Chapter Text
You were half a god, and perhaps I used to be something mortally close. People remember me as the exiled prince, but you'd pull me into your arms in the shadows of the night, dub me your world with your lips in the crook of my neck, and I would forget who I had been before you happened.
“Patroclus,” you'd say, your voice a low whisper by the lobe of my ear. “You are beautiful.”
I don't think I have ever doubted anything that was uttered from between your lips, Warrior Prince. Son of Thetis and Peleus. My Achilles.
When Hoseok had mentioned resigning and taking a tour around the world before he dies, Taehyung hadn't actually taken him seriously, fingers poised over the keyboard, glasses perched on his nose as he made inhuman noises, words garbled up into something about writer's block.
Taehyung takes him seriously now.
Hoseok has his luggage beside him as he stands outside Taehyung's apartment, hand on his hips, lips quirked upwards in amusement as Taehyung makes a horrified face and tries to heave Hoseok's luggage away from him.
“You're leaving me! Best friend of seven years and your little author puppy!”
“Oh I don't know,” Hoseok grunts, tightening his grip on his luggage, suddenly afraid for his things. “You did tell me to have a good time. But that's besides the point, for god's sake, let go, Taehyung.”
“You're such an ass,” Taehyung shoves his hands into the pockets of his pullover, lips starting to form a pout. “How will I fend for myself? I am a defenceless little mouse with tons of fans and books to write, I can't cook, sometimes I burn water when I really need coffee, the washing machine hates me and will flood the place if I try to operate it, and—”
“Obviously because you added half the bottle of detergent thinking it would make your laundry cleaner,” Hoseok drawls, placing a hand on Taehyung's shoulder to stop him. “I found the best replacement for me. Graduated with honours in publishing, and has a couple of years under his belt as an editor.” Before Taehyung can protest, Hoseok adds, “and he's hot. Maybe your type.”
Taehyung's mouth opens and closes, because what the flying fuck, who cares if his replacement editor is going to be hot? Taehyung absolutely sucks at getting along with people, and anyone who isn't Hoseok wouldn't make the cut. He's sure of it.
He spends the next two hours begging Hoseok to stay, but the older finally turns his nose in disgust at the offer of a blowjob, telling Taehyung that he's got a plane to catch (“I'm going to Greece, don't worry, I'll take pictures.” “How could you even think to go to Greece without me!”) and his new editor (read: babysitter) would be dropping by later in the evening and that they should get to know each other.
Taehyung spends the rest of the afternoon spread-eagled on his apartment floor, taking sad selfies of himself and sending them to Hoseok until the plane finally takes off and Hoseok stops replying.
There's a knock on the door at seven o'clock sharp and Taehyung is Not Impressed because when a person is punctual, he is also an asshole, and if there's anything that Taehyung prides himself in (other than his bestselling novels), it's his gut instinct.
“Jeon Jungkook,” says his new editor and it takes all of Taehyung's willpower not to stare because fuck, Hoseok's right, he's hot. But then, “you look like a walking fashion disaster.”
“Kim Taehyung,” Taehyung steps back, takes in Jungkook in all his glory; black leather jacket and a helmet under his arm, faded grey jeans, and he looks nothing like a professional working adult, the ones who wear pressed shirts and solid coloured ties, not a single wrinkle in even their sleeves. “And you're a pompous jerk.”
Jungkook lets himself in, placing his helmet on the ground after toeing off his shoes, glancing around. “I know, Hoseok gave me a How to Handle Kim Taehyung guidebook before offering to sponsor my funeral.”
Right, so Jeon Jungkook is an asshole, and to top it all off, he's sassy too. And hot.
“Excuse you, but—”
“—but I'm sure that my job is just to make sure that you're not lonely and that you're doing your job.”
Taehyung stares at him, says, “wait here”, and shuffles off into his room because he needs to leave some voicemails for Hoseok right away.
Jungkook hears Taehyung's “what have you done?” from all the way outside, where he's leaning against the wall by the front door.
He takes Taehyung out for a spin on his bike and dinner after that, and Taehyung has no choice but to clutch onto Jungkook because he's hungry, he needs the ride, and he's not ready to die just yet.
(“Are you trying to kill me?”
“I told you to hold on tight.”
“And I would back hug someone I hardly know?”
“It's just the easiest icebreaking technique I know. Don't let go.”
“I swear to fucking god, Jeon Jungkook—”
“Don't let go.”
“Fuuuuuuu—”)
I used to think that the entire universe is against us, and I probably still do. I’m sure your father would never have agreed to take me under his wing if he’d known what we’d become. I would ruin you, Achilles, and you would ruin us both.
Sometimes, your mother would tell me things, threats caped under the sweet lull of promises and lullabies.
How could we have loved with a god between us?
Other times, we laid in your bed, limbs tangled where it’s unsure where one began and the other ended. Your fingers would whisper up the length of my spine, and my hands would map uncharted seas over the outline of your shoulder against moonlight.
“I love you,” you’d say. “I cannot lose you.”
I’d echo, uselessly besotted, “you cannot lose me.”
They fall into a comfortable arrangement, no matter how unorthodox.
Jungkook is nothing like Hoseok, and Taehyung forgets that sometimes, his fatal cries for a dose of caffeine left unanswered as Jungkook is sprawled over his couch, headphones over his ears and eyes glued to his screen, playing some racing game.
“Did you really graduate with honours?” Taehyung had asked once, and Jungkook had glanced up at him, wicked smirk gracing the sides of his lips as he answered.
“Should I bring you to my college, let you see my name on that plaque?”
Taehyung had chucked a balled up piece of paper at him and returned to his manuscript. “Brat.”
Despite the occasional snark, Jungkook, Taehyung realizes (albeit bitterly), knows what he's doing and is made for his job. He points out places where the plot becomes awkward, and Taehyung would fix it, make it solid.
They're a strange pair.
Jungkook's earlier than usual today, and Taehyung is still in his boxers, glasses perched on his nose as he's stomach-down in the middle of the apartment with his laptop in front of him.
The key turns in the lock (Hoseok had given Jungkook his spare and gave him the okay to just barge in whenever) and Taehyung barely glances up, just says, “aye.”
