Work Text:
Los Angeles greets Kim Seokjin like it always does, loud, sun-drenched, and indifferent.
The air is warmer than Seoul, thicker somehow, clinging to his skin as he steps out of the car. The city hums around him cars passing, distant chatter, the faint pulse of music leaking from somewhere unseen. It should feel familiar. He’s been here before, countless times.
But tonight, it doesn’t. Because for the first time in weeks, Yoongi is here too. And Seokjin hasn’t seen him.
Not properly. Not in the way that matters.
The RunSeokjin tour had been relentless city after city, stage lights burning into his vision, the echo of screaming fans still ringing in his ears long after the concerts ended. Every night ended the same: exhaustion settling into his bones, phone in hand, staring at Yoongi’s contact like it might somehow make up for the distance.
Sometimes they texted. Short, clipped messages.
Eat properly.
Sleep.
Don’t overwork.
Yoongi’s version of affection compressed into practicality. Seokjin had smiled at every single one. But it wasn’t the same.
It was never the same.
And now he’s here.
In the same city.
Breathing the same air.
And still
Nothing.
By the time he reaches the studio the next day, the sun has barely begun to dip.
The building is cool inside, air-conditioned to the point where it feels almost sterile. Familiar, though. Comforting in a different way than the stage.
Work mode.
That’s what this is.
Not… whatever else he’d been hoping for.
Seokjin adjusts his cap slightly as he walks down the hallway, sneakers quiet against the polished floor. There’s a faint buzz of voices ahead, low, overlapping, familiar.
The others are already here. Of course they are. He pushes the door open.
“Hyung!”
Jungkook is the first to spot him, immediately lighting up as he crosses the room in two quick strides. There’s no hesitation as he pulls Seokjin into a hug, tight and grounding.
“You’re finally here,” he says, pulling back just enough to look at him properly.
Seokjin laughs softly, warmth blooming in his chest. “I’ve been here.”
“Not here here,” Jimin cuts in, sliding into the space beside them with a grin. “We’ve been suffering without you.”
“Speak for yourself,” Taehyung mutters from the couch, though he’s smiling too, eyes soft as they land on Seokjin.
Namjoon offers a quieter greeting, a nod, a small smile that carries more weight than words.
Yoongi doesn’t say anything. Seokjin notices immediately.
He’s sitting by the console, headphones resting around his neck, one hand loosely holding a pen that taps absently against a notebook. His posture is relaxed. too relaxed, like he’s deliberately making himself smaller, less noticeable.
Like he isn’t watching. But he is. Seokjin feels it. That brief flicker of eye contact gone almost as quickly as it appears.
And then Yoongi looks back down. Like nothing happened.
Something in Seokjin’s chest tightens. It’s subtle. So subtle that anyone else might miss it. But Seokjin doesn’t. He never does.
“Long flight?” Namjoon asks, pulling Seokjin’s attention away.
“Not too bad,” Seokjin replies, though there’s a lingering fatigue in his voice that even he can hear.
“You look tired,” Hoseok says gently.
“I am tired,” Seokjin admits with a small laugh. “But I’ll survive.”
“Barely,” Jimin mutters.
“Hey—”
The room fills with easy chatter after that, the kind that comes naturally after time apart. Stories overlap, jokes land half-finished, and for a moment, it almost feels like nothing has changed. Almost.
Because every now and then, Seokjin’s gaze drifts back to the same place. Yoongi hasn’t moved much. Still at the console Still tapping that pen. Still not looking at him.
It’s strange.
Yoongi isn’t overly affectionate not in the way the others are but he’s never… distant.
Not like this. Not when they’ve been apart for weeks.
Seokjin frowns slightly. Something’s off.
“Alright, let’s get started.”
The producer’s voice cuts through the room, shifting the atmosphere instantly. Conversations die down, bodies move into position, and the familiar rhythm of work settles in.
Seokjin exhales softly. Focus. That’s what he needs. Not… whatever this is.
“Jin, we’ll start with your part,” the producer continues. “We’ll do a few takes, see what works.” Seokjin nods, already moving toward the booth.
The glass door slides shut behind him with a soft click, sealing him into a different world, one where everything is quieter, sharper, more contained.
He slips the headphones on. Adjusts the mic. Closes his eyes for just a second. And breathes.
From the other side of the glass, Yoongi finally looks up. He hadn’t meant to.
He really hadn’t.
But the moment Seokjin stepped into the booth, something in him… shifted. It’s stupid.
He knows it is.
He’s been around Seokjin’s voice for years recordings, rehearsals, late-night demos that blurred into early mornings. This isn’t new. It shouldn’t feel new.
