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Summary
Yoongi knows what it is, deep down. Very, very deep down.
He has always known what it is, has known it since before he could name it and has known it while being entirely unwilling to name it, has carried it for years in the same careful undeclared way he carries everything that matters most to him: packed efficiently, nothing unnecessary, tucked below the surface where it can’t be questioned or asked about.
Yoongi is not naming it now.
He is absolutely not naming it in a storage room with his hand on Jimin’s hip and his cock buried in him and the peak building at the base of his spine with insistence that can’t be deterred much longer, because some things are better held than spoken, because some things change shape when you put them into air.
Because fourteen years of not saying it has its own existential framework and balance, and he’s not ready to look at what happens to the foundational walls if he does.
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