When their eyes meet, Jungkook seems to drift far away, gaze distant, but he grins, dropping himself onto the floor next to Taehyung. “I see our star author is up early today?”
“Our star author hasn't slept since last night,” Taehyung drawls, propping his chin in his hand as he turns to lift a brow at Jungkook. “He could do with a cup of lovingly brewed coffee, by his dear editor.”
To his surprise (and hidden delight), Jungkook wordlessly stands and makes his way into the kitchen where he sets the kettle to boil.
When he looks up, Taehyung catches Jungkook staring. On the third, Taehyung finally breaks the silence, sitting up cross-legged and mumbling, “have I suddenly sported a pimple somewhere?”
Jungkook flinches, as if he'd gotten caught in some type of crime, but then that smile is back. “I have a question for you.”
“Fire ahead.”
“I read your previous works,” Jungkook says carefully, and Taehyung just lifts a brow (“Wait, you haven’t read them before?”), “Why do all the dedications in your novels say the same thing?”
Taehyung blinks, thrown off for a couple of seconds, “oh.”
“Oh?” Jungkook fills a mug with coffee, two teaspoons of sugar crystals and black, placing the beverage into Taehyung's hands before striding over to the bookshelf and plucking one of Taehyung's novels from the middle, flipping the paperback open.
There's silence, soft yet heavy, then Taehyung stands, hovering just beside Jungkook and reading over his shoulder. “Would you believe me,” he says, and lifts his gaze to meet Jungkook's (the younger's eyes are drifting far away again, lost, distant and familiar. Perhaps a little too trusting), “if I told you that the only reason why I write is because I wanted to find someone?”
“I think,” Jungkook murmurs, tracing a finger over the short lines of the dedications page, “many authors write to be found, or to find.”
”Would you believe,” Taehyung repeats, taking the paperback from Jungkook's hands, his voice quivering, “if I told you that everything I write is real?”
Jungkook pauses, Taehyung holds his breath.
Then Jungkook says, “authors have to believe in everything they write. That's how they make their stories compelling to readers.”
“But do you believe me?” Taehyung's gaze is sharp, soft, and a little sad. Jungkook smiles, and for a fleeting moment, he brings his hand up, knuckles brushing over Taehyung's cheek.
“Don't worry,” he whispers, “you will find him.”
(“Do you write about the same person in all your works?”
“The one and the same.”)
You pledged me all seven seas, and I swore my soul to you. We will try, time and time again, but I promise, I will find you in every world.
“Taehyung,” Jungkook's saying for the thirty eighth time that evening, and all the man in question does is grunt in response, the quiet tap of his fingers over his keyboard resonating in muffled clicks around the room. “Come on.”
Taehyung swivels around in his chair, flashes Jungkook a sheepish smile. “Give me a minute.”
“I have given you,” Taehyung feels himself tugged away from his desk as Jungkook's voice drifts nearer, the roll of his chair against the parquet flooring, “about seventy minutes. My stomach will not take this abuse any longer.”
Squawking indignantly, Taehyung allows the younger to lead him out of his apartment and into the elevator, then a helmet is shoved onto his head and Taehyung's clutching at Jungkook's jacket again, the feeling of biting wind against his skin all too familiar by now.
Sometimes, when inspiration strikes, Taehyung is a statue in front of his laptop, every muscle but the ones in his hand is forgotten, still. Jungkook watches him for hours, but his presence remains unacknowledged until the younger makes a sound, or calls Taehyung's name.
Taehyung doesn’t eat, only drinks when Jungkook nudges a glass or a cup against his knuckles (but only because it causes Taehyung to make typos and typos are something that he doesn’t need while Mother Inspiration is being gracious) and gives him The Look.
Most times, it’s like it is now, Jungkook making sure that Taehyung's fed and cleaned, and not holed up in his room twenty four hours a day, seven days a week with no sense of time. Jungkook is similar to Hoseok in many ways, Taehyung has realized, no matter how different the both of them are, they’re the same in more ways than one.
There’s a café tucked in a snug corner a few streets away from Taehyung's apartment that Taehyung has told Jungkook about, and now they’re always there in the wee hours of the night, the only two patrons in the dimly lit interior, one sleepy barista nodding off at the cashier, trying to play Piano Tiles on his phone and failing miserably.
Taehyung would doze off in the middle of telling Jungkook about a prospective plot, and Jungkook would sigh, reach across the table and move Taehyung's cup of mocha away from the edge. The barista would give him a grateful thumbs up, and they’d all steep in the kind of silence only the three of them would appreciate.
Sometimes, they'd stop by Han River and lean against the railings, shoulders touching, and Taehyung would tell Jungkook about growing up in Daegu, about playing the saxophone, about ditching the saxophone to dance, and then finally ditching dance to write. He would tell Jungkook about how he's always been in love with someone he's never met (“Yet,” and Taehyung's expression goes really serious when Jungkook's brows raise, when the younger's lips part to comment. “One day.”).
Taehyung has a beer in one hand, elbows resting on the cool metal railings, and he turns around so he's leaning back against it instead, head tilted towards Jungkook. “You don't talk much about yourself.”
“There's nothing to tell.” Jungkook slides his gaze towards Taehyung and flashes him a faint smile, lifting his can to his lips. “I grew up in Busan, I loved the beach. I loved words, so I came to Seoul and chased my dreams.”
“I'm sorry,” Taehyung scoffs, but good naturedly. “That sounds way too perfect. And boring.”
Jungkook merely chuckles, shrugging his shoulders as he flashes Taehyung a grin, a teasing lilt in his voice. “What can I say? I'm living my dream.”
“Asshole,” Taehyung mutters, and stretches his leg out to kick at Jungkook's ankles.
“Did you just kick me? You know I'm your ride home, right?”
“You know that everything I do, it's just my way of showing you affection, right?”
“Affection, my ass.”
They revel in the 2am silence, absent of the muted whirr of vehicles on the highway, just the quiet rustle of leaves in the breeze and the occasional whistle of the wind.
Then Jungkook says, “have you ever been so in love, you just know that you’re going to remember them even if you were to die and be reborn again?”
Taehyung's grip on his can tightens, the aluminium denting inwards where his fingers are pressing into the flimsy metal. “Yes,” he breathes, whispers, the words almost lost in the vacuum between him and Jungkook. “Yes, I have.”