And yet
Weeks.
It’s been weeks.
Weeks of absence, of silence where Seokjin’s voice should have been, of missing something he didn’t even realize had become routine.
And now it’s back.
Right there.
Just a pane of glass away.
Yoongi swallows. This is fine. He’s fine.
He leans back slightly in his chair, forcing his expression into something neutral. Detached. Professional. The others notice. Of course they do.
Jimin glances at him briefly, then at Namjoon. Namjoon raises an eyebrow. Taehyung’s lips twitch.
They don’t say anything.
They don’t have to.
Inside the booth, Seokjin opens his eyes.
“Ready?” comes the voice through his headphones. He nods.
“Yeah.”
There’s a brief pause. Then the track starts. Soft. Melodic.
Familiar, but still unfinished in a way that makes it feel fragile.
Seokjin adjusts his stance slightly, one hand lifting to rest lightly against the mic stand. His fingers curl around the metal absentmindedly, grounding himself in the moment.
This is easy. This is what he knows. What he’s good at. He leans in. And sings.
“I can show you love, I can show you—”
The words slip out effortlessly, voice smooth, warm, wrapping around the melody like it belongs there. There’s a softness to it, something inviting, something that lingers just a second longer than expected.
On the other side of the glass, Yoongi stops tapping his pen. Completely. His grip tightens slightly, the plastic creaking faintly under the pressure.
He doesn’t look away. Can’t. Because..
“… if you wanna know me…”
Seokjin’s voice dips just enough to make something in Yoongi’s chest pull tight.
It’s Intentional.
But there’s an edge to it, something just barely there, like a secret hidden between notes. And Yoongi, Yoongi is suddenly very aware of everything. The way Seokjin’s lips move. The slight tilt of his head.
The way his fingers tighten around the mic stand as he leans in closer.
“What can I do for you?”
Yoongi exhales slowly. This is a problem.
A serious problem. Because his thoughts
His thoughts are not where they should be.
Not even close. And the worst part? Jin has no idea.
Inside the booth, Seokjin shifts slightly, adjusting his stance as he prepares for the next line.
He doesn’t notice the way the room outside has gone quieter. Doesn’t notice the glances being exchanged. Doesn’t notice Yoongi at all.
“대체 뭐가 달랐냐고 자꾸 물어…”
His voice softens, something more vulnerable threading through the words now.
“I answer, ‘I don’t know’…”
There’s a pause.
A breath.
And when he finishes.
Seokjin blinks, pulling one side of the headphones off. “Was that okay?”
The producer nods slowly. “Yeah… yeah, that was good. Let’s do one more.”
“Okay.”
Seokjin nods, resetting himself. But as he glances through the glass his eyes land on Yoongi. Because Yoongi is looking at him now. Really looking. Expression unreadable.
Still.
Too still. And then. Just as quickly.
He looks away.
Seokjin frowns slightly. Yeah. Something’s definitely wrong. And he has no idea what it is.
Outside, Jimin leans subtly toward Namjoon.
“Hyung,” he whispers, barely holding back a grin. “He’s losing it.” Namjoon exhales quietly, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “I can see that.” Taehyung hums under his breath. “This is going to be fun.”
Yoongi hears all of it, Says nothing. Because right now he’s too busy trying to remember how to act normal and failing.
Inside the booth, Seokjin adjusts his grip on the mic again. He takes a breath. Prepares to sing. But his thoughts aren’t fully on the song anymore. They’re somewhere else.
On Yoongi. On the distance. On the way he won’t look at him. And for the first time since arriving, Seokjin feels something unfamiliar settle in his chest.
Not exhaustion but confusion. Because Yoongi is right there. Just on the other side of the glass. And somehow, He feels further away than he did on tour.
“Ready?” the producer asks again.
Seokjin nods.
“…Yeah.”
But this time when he sings there’s something different in his voice. Something even Yoongi isn’t prepared for.
Seokjin does not miss the shift. He has spent years reading people. fans in arenas, interviewers behind careful smiles, members who pretend they are fine when they are anything but. And Yoongi, for all his quietness, has never been unreadable to him. Not like this. Because this is avoidance.
Deliberate, precise, almost surgical in the way Yoongi refuses to look at him for more than a second at a time, as if even that brief moment of eye contact is something dangerous, something that needs to be cut off before it lingers too long.
Seokjin stands in the booth, one hand still wrapped around the mic stand, headphones slightly askew from where he pulled one side back earlier, and something inside him settles into place with quiet certainty.
Fine.
If Yoongi doesn’t want to look at him. Then he will make him. Not too obviously but in a way that Yoongi, of all people, will understand.
