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Jin’s apartment smelled of grilled meat and clinking glasses, of laughter tangled with nostalgia. The table was scattered with too much food and not enough space, shoulders bumping as memories spilled out one after another. Ten years collapsed into a single night—their first dorm dinners, first concerts, the reckless youth they had once been.
Jungkook laughed where he was supposed to, nodded when stories demanded him, but his gaze kept slipping. To where Taehyung sat, golden under the warm light, head tipped back in laughter that folded him into himself. Jungkook wondered if he’d ever stop memorizing the curve of Taehyung’s smile, the tilt of his voice.
It had dulled, over the years—the sharp edges of pain. Time had taken the raw wound and covered it in a thin layer of skin. But beneath it, the ache still pulsed. They were friends again, of a sort. Members always, companions on stage, co-conspirators in music. The intimacy of old had not returned, but neither had silence. They lived in the in-between, and maybe that was all Jungkook could ask for.
Tonight, they wrote notes for each other. A game Jin had suggested—small memories, words of encouragement for enlistment, little keepsakes for the years ahead. Everyone laughed at the ridiculous things scribbled down, teased one another for handwriting and secrets revealed.
Jungkook unfolded the paper Taehyung had written for him. The words were simple, messy scrawl in the familiar slope of his hand: “Remember when you tripped on stage in Busan and still tried to pose like it was part of the choreography? I nearly died holding in my laugh. Don’t trip in the army, okay? They won’t find it funny.”
It was silly, playful, pure Taehyung. Jungkook’s chest tightened.
When no one was watching, he slid the note into his wallet. A motion practiced, automatic. He thought it went unseen. But when he glanced up, Taehyung’s gaze was already on him. Not sharp, not soft—simply watching, as though he had expected it.
Later, Jungkook retreated to the kitchen for another glass of whiskey. His hands shook as he poured, as though the note in his pocket had weight.
Taehyung followed. His voice was quiet, deliberate. “Why do you keep doing that?”
Jungkook stiffened. “Doing what?”
Taehyung stepped closer, his expression unreadable. “The notes. The postcards. Sketches I left behind. Over the years, Jungkook. Always mine.”
The ice clinked in Jungkook’s glass, his hand trembling. His throat tightened. “…Sorry.”
“What will you do with it?”
Jungkook’s eyes stayed on the amber swirl in his glass. His voice came out small, breaking against his teeth. “Keep it. In my wallet. Through the military.”
For a heartbeat, there was silence. Taehyung’s face was unreadable, his eyes reflecting too much. Then he nodded once, almost imperceptibly, and returned to the table.
That night, Jungkook lay awake, the note open beside him on the sheets. His phone buzzed.
Lunch tomorrow? If you’re free.
Taehyung.
His pulse raced. He typed back, hands trembling: Yes.
The restaurant was quiet, dim-lit. They chose a corner table. Jungkook sat across from Taehyung, his hands folded too tightly in his lap, his chest a battlefield of nerves.
The waiter came. Jungkook fumbled for the menu, but Taehyung didn’t look at it. He ordered Jungkook’s favorite dish, the same way he used to. Jungkook froze, his breath catching. All these years, and he still remembered.
They ate in silence. Jungkook forced food past the knot in his throat, but the taste was nothing. His eyes kept darting up, catching on Taehyung’s face, then darting back down.
Finally, Taehyung set his chopsticks aside. His voice was quiet, steady, almost too casual. “Even after all these years?”
Jungkook blinked, his heart stumbling. “What?”
Taehyung’s gaze held his, unflinching. “Even after all these years… still?”
The words cut through him. Jungkook swallowed hard, his voice raw. “Always.”
Taehyung’s expression shifted, faint but there—something like sorrow, something like recognition. He leaned back, arms folding loosely. “I haven’t been a saint these years.”
Jungkook’s lips parted, but no words came.
“I’ve been in many relationships.” Taehyung’s voice was calm, but there was a faint thread of weariness in it.
Jungkook forced the words out: “I know.”
Taehyung’s gaze flickered, sharp. “You too. Casual ones.”
“Yes.” Jungkook’s chest ached. “But it wasn’t love.”
Taehyung tilted his head. “No. It wasn’t.” He was quiet a long moment, then added, softer: “For me either.”
Silence pressed down on them. Jungkook’s shame spilled over; he couldn’t look up, couldn’t bear the weight of the memory between them. The lipstick-stained shirt, Taehyung’s broken eyes.
Taehyung’s voice cut through again, low, deliberate. “Do you understand, Jungkook? What you did?”
Jungkook’s head snapped up, anguish flashing. “Every day.” His voice cracked. “I understand it every single day I wake up. I ruined the only thing that ever mattered. I’ll never forgive myself. I don’t expect you to.”
Taehyung’s jaw tightened, but his gaze didn’t waver. “Good. Don’t ever forget.”
The words stung, but there was no cruelty in them. Only truth.
Silence stretched. Then Taehyung asked, so softly Jungkook almost thought he imagined it: “Are you ready to wait? Two years. Maybe more.”
Jungkook’s breath caught. His heart stuttered violently. “Wait?” His voice was hoarse, disbelieving.
Taehyung’s eyes softened, just barely. “I’m not promising anything. But if you’re the same when we come back… if I’m the same…” He trailed off, shaking his head, as though afraid of giving words too much power. “Then maybe.”
Jungkook’s throat closed. His vision blurred. He nodded, fiercely, desperately. “Forever. I’ll wait forever.”
For the first time that night, Taehyung’s lips curved—not a smile, not quite, but something gentler than anything Jungkook had seen in years.
Jungkook excused himself to the washroom, his steps unsteady with nerves he couldn’t name. By the time he returned, Taehyung was sipping the last of his water, gaze distant, lips curved in that faint unreadable line he always wore when he was hiding something.
The table had been cleared except for the receipt, turned face-down beneath Taehyung’s empty glass.
Jungkook reached for it absently, intending to tuck it aside, but froze when he saw the familiar loop of handwriting scrawled across the back.
His chest tightened. His hands went cold.
"I don’t know if trust grows back. But if you’re still waiting in two years… I’ll try."
The words blurred as his eyes filled. It wasn’t forgiveness. It wasn’t even a promise. But it was something he’d stopped believing he would ever receive: a thread, delicate and frayed, still reaching for him after all these years.
Jungkook swallowed hard, but the lump in his throat refused to move. His thumb pressed against the ink, almost reverent, as though the letters themselves could disappear if he wasn’t careful.
He looked up.
Taehyung was watching him, not directly—his eyes were soft, fixed somewhere just beyond Jungkook’s shoulder. But there was the faintest quirk to his lips, a gentleness so achingly familiar it almost undid him.
“Taehyung…” Jungkook’s voice cracked, low and raw.
Taehyung didn’t answer. He only smiled, small and fragile, before pushing back his chair.
They walked out together, shoulder to shoulder but not touching, the night air cool against Jungkook’s damp lashes. At the curb, they stopped.
“Bye, Koo,” Taehyung said softly, the old nickname slipping out like it had never left his lips at all.
Jungkook froze. The word cracked something inside him open — tender, aching, too much.
He managed, barely, “Bye,” his voice breaking around the single syllable.
Taehyung turned away first, disappearing into the quiet of the street.
Jungkook stood there for a long time, the note burning in his palm before he finally, carefully, folded it and slipped it into his wallet. He pressed the leather shut, as if sealing a vow.
It wasn’t a love song. Not yet.
But for the first time in years, it wasn’t a requiem either.