When he looks up again, Jungkook's staring straight at him, his gaze locking Taehyung's in an impasse, and he murmurs, “then I am so sorry.”
Taehyung asks, “why?”
“Because I know,” Jungkook glances away (looks down at the water as if he’s dying to fall in), “that there is nothing more painful than to lose someone you were that desperately reliant on.”
The first time it happens, it's Taehyung's virgin visit to Jungkook's apartment, and what Taehyung does, without any question, (even before going over to sink his feet into the fluffy carpet that's laid out beneath the coffee table) is to head straight to Jungkook's kitchen and open his refrigerator.
“What are you,” Taehyung calls, with his head still shoved into the bare, empty appliance, “a god?”
“So I have been told.” Jungkook leans against the doorframe to the kitchen, lifting a brow at Taehyung's innate priorities.
“I've heard that bachelors are amazing cooks.” Taehyung finally shuts the refrigerator door, propping his body against it as he crosses him arms, making a show of studying Jungkook from top to bottom, disappointment written all over his face. “Or maybe I've read too many romance novels.”
“Probably the latter, but how can I blame you? It's a harsh world,” Jungkook snorts and straightens, sauntering over to the island and lifting the lid of a brown box, gesturing vaguely at the capsules inside. “Reality sucks, but coffee is an amazing substitute for salvation. Want some?”
“Sure, but first we need to fill this baby up.”
When Jungkook responses with a confused, wordless stare, Taehyung raps his knuckles against the door of the refrigerator.
“Mr. Jeon,” he drawls, ignoring the scrunch of Jungkook's nose, and the inevitable glare. “You have a full height refrigerator, complete with a freezer, but all I saw in there was a half empty bottle of Merlot and a box of, I don't know, thousand year old takeout.”
A deep breath, then, “and your point is?”
“I saw a supermarket on the way. Rev up that bike of yours, we're going to do some grocery shopping—”
“I don't think—”
“—that responsible, grown men such as ourselves should indulge in occasionally.”
It happens, when Taehyung is holding a can of soup in each hand and squinting at the labels (“Just get both.” “No! I've tried both, I just need to remember which tasted better.”).
Taehyung looks up, and Jungkook is staring at him so intensely that the words he'd wanted to say promptly dies on his tongue, and he's left gaping at the younger until Jungkook snaps out of it. Says, “what?”
That single syllable cracks, and Taehyung tries to forget about it, tries not to think about Jungkook's searing gaze when he closes his eyes that night.
The next time it happens, it's when Taehyung has handed in his interim draft to Namjoon (“Taehyung, all these metaphors are starting to get repetitive.”) and he's scowling a little as he walks out of Namjoon's office.
Seokjin, the secretary, offers Taehyung a warm smile and coffee, but before he can respond, he catches Jungkook's gaze from the lift lobby, and it feels as if Taehyung's just swallowed his entire heart again after it bursts out from his ribcage. Pulse and all.
“Coffee?” Jungkook finally says, hands still in his pockets, and when Taehyung looks hard enough, he can make out the faint shape of clenched fists through the fabric.
Taehyung's voice is scratchy, hoarse and dazed when he nods, “yeah.”
Seokjin watches them go, his offer to Taehyung unanswered and forgotten.
(It happens all the time, after that.
Taehyung catches Jungkook staring, and sometimes he falls into the void of Jungkook's gaze. Empty, angry, desperate.
When Taehyung's ordering their coffee, when Taehyung's trying to make kimchi fried rice in Jungkook's first rate kitchen. When Taehyung's writing his novel in the dead of the night and he thinks that Jungkook is asleep on his bed, but when he turns around, the younger is anything but asleep.
He tries to ask Jungkook about it, if anything is wrong, but Jungkook only smiles and asks him about something else, and the subject is forgotten.)
“No.”
Taehyung's holding the bottle of strawberry rum in front of Jungkook, and his lips actually form a pout. Jungkook rears back, disgusted.
“But it’s Christmas.”
Jungkook doesn’t know when Taehyung has decided to move half his things into his apartment, and even use his carpet and coffee table as his new workspace, but Taehyung has made it so natural that the younger hadn’t realized until a few months later when Taehyung spills coffee onto the white, furry carpet, and Jungkook had to spend a fuck ton of money at the dry cleaner’s.
“And you haven’t finished your draft that’s due in mid-January. No.”
“But… it’s Christmas.”
Jungkook groans, trying the wrestle the bottle away from Taehyung, giving him a warning look, but the latter refuses to give in, clutching at the rum as if his entire life depends on it. “Taehyung.”
“It’s Christmas, you prick!”
“And you want to play twenty questions,” Jungkook growls, tapping his finger against the glass, the soft tinkling providing a distraction enough for Taehyung to loosen his grip on the bottle, and Jungkook pries Taehyung’s fingers away from it. “You want to play twenty questions while using wine glasses for shots. You want to die.”
“No need to be a spoilsport,” Taehyung says, just as the doorbell to Jungkook's apartment echoes. “Oh. They’re here.”
When everyone is seated in a circle, no one looks as confused as Jungkook does (“You gave everyone my address and told them that there’s a party?” “Technically, all of them are your employers, they know where you live. I only told them that there’s a party.”).
Namjoon claps Jungkook on the back and it’s all Seokjin can do not to snicker at the look of utter bewilderment on the younger’s face, his mouth opening and closing like a goldfish, the least composed that anyone has ever seen him.
Taehyung quips, “let’s play twenty questions!” and Jungkook puts his head in his hands as Taehyung passes everyone a fucking wine glass because fuck, he’s done. He is so done.
Seokjin passes, so Jungkook finds himself shoulder to shoulder with the other as they sit with their backs against the wall, watching Taehyung and Hoseok bicker over whose fault it was that Namjoon's broken four wine glasses now (Jungkook stops wincing after the third).
“He’s a difficult one, isn’t he?”
At first, Jungkook doesn’t realize that Seokjin is referring to Taehyung (because Namjoon is the one breaking things, god damn it, Namjoon should be the one they start talking about right now), but when he does, he lets his focus drift over to where Taehyung is currently trying to pour Hoseok a glass of rum, but Hoseok's not having any of that monster and has his fingers wrapped vice-like around Taehyung's wrist.