“Let’s go again from the top,” the producer says.
Seokjin nods once, slow and deliberate, before sliding the headphone properly back over his ear. His fingers brush his hair back absentmindedly, pushing it away from his forehead as he exhales, steadying himself.
He already knows the tone of the song.
He had been briefed about it long before stepping into this booth. the softness, the invitation, the quiet intimacy threaded through each line. It is meant to feel like a confession that never fully reveals itself, like something held just at the edge of being spoken.
And Seokjin? He knows exactly how to use that.
The track begins again, gentle and familiar, but this time, there is intention behind every breath he takes before the first note. On the other side of the glass, Yoongi braces himself without realizing it. He tells himself he is ready. He is lying.
“I can show you love, I can show you—”
The difference is immediate. It is not in the pitch. Not in the technique.
It is in the tone.
Seokjin’s voice softens in a way that feels almost deliberate now, the edges melting into something warmer, something closer, as if the distance between the booth and the control room has suddenly collapsed into nothing at all. As if he is not singing into a microphone but directly to someone.
Yoongi’s jaw tightens. Because he knows that tone.
He has heard it before, late at night when conversations drift into something quieter, when Seokjin’s voice drops just enough to feel personal, private, meant for him and no one else.
And now it is being poured into a song.
In front of everyone.
“If you wanna know me…”
Seokjin’s gaze lifts Through the glass. To Yoongi. There is no mistaking it this time. No ambiguity to hide behind.
His eyes settle on him with quiet precision, and even though his expression remains composed, professional, there is something underneath it a flicker of something softer, something intentional, something that lingers just a second too long to be accidental.
Yoongi freezes.
“What can I do for you?” The line lands differently now. Not as part of the song.
But as a question. The rapper feels it like a direct hit.
His grip on the pen tightens again, the plastic bending slightly under the pressure as he forces himself to stay still, to stay grounded, to not react in a way that would give anything away.
Because the others are here and this is work. Because Seokjin is looking at him like that and he cannot, under any circumstances, allow himself to respond the way he wants to.
“대체 뭐가 달랐냐고 자꾸 물어…”
Seokjin does not look away. His voice carries something softer now, something almost coaxing, like he is pulling at a thread he knows Yoongi is already barely holding together.
“I answer, ‘I don’t know’…”
The words blur at the edges for Yoongi, not because he does not understand them, but because his focus has narrowed too sharply, centered entirely on the man in the booth and the way he has decided, very deliberately, to make this personal.
The last note lingers.
Fades.
And the silence that follows is heavier this time, stretched thin with something unspoken that everyone in the room can feel but no one comments on.
Jimin does not even bother hiding his expression anymore. He leans back slightly in his chair, lips pressing together in an effort to contain a grin that is already threatening to break free. His eyes flick between Seokjin and Yoongi with open amusement, as if he is watching a scene unfold exactly the way he expected.
Namjoon exhales slowly, one hand coming up to rub at his temple as if bracing himself for what is inevitably going to follow.
Taehyung’s gaze sharpens, interest piqued in a way that borders on delighted curiosity.
They have a trained eye for this.
Years of living together, of watching each other navigate emotions they never openly name, have made them observant in ways most people are not.
And right now—
Yoongi is not subtle.
Not even a little.
Because the moment the take ends he stands up. Too quickly.
The chair behind him shifts with a faint scrape against the floor, the sound sharp enough to cut through the quiet of the room.
“I need a break,” he says, voice flat but just a fraction too tight around the edges.
No one stops him. They all understand exactly what is happening. Yoongi does not look at Seokjin as he leaves.
He grabs his headphones, pushes the door open, and steps out into the hallway with a pace that borders on hurried, like staying even a second longer would have been a mistake he cannot afford to make.
The door clicks shut behind him. And just like that, He is gone.
Inside the booth, Seokjin blinks.
For a brief moment, he simply stands there, the echo of his own voice still ringing faintly in his ears, the weight of what just happened settling into something heavier than he expected
That was not the reaction he was aiming for. He had expected something. A glance. A shift. Anything.
Not This??????
He pulls one side of the headphones off again, confusion knitting his brows together as he looks through the glass, instinctively searching for Yoongi’s familiar figure by the console.
But the chair is empty.
The space he occupied only seconds ago now feels oddly hollow, like something important has been abruptly removed from the room.
“Jin?” the producer’s voice cuts in, grounding him. “That was good. Let’s do one more while we have it.”
Seokjin hesitates. Just for a second. His gaze lingers on the empty spot, questions pressing at the edges of his thoughts, stacking one over the other without answers.
Did he do something wrong? Was that too much?
Was Yoongi avoiding him or running from something else entirely?
