jeongguk’s head snaps up. “What?”
“You come to me every time you’re too gone to think. Crying, slurring, begging. Then in the morning you pretend nothing happened. That I’m nothing. So tell me—” Seokjin’s voice cracks, fingers curling around the bedsheet, “—what is it you’re trying to drown?”
Jeongguk’s face twists. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?” Seokjin snaps, voice louder now. “Ask questions you don’t have the guts to answer?”
Jeongguk stands abruptly, pacing the small room. His voice rises — not a yell, but close. “I’m not pretending. I’m trying to survive!”
Seokjin stands too. “By drinking yourself numb?”
Jeongguk whirls. “You think I want to need you like this?”
That stops Seokjin cold.
Jeongguk’s breathing hard, hands clenched. His voice drops, hoarse and trembling.
“You made me into someone who doesn’t need you anymore. You were proud of that, remember? All the interviews. ‘I raised him. He’s strong now.’” His laugh is bitter. “So why does it feel like I’m bleeding every time you look at me like a stranger?”
Seokjin can’t breathe.
“I never wanted you to need me,” he says, voice trembling. “I just wanted you to… want me around. Not just when you’re broken.”
Jeongguk closes the space between them in two staggering steps. “I do want you.”
“Then why do you only say it when there’s alcohol in your system?” Seokjin asks, eyes brimming. “You say you love me. But you only ever mean it when your memory won’t hold onto it.”
Jeongguk’s face twists, pain raw and childlike. “I remember enough.”
“You don’t.” Seokjin shakes his head. “You remember fragments. Slurred confessions. Hands that hold on too tight. You don’t remember the part where I sit with you till you fall asleep in your car. Where I wipe your tears. Where I lie awake all night wondering if this time, you meant it.”
“I do mean it,” Jeongguk says fiercely, almost a growl. “I just don’t know how to say it when I’m sober.”
That’s the breaking point.
Seokjin exhales like something inside him has shattered. He backs up, hand over his mouth like he’s trying to hold it in, but it comes anyway — a sharp, ugly sob.
Jeongguk stares.
Seokjin cries like he never has before — shoulders shaking, face wet, voice cracking on each breath like glass underfoot.
“I only get to hold you when you don’t remember,” he chokes. “That’s all I get. That’s all you give me.”
Jeongguk moves toward him, panicked. “Hyung, please—”
Seokjin pulls away. “Don’t. Don’t touch me just because you’re scared of the guilt. I’m not a soft place to land when your regrets catch up to you.”
“I love you,” Jeongguk whispers, voice desperate.
“No,” Seokjin says, still crying, broken and trembling, “you love the version of me that shows up at 2AM. That cleans up your messes. You don’t love me when I’m here. When I’m just… me.”
Jeongguk falls silent.
The night stretches between them.
Broken.
Empty.
Jeongguk stares at him — stunned, swaying, barely breathing.
He doesn’t know what to say.
And Seokjin walks past him, slow and shaking, into the hallway.
The door doesn’t slam. It just shuts.
Quiet. Final.
And Jeongguk is left in the silence — not quite drunk anymore, not quite sober — but completely, utterly alone.
---
Jeongguk wakes with a throbbing headache and the weight of something heavier than any hangover pressing against his ribs.
The room is dim. Too quiet.
For a long time, he just stares at the ceiling, blinking through the haze. Bits of last night come back in fragments: Seokjin’s voice, ragged and shaking. The way his own words slurred, tumbling out too fast to catch. The sound of the door shutting—not slammed, just… gone.
He rubs his hands over his face.
Down the hall, someone moves. Light footsteps. The kettle clicks on in the kitchen.
He gets up.
His head pounds, but not as hard as his heart.
---
Seokjin doesn’t look surprised when Jeongguk walks in. Just tired.
He’s leaning against the counter, cradling a mug between his hands. He doesn’t offer Jeongguk one. Doesn’t speak first.
Jeongguk clears his throat. “Morning.”
Seokjin nods.
The silence stretches. Not angry—just taut, like a frayed rope held at both ends.
“I…” Jeongguk starts, then falters. “Did I—was it bad?”
Seokjin finally meets his eyes.
“It was honest,” he says quietly. “That’s what made it worse.”
Jeongguk swallows.
There’s no anger in Seokjin’s voice. No softness, either. Just calm. Measured.
“I’m not mad,” he says. “But I’m not… waiting anymore.”
Jeongguk’s chest tightens. “Hyung, I didn’t mean—”
Seokjin holds up a hand.
“I know,” he says. “You never mean to. But that’s the problem, Gguk. You only know how to fall into me when everything else burns. I can’t be your crash pad anymore.”
A pause. The mug clinks lightly as he sets it down.
“If you meant anything you said last night,” he says, voice steady, “say it when you’re sober. Then I’ll listen.”
Jeongguk feels his throat close.
Seokjin doesn’t wait for a reply. He steps past him, quiet and clean, like the end of something that took too long to admit it was over.
But before he leaves the kitchen, he stops at the doorway.
Turns just enough to look over his shoulder.
“I’ll always care about you,” he says. “But I’m done begging to be remembered.”
Then he walks away.
---
It takes hours before Jeongguk moves from that spot.
He doesn’t text. Doesn’t call.
He sits in the silence he made, piecing it together.
What he lost.
What he broke.
And somewhere—beneath the shame, beneath the ache—he feels something sharp and sober click into place.
---
Later that evening, long after the house has gone still again, he knocks on Seokjin’s door.
One soft knock.
A beat of silence.
Then the door opens.
Seokjin stands there, no expectation in his eyes. No tension, either. Just… stillness.
Jeongguk takes a breath.
Looks him straight in the eyes.
“I love you, hyung,” he says.
“And I’m sorry it took me so long to learn how to say it sober. Hyung, I...I still need you. And I think I need help."
"Then let's get you help."