“Yeah,” Jungkook mumbles, a soft smile on his lips. “He definitely is.”
When Jungkook turns, he finds that Seokjin is already looking at him, his face impassive, almost stone. There’s a jerk of distant familiarity, but Jungkook can’t quite place it. Not right now.
“You should tell him,” Seokjin's voice is low, careful, hopeful, and Jungkook feels as if he’s just swallowed his heart whole. “He deserves to know.”
“What are you talking about?”
Seokjin doesn’t reply, just watches him for a couple beats more before standing up and heading over to the ruckus, prying the alcohol away from Taehyung and Hoseok and placing it in a safer place, scowling at all three of them until they cower away, helping him to pick up all the glass shards (“Namjoon, go stand in a fucking corner.”).
Jungkook's pulse hammers in his chest, his thoughts so detached that it doesn’t feel as if he’s where he’s supposed to be anymore. His gaze follows everyone, disoriented, Seokjin's words looping by his ears. It’s definitely something that he’s heard before.
He catches Seokjin glancing up at him every once in a while, and he parts his lips, but nothing comes out.
I’d watch the both of you, listen to the hushed whispers. Sometimes the sound of leaves would wrestle the words from my grasp, but I had heard enough. Chiron would say, “you should tell him.”
You should tell me.
I’d wait, I waited a day, two. A week. You don’t tell me anything.
You’d always reply, “not yet.”
Chiron would hold heartbeats in his palms, the weight of his hand on your shoulder always too heavy. He’d say, “he deserves to know.”
You’d get angry. “He deserves to know that I chose my pride over life? Over him?”
I’d turn away, step back into the clearing and hide from everything. You’d choose that over me. Even now, I still think, I deserved to know.
I could have given you so much more before the both of us had to part with our mortality.
Taehyung tells him.
Later, when everyone has cleared up the mess and left for their own homes, it is Taehyung and Jungkook with their limbs tangled as they tuck themselves into one corner of the couch.
The red digits on the digital clock blink 03:52, and Taehyung's cheeks are flushed from the alcohol, a pretty pink that dusts over his cheekbones. Jungkook catches himself brushing his thumbs over the tint, almost drawing back when Taehyung emits a contented hum, eyes fluttering half shut. He thinks he can afford to touch him.
“You know,” Taehyung mumbles with his eyes closed and his head fitted beneath Jungkook's chin, “that no one ever forgets their first life?”
“What do you mean?” Jungkook lifts his hand, gingerly, and it hangs awkwardly in the air until he finally rests it atop Taehyung's head, fingers threading carefully through the strands.
“There are so many worlds in the universe, and we could be alive in so many of them right now, at the same time, or we could die and be reborn in another one, maybe a hundred years ago or a hundred years later, maybe even just two years from now.”
“Yeah?”
“It’s true,” Taehyung cracks an eye open, protesting, and Jungkook gives him a small, encouraging smile, nodding amiably. “That’s why it’s so hard,” his voice breaks, and he curls his fingers into Jungkook's shirt. “It’s so hard to single out one person when he could be anywhere, any time.”
They stay that way, Jungkook's breath caught in his throat, as Taehyung whimpers, and Jungkook can feel the tears soaking into his skin, through the fabric of his shirt.
Then Taehyung whispers, “do you think he remembers me?”
“I’m sure he does.”
“Do you think it’s worth it?”
There’s a beat of silence, two. Jungkook says, “you know, there isn’t a fixed answer to any question. People tend to make the choice that feels less wrong, but not necessarily right.”
Taehyung lets out a soft laugh, breathy and broken. He lifts his head, struggling to sit up so he’s watching Jungkook closely, matching his gaze, whole and contemplating as he leans in. “Why are you always looking at me like that?”
Jungkook kisses him. Surges right in with his hands cupping either side of Taehyung's face as he slides into Jungkook's lap, arms looping around his neck. Taehyung's too far gone to give a shit, letting out a small moan and tipping his head back when Jungkook starts to mouth a line down the column of his throat, leaving faint bruises over Taehyung's collarbone.
“Please,” Taehyung breathes out, and Jungkook grits his teeth when he feels the other start to grind his hips down, hands scrambling to stop him. “Jungkook, please.”
“Taehyung,” Jungkook manages to get out, voice strangled as he slowly pushes Taehyung off of him and holds his face in his hands, thumbs brushing away the stray tears gathering at the sides of Taehyung's eyes.
“I’m sorry,” Taehyung mumbles, a soft hiccup at the base of his throat.
“Don’t.” Jungkook gathers him against his side, and Taehyung feels so small in his arms. So vulnerable, and Jungkook's chest is aching so badly with the want. The guilt. “Taehyung,” he runs his fingers through Taehyung's hair, listening to the quiet, hitched breaths that Taehyung makes dwindle into sniffles. “If you don’t find him,” and Jungkook closes his eyes, tries to breathe as calmly as he can, “I want to love you. Could I— would you…?”
Tucked against him, Taehyung's chest rises and falls with every inhale and exhale he takes, his breath even and eyelids fluttering in his sleep. Jungkook clenches his fists into the hem of Taehyung's shirt and wonders if the entire universe is against him.
(If he notices the red and purple splotches on his skin the next day, Taehyung doesn’t mention it at all.)
What Taehyung does mention, is that his head hurts like a bitch. He can hardly open his eyes, and to see Jungkook standing over him with a judgemental smirk is the last thing he needs.
“Water,” Taehyung croaks, and Jungkook presses the glass into his outstretched palm, the mattress sinking in with a little creak of the springs when Jungkook settles down beside him, pressing two painkillers against his parched lips, one at a time.
He hands the water back to Jungkook and closes his eyes again with a groan, allowing the younger to rub at his temples, making soft, appreciative noises at Jungkook's attempt to soothe his pain.
“I’d cook you something,” Jungkook murmurs, and even though his voice is soft and low, it reverberates like bells in the confines of Taehyung's head, making him scrunch his face up and whimper. “But I guess we ran out of food again, unless you don’t mind thousand year old takeout.”