“…Yeah,” he says finally, even though the word feels uncertain as it leaves him. “Let’s go again.”
Because he cannot follow. He knows better than that. There are people here, expectations to meet, an image to maintain that does not allow for impulsive decisions driven by something as personal as this. So he stays.
He adjusts the headphones back into place, re-centers himself in front of the mic, and prepares to sing again.
But this time the confidence from earlier has shifted into something sharper, something edged with confusion that he cannot quite smooth over. And when the track starts again Seokjin leans in, Sings, Delivers every note exactly as required, And yet somewhere beneath the control, beneath the practiced precision of his voice there is a subtle sadness because Yoongi walked out.
Seokjin does not understand him. And that more than anything else bothers him.
By the time Seokjin gets back to the apartment, the city has already begun to quiet. It should feel calming after a long session, after hours of standing under studio lights and repeating the same lines until they settle just right.
But Seokjin’s mind refuses to quiet. Because Yoongi had walked out. Because he had not come back.
Because no matter how many takes Seokjin had delivered afterward, something had stayed unresolved, sitting heavily in his chest like a question that refused to be ignored.
The apartment door clicks softly behind him as he steps inside, slipping off his shoes with practiced ease, his body moving on habit even as his thoughts remain elsewhere.
And then
He pauses.
Because Yoongi is already there.
Sitting on the couch.
As if he has been waiting.
The television is on, but muted, flickering light casting soft shadows across the room. Yoongi sits slightly hunched forward, elbows resting on his knees, one hand loosely holding his phone without really looking at it. His hair falls just enough over his eyes to obscure them, but Seokjin doesn’t need to see his face clearly to recognize the tension in the line of his shoulders.
For a moment, neither of them speaks.
The silence stretches heavier than usual, carrying everything they had not said earlier in the day.
Seokjin exhales slowly, closing the distance between them with quiet steps before stopping just a few feet away, arms crossing loosely over his chest as he studies him.
“You left.”
Yoongi doesn’t look up immediately.
“I needed air,” he replies, voice even, almost too even. Seokjin tilts his head slightly, unimpressed.
“In the middle of my recording?”
“I said I needed air.”
“And I’m saying you’ve never needed it that urgently before.”
That gets a reaction.
Small, but there.
Yoongi’s jaw tightens just slightly, his grip on the phone shifting as if he is considering his next move very carefully.
For a second, Seokjin almost lets it go. Almost.
But then he remembers the way Yoongi couldn’t look at him, the way he had walked out like staying would have meant something he wasn’t ready to face, and the irritation that had been quietly building all evening settles more firmly into place.
So instead of stepping back he steps closer.
“Yoongi,” he says, softer now but no less firm, “what is going on with you?”
Yoongi exhales through his nose, leaning back slightly against the couch as if creating distance without actually moving away. “Nothing.”
Seokjin lets out a quiet, incredulous laugh. “Nothing?”
“Yeah.”
“You’ve been avoiding me all day.”
“I haven’t.”
“You wouldn’t even look at me.”
Yoongi finally looks up.
And for a brief moment, whatever he’s been holding back flickers across his face, something conflicted, something frustrated, something that looks suspiciously like he’s been losing an argument with himself for hours. Seokjin catches it immediately.
“You’re doing it again,” he says, narrowing his eyes slightly.
“I’m not doing anything.”
“You are literally doing it right now.”
“I’m sitting.”
“You’re deflecting.”
“I’m answering.”
“You’re not answering anything.”
Yoongi exhales sharply, dragging a hand down his face as if physically trying to reset himself. “Hyung..”
“No, don’t ‘hyung’ me,” Seokjin cuts in, stepping even closer now, close enough that the space between them feels intentional rather than incidental. “You walked out of the studio like I did something wrong, and then you disappear for the rest of the session, and now you’re sitting here acting like everything is normal. It’s not normal.”
“It is normal.”
“It is not normal for you to run away from me.”
Yoongi goes still again, but this time it’s different, like the truth has been pushed too close to the surface to ignore any longer.
Seokjin watches him carefully, his frustration softening just slightly into something more concerned, more patient, even as he waits.
“Yoongi,” he says again, more gently this time, “just tell me.”
There’s a long pause.
Long enough that Seokjin almost thinks he won’t.
Yoongi lets out a slow breath, shoulders dropping just a fraction as he finally looks at him properly, without turning away, without cutting the moment short.
“…You didn’t do anything wrong.”
“Then why did you leave?”
Yoongi’s lips press together briefly, like he’s debating how much to say, how to say it, how to survive saying it without immediately regretting it.
And then, very quietly.
“I left because I needed to.”