The lasagne in Jungkook's freezer isn’t a thousand years old, but three weeks is close enough, so Taehyung forces himself to sit up, because, as quoted from Jungkook, his stomach refuses to take the abuse any longer.
Jungkook doesn’t go too fast, because Taehyung isn’t gripping too tightly onto his jacket and the wind would probably worsen his hangover. They cruise down the street at forty kilometres per hour, and Taehyung lets his head rest against Jungkook's back, eyes closed.
It’s warmer in the supermarket, but crowded. Everyone is trying to get their groceries before dinner, the festive spirit still lingering in the atmosphere.
Taehyung makes Jungkook carry the basket, dropping pack upon pack of instant ramyun into it (“For quick survival purposes.”) before they move on to the delicatessen, and Taehyung presses his nose up against the display, trying to smell the ham.
“What the fuck,” Jungkook mumbles, but he knows better than to yank the other away. “Hurry up and pick, you look like an idiot.”
They get three different kinds of ham (it’s like the weight from Jungkook's wallet is getting transferred into their shopping basket and he isn’t about to make Taehyung pay because the other would merely use his “I’m a starving artist” excuse), parmesan cheese, chicken broth and some Arborio rice (but only because Taehyung promised to make them risotto).
By the time they’re in queue at the cashier’s, Taehyung is feeling much better and is telling Jungkook something about “be there or be square” as a pun.
“Okay, so, why a square? Because you’re not a—”
“Taetae!”
“—round,” Taehyung turns a full circle, confused, trying to seek out the source of the voice when a small, wild-haired man barrels into him and Taehyung stumbles back against Jungkook's chest.
Jungkook's brows shoot sky high in amusement because he’s never heard anyone call Taehyung that before. He steadies Taehyung with a hand on his shoulder, about to tease him about the name when Taehyung lets out the most excited squeak that Jungkook has ever heard him make.
“Jiminnie!” Taehyung practically shoves himself away from Jungkook to latch his limbs around “Jiminnie”, and Jungkook gapes at them.
Jiminnie.
Jimin.
Park Jimin.
Taehyung's college crush and best friend, Park Jimin.
(“So you’ve never even dated once because you’ve been pining over this man you haven’t met yet?”
“Shut up,” Taehyung had turned around just to glare at Jungkook. It had been three months since they’ve been paired, three months since Hoseok had fucking abandoned Taehyung to travel the world. Three months, since Jungkook had started being a pain in his ass, and not the nice kind.
“No, but…”
“I was this close to dating once,” Taehyung had finally blurted, and this had caught Jungkook's interest, because the smug smile on his face washes over into a skeptical lift of his brow. “He was my crush in college. Park Jimin.”
“But you didn’t date him.”
“Well, no. We were too deep into each other’s friendzone, but that couldn’t possibly stop me from dreaming about making out with him.”)
So maybe Jungkook is a little jealous, but there’s nothing he can do but scowl, only pretending to clear his throat when Taehyung turns to pull him forward.
“This is my chaperone,” Taehyung chirps, as Jungkook throws him a dirty look. “Jeon Jungkook, asshole extraordinaire. Also my manager slash editor person. Jungkook,” Taehyung gives him a nudge with his shoulder. “Meet Park Jimin.”
“Park Jimin,” Jungkook says through gritted teeth (he managed it rather decently too, he would say), “the college crush.”
Taehyung promptly goes pink in his cheeks, but Jimin. Jimin laughs, his eyes crinkling until they’re barely there. Even Jungkook has to admit that the guy has bomb smile game.
“I know,” Jimin hums, winking suggestively at Taehyung, who makes a soft noise between a gurgle and a plea. “Did he ever tell you that we used to make out during every party so everyone would think that we were a thing and stop hitting on him? He had this perpetual ache in his ass.”
At this, Jungkook wraps an arm around Taehyung's waist and pulls him flush against his side, turning to meet Taehyung's little panicky gaze with his own. “No,” Jungkook murmurs, low and smooth. “I don’t remember him mentioning that.”
“I had no reason to,” Taehyung says, a little defensively, scrunching his nose up at Jimin, who just shrugs.
“Anyway,” Jimin tugs Taehyung to him for another hug, staring pointedly at Jungkook from over Taehyung's shoulder, a knowing glint in his eyes (and in this moment, Jungkook swears that Park Jimin is the devil incarnate), and says, “I have to go, the fiancé is waiting.”
Both Jungkook and Taehyung splutter at him (“Fiancé?”), just as another man, a tad taller than Jimin, steps up into their little gathering and rests his chin on Jimin's shoulder.
“Hey,” he murmurs, glancing up at them with a soft, sheepish smile. “Am I interrupting anything?”
Jimin's entire being seems to light up when his fiancé appears, and Jungkook can recognize the way they’re looking at each other, because he catches himself looking at Taehyung that way sometimes. “Yoongi, meet my best friend from college, and his editor manager person.”
“Manager?” Yoongi laughs (they have similar eye-smiles, Jungkook realizes), nodding his head at Taehyung. “Is your friend famous?”
“Kim Taehyung. He’s an author.” Jimin says proudly. “Taehyung, Jungkook, meet my fiancé.”
Taehyung grins, all wide and boxy at Yoongi, and extends a hand. “I will get Jungkook to run your dick over if you make Jiminnie cry.”
Jimin looks flabbergasted, but Yoongi merely snorts, says, “I like your friend.”
When Taehyung and Jungkook reach the front of their queue, Jimin and Yoongi exchange goodbyes (“We’re going to send you invitations, please turn up or I will fucking disown you as my friend.”) and leave.
The cashier scans their items monotonously, the soft beeping sound the only noise between them. Taehyung catches Jungkook watching him again, but it’s not foreign anymore. Taehyung smiles at him, tired, and Jungkook glances away, pays for their things and grabs the bags.
Some nights, you would lay with your back to me, and I would not speak.
Once, I heard you whisper, “I’m sorry.” It couldn’t have been for anyone else, but it hadn’t felt like you’d meant for me to respond, so I did not.
Perhaps you hadn’t been aware, but I was not asleep.
“Why are you always looking at me like that?”
They’re lazing on Jungkook's couch (Taehyung doesn’t remember when the last time he slept at his own apartment was), watching some random movie on cable, and Taehyung has his head in Jungkook's lap, holding a bowl of microwaved popcorn on his stomach.
Jungkook drops his gaze down to meet Taehyung's, he’s staring up at him in brief curiosity, maybe even fascination. “Like what?”
Like you need to tell me something, Taehyung wants to say, like you want to kiss the fuck out of me. And Taehyung doesn’t know how he’s supposed to feel. He’s spent his entire life waiting for someone he doesn’t even know exists or not. He hasn’t given anyone else the chance to distract him but Jungkook.
Jungkook pisses him off and makes him coffee and listens to all his lame puns. Jungkook lets him sleep in his bed and drool on his favourite shirts. Like you’re in love with me, Taehyung wants to say, but he doesn’t.
Taehyung says, “I don’t know. Weird.”
They stay that way, Jungkook doesn’t reply, doesn’t move (Taehyung doesn’t even know if he’s breathing), then he reaches over and takes the bowl of popcorn off Taehyung's stomach, setting it down on the coffee table with a muffled thud.
Once, twice.
Taehyung lets Jungkook kiss him, pull him up until he’s in the younger’s lap, a vague memory from Christmas night those two months ago. He lets Jungkook hold onto him so tightly that he isn’t sure if Jungkook is trying to keep him together or crush him into pieces.
Jungkook nips at Taehyung's lower lip, and Taehyung parts his lips with a gasp, obedient, riding on the adrenaline, drunk on the rush because it’s been too long, and he has wanted it too much.
“Let me,” Jungkook growls against Taehyung's mouth, grazing his fingertips along the bare skin of Taehyung's hipbones as he grips onto his waist. “Let me love you.”
Taehyung pulls away, as if slapped, his lips slick with spit and flushed red. “I—”
“Look at me.” Jungkook reaches up to cup Taehyung's face in his hands, lifting his chin up so their eyes meet. “I know, you’re waiting for someone else, but what if it’s just the wrong place and time?”
“That can’t—”
“Please.” When Jungkook speaks again, it’s a whisper, and Taehyung's barely breathing by now, the rush ebbing away into a frantic pulse that he can hear right by his ears, drowning him. “I want this chance. I need it.”
Taehyung lets the silence drag out, Jungkook's plea left unanswered. He knows. Taehyung knows, he is so deep in denial because he is so completely taken in by Jungkook that it gets hard to breathe sometimes.
When he brushes Jungkook's bangs from his eyes after the younger dozes off on the couch, waiting for Taehyung to finish his chapter, laptop propped onto the coffee table.
When Jungkook makes sure to tell the barista at their café not to add milk froth onto the top of Taehyung's lattes because that’s just how Taehyung wants his coffee.
When Taehyung wakes up at four in the afternoon to brunch in bed because according to Jungkook, “time is not an issue and why can’t we have brunch food at four in the afternoon”.
“Jungkook.”
Jungkook rubs circles over Taehyung's cheek, holding his breath as he murmurs, “what?”
“Why’d you stop kissing me?”
Jungkook kisses Taehyung again, then. Kisses him so hard his lips bruise and there’s a line of red marks down the side of his neck, down his chest and all over the sensitive skin of his inner thighs, clothes a mess over the floor, popcorn bowl now overturned onto the carpet, but they don’t care, because they’ve cared too much, cared too hard, and cared too carefully.
He lets Jungkook trace his tongue over every inch of his skin, revelling in the warmth and the possibility of somewhere he could finally belong. Tugs Jungkook up to kiss him again, realizes why he’d never dared to do this any other time when he was sober, because if he had, he would never have been able to stop.
“Do you…” Jungkook pulls away, and Taehyung feels him panting against the side of his neck. He breathes out a “yes”, then Jungkook's climbing off of him, disappearing into the bedroom and Taehyung is left dazed and staring up at the ceiling, bright spots in his vignette vision.
Jungkook comes back, and Taehyung keens when he feels a finger circling his rim, cold, teasing. He opens his mouth to protest, but then it’s sliding in, pressing up against him and fuck, Jungkook knows how to use his hands.
He’s moaning and Jungkook is three fingers in, rubbing against his prostate, then pulling out just when Taehyung thinks that he can’t take it anymore. There’s the faint crinkling of plastic, and Taehyung blinks, craning his neck to see Jungkook rolling on the condom and lubing himself up.
“Taehyung,” Jungkook says, his voice rough from want, and it’s the only thing he’d needed to say, anyway.
Taehyung trembles, nails sinking into the muscle of Jungkook's arms as his back slides up against the seat of the couch with every thrust forward. His lips part, and he breathes out, in quiet, stuttered syllables. “Jungkook,” he whimpers, and Jungkook fucks into him, fucks the words right out of him. “God.”
Perhaps they had been meant for this, Taehyung thinks (when they’ve both cleaned up the mess. Jungkook had pressed Taehyung against the tiled bathroom walls and kissed him stupid, and Taehyung had dropped to his knees to return the favour), when they’re both quiet and sated in bed.
Perhaps, the de facto is that Taehyung could live like this.
Later, when Taehyung is asleep and curled up against Jungkook's chest, Jungkook tightens his arms around him and apologizes for not telling him the truth. Because the universe is a terrifying place, and if it finds out who they are, it may take Taehyung away from him, again.
“And I cannot lose you,” Jungkook whispers, suddenly afraid. “Not again.”
Taehyung shifts in his sleep, mumbles, “Achilles.”
(They stir to sunlight sifting through beneath their eyelids and the knowledge that the warmth they’re both wrapped up in could finally be called their own.
Jungkook murmurs, “hey”, his voice still heavy with sleep, and Taehyung will remember thinking that he would give up lifetimes to wake up to this every morning.)
Taehyung allows himself to fall into Jungkook tenfold after that.
Seokjin picks up on the change, notes the lift in Taehyung's steps and his chirpy greeting as he shuffles into Namjoon's office with his monthly draft.
(“I don’t understand why he’d want me to hand in a draft every month? Is every publishing company like this? Doesn’t this only happen in college?”
“Namjoon's always wanted to be a professor— no, don’t ask. He talks a lot when he drinks.”
“Okay, but—”
“Taehyung, I can hear you from in here.”)