“That’s not an explanation.”
Yoongi closes his eyes for a second.
When he opens them again, there’s resignation there now, mixed with something that almost looks like embarrassment.
“…You sounded good.”
Seokjin blinks. “I always sound good.”
“I know.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
Yoongi stares at him for a long second, and then he says it. Flat. Direct. Like ripping off a bandage.
“…It wasn’t just good.”
Seokjin frowns slightly, clearly not following. “Then what—”
Yoongi cuts him off.
“You were turning me on.”
“…What?”
Yoongi looks away immediately, as if saying it out loud has somehow made it worse. “You heard me.”
“I don’t think I did.”
Yoongi groans quietly, dragging both hands over his face now. “Jin..”
“No, wait,” Seokjin interrupts, eyes widening slightly as the realization actually begins to settle in. “You’re telling me you left the studio”
“Yes.”
“in the middle of my recording”
“Yes.”
“because you were”
“Yes.”
Seokjin stops. Processes. And then he laughs. Not a small laugh. Not a polite one.
A full, bright, completely unrestrained laugh that fills the room in a way nothing else has since he walked in.
Yoongi glares at him immediately. “It’s not funny.”
“It is absolutely funny,” Seokjin shoots back, still laughing as he drops down onto the couch beside him, close enough that their shoulders brush. “You ran away.”
“I did not run”
“You fled.”
“I did not flee.”
“You practically sprinted out of there.”
“I walked fast.”
“You walked fast because I was making you lose your mind?”
Yoongi presses his lips together, clearly trying not to react.
Seokjin leans in slightly, grin softening into something more playful now, more fond. “All I did was sing.”
“That’s not all you did.”
“Oh?” Seokjin raises an eyebrow. “What else did I do?”
Yoongi hesitates.
And that hesitation says everything.
Seokjin’s smile widens, just a little, just enough to be dangerous. “You couldn’t even look at me.”
“Because you were looking at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“You know exactly like what. Like you wanted me on my knees in that recording booth.”
Seokjin hums thoughtfully, pretending to consider it even though he knows very well what Yoongi is talking about. “Maybe I wanted you there.”
Yoongi turns his head slightly, narrowing his eyes. “You’re unbelievable.”
“And you’re dramatic.”
“I am not—”
“You left work because your boyfriend sounded too good. Oh Yoongi, just a few weeks away from me and you’re this down bad? How are you going to survive the tour my love?”
Yoongi opens his mouth. Closes it.
“…I missed you.”
The teasing dissolves, not completely, but enough that something softer takes its place, something that settles into the space between them with quiet weight.
Seokjin’s expression changes, the humor still there but gentler now, touched with something more sincere. “You could’ve just said that.”
Yoongi huffs quietly. “That wasn’t the only problem.”
Seokjin’s smile turns softer at the edges. “Still.”
Full of everything they didn’t have time for over the past few weeks, of conversations cut short and moments missed and feelings that had nowhere to go until now.
Seokjin shifts closer.
“I missed you too,” he says, voice quieter now, more honest than it had been all evening.
Yoongi’s gaze flickers, something in it softening completely this time, the last of his earlier tension finally giving way.
“…Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
Seokjin doesn’t give him time to overthink it.
He reaches out, fingers brushing lightly against Yoongi’s wrist before sliding up to rest against his shoulder, steady and warm, grounding in a way that feels long overdue.
Yoongi exhales softly.
And then he leans in.
The kiss is not rushed. It’s not frantic or messy or uncertain. It’s familiar. Slow.
Deliberate in the way both of them seem to take their time, as if making up for everything they didn’t get to have while they were apart. Seokjin’s hand shifts slightly, resting more firmly against Yoongi’s shoulder, while Yoongi’s fingers curl loosely into the fabric of his shirt, holding him there without pulling too hard.
The kind of kiss that says more than words ever could.
When they finally pull back, it’s only barely, their foreheads resting together, breaths still slightly uneven.
“I really did miss you,” Yoongi murmurs, quieter now, like the words are easier to say when they don’t have to travel far.
Seokjin smiles, eyes soft. “I know.”
Another pause.
And then, because he can’t help himself.
“…Next time, don’t run away.”
Yoongi lets out a quiet huff of laughter, shaking his head slightly. “Next time, don’t do that in front of everyone.”
Seokjin grins. “No promises.”
“You’re impossible.”
“And you love me.”
Yoongi doesn’t hesitate this time.
“I do.”
The words settle easily between them, warm and certain, like something that has never needed to be questioned.
Seokjin leans in again, softer this time, pressing another kiss to his lips, lingering just long enough to make it count.
“I love you too.”