Jungkook meets him at the lift lobby when he’s done, slipping his hand into Taehyung's where their fingers slot together as if made to fit in only these spaces. He leans in to nose at Taehyung's temple, “coffee?”
“I like the way you think.”
When Taehyung grins at him, Jungkook doesn’t catch it, because Seokjin's watching them, and when he meets Jungkook's glance, his gaze hardens.
There’s a warning in his eyes, which Jungkook chooses not to heed.
Not yet. Not when everything is finally falling into place.
“This place is making me smell all greasy.”
They’re at a little burger joint, and Taehyung wrinkles his nose in pure unadulterated disgust while shamelessly shoving crinkle cut fries into his mouth.
“Should I remind you who picked this place?” Jungkook glares at him from across the table, glancing at his cup about thrice before finally picking it up to take a sip, the distaste evident on his face. “This place, where the Americano tastes like dishwashing liquid and watered down coffee grounds.”
“The sign said they had fries, and I had a craving.”
Jungkook picks up a fry and stuffs it into Taehyung's mouth before he can say anything else, and growls at him to hurry the fuck up so I can take a damn shower.
Taehyung finishes his fries, then wordlessly reaches across the table to slip his fingers with Jungkook’s, smearing the grease all over the back of the younger’s hand.
“You…” Jungkook's brows raise, half in disbelief and half in utter betrayal. “You didn’t.”
It’s in moments like these, Taehyung thinks, as Jungkook slides into him, slick and hot, where he’s thankful that Jungkook's got a temper. All Taehyung had to do was to offer to soap Jungkook up and accidentally start giving him a handjob (ignoring the younger’s multiple warnings for him to stop) before Jungkook's wrapping his fingers around Taehyung's wrist and caging him against the shower partition.
“Was this what you wanted?” Jungkook's breath washes warm over Taehyung's flushed skin, steaming up the glass. He hikes Taehyung's leg up and around his waist, and Taehyung moans, low and throaty from the angle, nails scrabbling uselessly at the glass behind him.
“Yes,” Taehyung gasps, his arm starting to slide from where it’s looped around Jungkook's neck, one trembling leg almost impossible to support his weight when his toes are curling from the pleasure, and Jungkook fucks into him again, hard. “Yes, please. God.”
The water hits the tiled floors, muffling Taehyung's soft cry as he comes, head tipping back so fast that the resounding knock echoes around the bathroom, melting into soft pants and Jungkook's quiet, fond mumble of “idiot”.
(Taehyung is also thankful for his tendency to venture into the realm of idiocy, adding half the bottle of detergent into the washing machine and causing a flood of bubbles in the laundry room.
Jungkook doesn’t know if he should laugh or just pack his things and resign when he sees Taehyung sitting by the washing machine and trying to yank the door open, but he does know that it’s Taehyung's fault they’re fucking on Jungkook’s washing machine, and Taehyung is making the most obscene noises, one leg hooked over Jungkook's shoulder as he pounds into him.
“J-Jung, ah, Jungkook.”
“What.”
“The— stopped, fuck, it stopped— stop.”
He also knows that it’s Taehyung's fault the washing machine stopped working, after that.
They call the repairman, and Taehyung hopes that maybe if he stands further away, Jungkook will forget that the fee comes up to this.
Jungkook doesn’t, though. When the repairman leaves, he strides over to where Taehyung stands facing the wall, and grabs him into bed. “You are so high maintenance.”)
You’ve asked me once, if love would die one day.
I’d laughed, and said “maybe, if it’s not meant to be.”
But even so, I can understand why people would say that love fades with time, because it’s true. Nothing lasts forever after all, but forever is undefined, it’s subjectable. Forever can vary from a day, up until lifetimes away.
Love will fade if we don’t put in effort, because love is alive and everything that’s alive needs nursing, needs care.
Love will grow, and I think, we’re doing love right, because love is a flame in my chest, warm, flickering, burning as a bonfire from where it had started so many years ago as just a lit coal.
The next morning, as you were fitting your armour over my body, your eyes were maelstroms. You held my face in your hands and kissed me; your lips had been trembling.
You’d said, “come back safe, I love you.”
I’d looked into those storms and smiled. I’d said, “I will.”
Everything is perfect.
So Taehyung doesn’t know why, or what either of them had done, to deserve this.
Jungkook is collapsed on his knees, fisting at the front of Taehyung's shirt, his entire being trembling as he cries, as he fucking cries, and Taehyung is afraid. He’s terrified, because it’s Jungkook, and he has never seen Jungkook so vulnerable and small and helpless.
“Baby,” Taehyung whispers, and Jungkook's body recoils in shock, as if it’s breaking him to hear it.
“No,” Jungkook's voice is rough, hoarse, and Taehyung's heart clenches in tandem with his arms around the younger.
Jungkook had turned up like this, his eyes red rimmed and hair completely mussed by the wind as if he’d broken every single traffic law on his way to Taehyung's apartment, and as Taehyung reaches out for him, Jungkook's knees buckle. The both of them end up tangled on the floor, right in the middle of the doorway.
“I,” it’s barely above a whisper, but Taehyung hears it, loud and clear. “I’m going to die.”
Taehyung stops breathing, fingers curling into the back of Jungkook's shirt, nails stretching the material. “No,” the syllable catches in his throat. “You’re going to be okay, Jungkook. You’re going to be all right—”
“Don’t,” Jungkook's arms are tensed around all of Taehyung, his face buried against the side of Taehyung's neck as he presses desperate kisses to his skin. “Don’t lie to me.”
Jungkook's hands are rough that night, his fingerprints bruising over every available expanse of Taehyung's skin, almost as if he never wants the marks to fade, and Taehyung cries out, bursting from the force of Jungkook's thrusts, desperate and frantic as he struggles to hold on.
He’s not supposed to, but Taehyung cries, after that. He presses his face against Jungkook's chest and sobs, hands clutching uselessly at Jungkook's arms. “You’re going to be okay,” and Taehyung doesn’t know who he’s trying to convince anymore. “You’ll get better, and I’m going to write a book about us.”
“Taehyung.” Jungkook threads his fingers through Taehyung's hair, and he sounds tired, defeated. Exhausted. “I have less than six months.”
But Jungkook doesn’t stay for six months.
He leaves, and he takes Taehyung's hopes with him.
“Taehyung.” It’s Seokjin, and Taehyung is half asleep in bed with his phone pressed to his ear. The tone of Seokjin's voice strips all the sleep away, and he sits up, knuckles going white from how hard he’s gripping onto his phone. “Where did Jungkook go?”
“He—” Taehyung's chest seizes up, and he throws a panicked look around. It’s quiet, it’s too quiet. He doesn’t smell any coffee brewing from the kitchen. He doesn’t hear Jungkook cursing at his cactus while he’s trying to water it.
Taehyung’s apartment is a mess, but it’s emptier than it has been for the past two years.
There’s something on the floor by the front door, and Taehyung kneels down, slowly, afraid. He pulls the flap on the envelope up, slides out the note.
He stares at the words for an eternity, perhaps two, because he understands. He finally understands, but he should have realized it all those months ago. Taehyung's only ever wanted to find one person. Taehyung had found him, but he’d let him slip through his fingertips yet again.
Taehyung's hands are sieves, and Jungkook is sand.
“Taehyung.” He nearly forgets that Seokjin is still on the line.
He says, “yeah?”
“Jungkook left. He sent in his resignation letter last night.”
Taehyung drops the note to the floor, the paper fluttering like a dying butterfly. It says, “Till we meet again, Patroclus”, in Jungkook's handwriting.
Hoseok tells him that the world isn’t as amazing as everyone makes it out to be.
It’s been almost four months since Hoseok had returned from his sudden burst of wanderlust, and Taehyung could almost adjust to being teamed with him again, pretend that everything is normal and great. Just the way it had been before Jungkook happened.
Taehyung tries, he really does, but there are fragments of Jungkook in every part of his apartment, and sometimes, trying just isn’t enough. He sees Jungkook brewing coffee in the kitchen, sees him pricking his finger on his cactus and sees him making faces at Taehyung's baby pictures.
(Whenever Taehyung sits on the couch, he’d remember Jungkook telling him the strangest things that only Jungkook would say. Everything on the couch fucking screams “Jungkook”.
“You’re my cumulonimbus.”
“What?” Taehyung had lifted a brow at him, and Jungkook hummed, pulling him closer with an arm around his waist.
“Did you know that the ninth type of cloud that was named, is the cumulonimbus?”
“That, I don’t.”
“Yeah. You’re my cumulonimbus.” Jungkook had grinned, tackling Taehyung against the arm of the couch when he tried to squirm away, disgusted. “You’re my cloud nine. The tallest cloud, when I’m with you I feel like I’m on top of the world.”
“Wow,” Taehyung had thrown a cushion at him, “please stop.”)
“Do you know why everyone says the world is beautiful?”
Taehyung had looked up from his laptop, glasses sliding down on his nose and he glances over at Hoseok expectantly.
“It’s because they only ever see the beauty. That’s the only part they want to see. Nobody ever tells you how many people have drowned in the beautiful ocean.”
“Hoseok.”
“Yeah?”
“Tell me about everything terrible you saw.”
Taehyung's novel becomes a bestseller within four days from its date of publishing.
It feels real, and it is painful. He’d walk into Namjoon's office and see a pile of fan letters telling him about how his story had made them cry, see Seokjin looking at him with pity, sometimes, and he’d clench his fists, leave.
That night, he opens up a new document, and starts another story.
“You’ve got a call.”
Taehyung glances up from the book he’s signing and sees Hoseok holding his hand by his ear in the universal symbol of a phone, brows lifted. He blanks out for a moment, then finishes the dedication, closing the book and handing it back to the reader.
He stands, excusing himself (someone in the crowd screams “you are so hot”, and Taehyung's lips quirk up in amusement) and making his way down the raised platform, taking the phone from Hoseok. “Is it urgent?”
“It’s been ringing for about an hour now, or I wouldn’t have called you out. Seems important.” Hoseok pats him on the shoulder and leaves him alone behind the signs.
Taehyung sighs, and slides his thumb over the green bar. “Hello?”
There is a beat of silence, then, “Taehyung.”
Taehyung's words catch in his throat, because he knows, immediately, who it is, and he doesn’t know what he’s supposed to say.
“Taehyung, I’m sorry.”
“Jungkook,” he breathes out, half in relief, and half in disbelief. “Jungkook.”
“Hey.” Jungkook sounds shaky, his voice raspy and thick. “It’s me.”
“Where the fuck have you been?” Taehyung doesn’t realize that he’s raised his voice until Hoseok pokes his head out from behind the sign, brows furrowed in worry. “You can’t just up and go, then call five months later and say hey like nothing fucking happened.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Where are you?” Taehyung exhales, slowly, closing his eyes as he tries to rearrange himself, fingers curling into fists, nails digging into his palm. “Where are you?”
Jungkook doesn’t answer, then he sighs (Taehyung hears the defeat in his voice). “In the hospital.”
Taehyung heart lurches. “Jungkook—”
“There is no miracle, Taehyung.” Jungkook voice bleeds into Taehyung's skin, makes his head swim with desperation so thick he can’t think. “Not in this world. I tried.”
“Jungkook, you’ll be all right. You’re okay. I lo—”
“No.” Jungkook says a little louder, then he stops, wheezing quietly. “Don’t. Not now, not here. Don’t.”
Hoseok finds Taehyung with his back against the pillar, clutching at his phone with tear tracks drying down his cheeks, the dial tone still echoing by his ear.
(The next time Jungkook calls, he can barely even speak, and Taehyung's heart breaks over the phone, unable to do anything but tell Jungkook that he’s all right, he’s fine. Unable to do anything but lie to Jungkook, until he hears the electrocardiogram as its graph dwindles into flat-lines.
Taehyung breaks down, three words heavy at the tip of his tongue, because Jungkook wouldn’t let him say it.)
I don’t think I will ever find the words to describe the anger, the devastation; it swallowed me up from the inside out, killed me right where I stood as I listened to your breathing slow to naught, until there was only static.
In another lifetime, in another world, there will be the boy with the sun for his smile, and the boy who holds stars in his hands. One will steal the silence, the other will drown in the void.
“You found me.”
“I’m sorry I took so long.”
In another time, forever is a tangent, and they will get to love for the first time, with no end in the distance.